Laura Meets Jeffrey (11 page)

We put on our clothes. I hear men shoving each other outside the booth next-door, jockeying for the hole position.

“Tell me what to do next. Tell me to do things for you.” Laura seems more stoned than before, as if decadence itself is a drug. We are about to leave and I'm almost out of quarters when another mystery dick juts through the hole waving up and down, begging like a dog.

She looks at me, smiles, and reaches down and starts jerking it off while we kiss. When she feels it start to come she bends down to suck it and just before it shoots—she pulls back and it squirts all over her face. The film is running through the credits so the light is bright and like a strobe. I see the come shoot out and appear frozen in midair on the way to her face. Next flicker a second later and it is on her face. Next good light, after a patch of darkness her face is lathered with come. I never in my life saw anyone come that much.

She stands up with spunk all over her face. I wipe it off with my shirt and kiss her. I love her. We are two sides of the same coin.

As we leave there is a line of single guys still waiting outside the booth next to ours. There is even a couple, and Laura asks me if I want to play peephole with them. I tell her I don't, though they are a rare lucky find. The girl is short, skinny-sexy, definitely wasted and has that trampy country shiksa look I adore. The guy, a biker wearing the colors of the toughest local gang, wants to trade and fingers his slut under her short skirt as a sales pitch; I can see she's without proper undergarments. He also exposes her small breasts as a way of beckoning me to take her for a test ride, but I am fixed on Laura. I want to go home and fuck her in a bed. I tell them we have to go. I apologize to the couple sincerely in case I am ever single again in my life, still living in the country and still going to adult bookstores.

Three guys say, “Thank you,” as they escort us toward the front of the store. Just as we exit, the back room breaks out in whistles and applause.

“What was nice about doing it in adult bookstores,” Laura remembers, “was that Jeffrey always made sure that I wanted to do it. And of course, I always did, ha, ha, ha!”

We go home, fuck and do drugs all night. I make her talk about what she had done over and over again and draw new erotic energy with each new detail. She is my three dimensional porn star.

16

Soft-core and hard-core masturbators

Here's the difference between
Hard-core
and
Soft-core
Masturbators:

Some men, given a choice between jerking off to a hot beautiful naked girl in a soft-core magazine like
Playboy, Penthouse,
or
Hustler
, and a hard-core, full-penetration shoot with an equally sexy girl plus a man or two or five, will choose to jerk off to the single girl. These men are the Soft-core Masturbators. They don't like the intrusion of another man. Soft-core Masturbators buy what are called Single-Girl videos and Two-Girl videos and shy away from Boy/Girl and Group. These guys need to fantasize about themselves as the central character with the girl/or girls. Another man in the picture is a threat or at the very least distracting.

The type of man uncomfortable with hard core usually doesn't go to orgies because he couldn't stand seeing his wife or girlfriend in carnal pursuits.

On the other hand, we Hard-core Masturbators (who can, I suppose, under duress, jerk off to a Single Girl if that is what we are stuck with) prefer to see another man in the picture because we are not the center of the fantasy. The girl is.

We watch Boy/Girl, Group, and Gangbang. In most instances, each of these videos begins with or skips foreplay, immediately goes to oral, then fucking, then anal, then the cum shot. We like to see the girl getting fucked, preferably by more than one man at a time.

We Hard-core guys appear to be more mystified by the other gender, more curious, more driven than the Soft-core Masturbator.

What sets Laura and a few others like Erika the Cum Junky apart from the rest of the women in the world is more than just their pre-qualifying overactive libido. These are the women we super horny Hard-core Masturbator men fantasize about, whom we dream of meeting, and more important: They are the women we driven men think we would be if we were women.

In a strange testosteronic way, although they are ultimate female icons, they are in fact masculinized in their sex attitudes and we men identify with them on a subconscious level.

The mystery dick bookstore experience was sex at its most primitive. The fundament. No names. No faces. Just disenfranchised cocks. Men in their essence, performing their only necessary evolutionary function. Having Laura pleasure isolated penises of unknown horny men was my erotic noblesse oblige and cut to the quick of my erotic psyche. It was dirtier than porn. I couldn't wait to do it again.

17

Laura quits the whorehouse, shaves her legs, and becomes a model

Autumn 1980

Back in New York City on Monday after the bookstore sex, Laura quits the whorehouse. Liz calls me, happy that Laura and I have fallen in love, pissed I've taken away one of her best girls. Liz says that if Laura ever wants her job back she's welcome to it. As a going-away gift Liz gives Laura the answering service number of two of Laura's biggest fans, rich men always good for $200 tips.

“As I said, I thought there was a certain nobility in being a whore,” Laura explains, “but other people didn't. And after being at the whorehouse for a few months, the
disrespect
started showing up. Most johns don't respect whores,
nobody
respects whores.

“I don't know why. Maybe because it's illegal, I don't know…

“I mean, most johns were polite to me—but they didn't talk to me like a woman; they talked to me like a commodity.

“Oftentimes they'd say, “Why is a beautiful, capable woman like you
here?

“I'd say, ‘Why wouldn't I be
here?'

“They'd say, ‘Because this is a
horrible job!'

“I grew up so naïve. I found out it is
not
a noble profession. And as it wore on, everything had to be secret all the time—it got really tiring. So once I had that $10,000 paid off, I quit the whorehouse when Jeffrey suggested it.

“I didn't stop having sex with lots of men after I left,” Laura laughs, “I had
more and more
sex, but I stopped getting money for a lot of it. I had as much sex as possible. That's what I wanted. That's why I was with Jeffrey. I wanted as much sex as I could get and I never met a man more sexual than Jeffrey. He could fuck a lot, he let me fuck clients and he'd get me lots of other men to fuck. It was perfect. Most of the fucking I did for free but I still got money for some of it because I kept a bunch of clients and they would refer me to other clients. I loved it all. Paid or free, sex is sex. I just wanted as much sex as possible.”

Over the next few weeks, as the season changes to fall, Laura and I are no different from thousands of happy couples in the early '80s. We settle into a routine of Tuesday through Friday in the Big Apple and long weekends in the country. Laura continues to do too much cocaine.

I am completely in love with Laura. Just getting up from the sofa she moves as smooth as jazz ballet. She is a star in every room she enters and at any party if I look for the largest crowd she's in the center. When she talks it is melodic poetry that bathes me in images and metaphors. She doesn't just want to garden, she wants to plant a “storybook garden.” She never just cooks a meal, every dish is something special. Even when she throws together what looks like a random selection from her hippie wardrobe of jeans and frilly shirts, she looks like a professional stylist dresses her.

Being thin and 5
'
8
"
helps but it's more than that. She walks with confidence. She is a tall beautiful brunette princess with a flower power smile and heart full of peace and love. Even though Laura is beyond sexy, she's so sweet that women, contrary to the way their impulses and prejudices often move them, are not threatened by her. In a movie she could play the lead romantic role or the funky best friend.

When she dances she moves like her bones are liquid, and her grace is just shy of being misconstrued as a religious ceremony or Asian calisthenics.

Her home base is being happy and her default facial expression is a smile and people return the favor because when she talks to them it makes them feel better.

I arrange my business meetings with Laura present so I have a better chance of closing. When I walk into a room to meet male clients and I am accompanied by a tall gorgeous woman, it's a leg up. I am the Indian brave with many scalps on my belt. Female clients might resent my arm candy, but men are pigs and respect a man who sports hot pussy. Men assume I am rich or have a huge penis or both, which in my case are two misconceptions that work in my favor.

All Laura has to do is smile, feign interest and look at me with adoration. She doesn't even have to talk except to say hello and goodbye. When she opens her mouth and constructive, creative concepts come out, she rises so many notches above bimbo that even female clients can't dismiss her or dis me. And to men, I am below Japanese emperor status but above that of an unemployed TV action hero from a long running but now cancelled series.

Laura is terrific at drawing storyboards, critiquing my designs and coming up with her own creative concepts, some preferable to mine. At video shoots she styles the sets, wrangles the actors and outshines the other production assistants. No one suspects she is a whore. An arty hippie? Yes. A beautiful girlfriend? Yes. A whore? No way. She is the last person you would cast as a prostitute unless you were casting against type.

In October, Laura goes to her friend Lindsey's wedding. A well-known fashion model, Lindsey is marrying an up-and-coming actor. Neither Lindsey nor any of the Bucks County crowd kn
ow of Laura's demimonde life. At the reception, the owner of Lindsey's modeling agency walks up to Laura and says, “My, you're pretty. Who are you with?”

“I'm with Jeffrey but he's not here,” says Laura.

“No. I mean what modeling agency are you with?”

“Modeling agency? None.”

“Well, now you're with us. Come see me Monday morning and I'll get you started.”

To get ready for Monday, and with Lindsey on her honeymoon, Laura goes to see another one of her friends, a girly girl, who helps Laura shave her legs for the first time in ten years. She also gives Laura a remedial lesson in make up, and sends her out with a shopping list of cosmetics. Up to this point Laura's make-up kit is some mascara and two shades of lipstick.

Monday, in New York City, the head of the agency sets up Laura with photographers so Laura can build a portfolio. The camera sees her halfway between Botticelli and Giacometti.

High fashion models, she learns, need to be beautiful and symmetrical but also bland so the clothes don't have to fight for the spotlight. I guess that clothing designers want a face that looks like it stopped developing somewhere in the first or second trimester, as if ontogeny, facially anyway, didn't fully recapitulate phylogeny. They want girls who look like embryos.

Laura isn't just pretty, she's sexy and full of character and it limits her value, at least at a high fashion agency. However, within a few weeks and twenty-five go-sees, she gets her first paying job modeling lingerie, which appears to be the only kind of job available to her. It's the kind of modeling that best suits her personality as well as her face.

Laura asks me to come by and pick her up at the shoot. When I get there, they're running late. I'm told to wait in the kitchen of the huge photo studio and help myself to coffee and snacks. The place is buzzing with models, dressers, photo assistants, hair and makeup people, a caterer and lots of young people with clipboards and/or duct tape. I don't see Laura anywhere.

A giant glamour goddess with huge teased hair walks toward me. She looks familiar but I can't place her. Maybe she's famous. She kisses me on the cheek and says that she'll be ready to go soon. For three one hundredths of a second I don't recognize that this giant is Laura in dramatic make-up and heels.

Usually a few inches shorter than me, she now stands a few inches taller. In addition to the theatrical makeup, she has something else I never saw on her—a hairdo. Her natural wavy hair is now wild and huge and looks like she just stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

“I'm taking all this stuff off and I'll be ready in fifteen minutes,” she says.

“Please don't take it off,” I beg. “I love it. I want to make love to you this way.” It's the first time I ever say “make love” instead of “fuck” to her.

“Sure,” she smiles with a small rise of one of her lush eyebrows.

Since the shoes are props we buy her a pair of high heels on the way home. We care less about what they look like than how much taller than me they make her. We make love and/or fuck, with her shoes on, till nearly all her makeup is on the sheets or me.

There's something about her made-up self she likes. Most of her life she was an orthodox hippie. Now she starts to wear a little makeup when we go out at night and when she turns tricks. Only one of her johns asks her to take it off. His wife is an Italian from the Big Hair State of New Jersey who always wears too much makeup and sleazy lingerie. He likes to put his penis in the unpainted hippie chick nature girl who just took off her plain white cotton panties.

In addition to an occasional modeling gig Laura turns about six $100-$300 tricks a week, which covers what she needs to cover with some extra. She deals small amounts of coke on the side and there is always some around.

After six weeks, Laura decides she's been a model long enough. She doesn't like being so intimately involved with her looks. She said it's changed her relationship with herself, and she doesn't like that every time she looks in the mirror, it's work. Also, she's not getting that many jobs, the go-sees take too much time and she makes more per hour hooking than modeling.

With no slight to me, she says she misses getting fucked by three or more tricks every day. “I love having sex with lots of men every day. I never get tired of it. And I promise to always give you whatever you want. You could never want too much. I mean if you were a woman wouldn't you want to get gangbanged every day?” I see her point.

Laura needs to feel like she is “my whore,” so every so often she buys me something with her “pussy biz” money, a necessary homage to her pimp. My wardrobe grows. She also buys whips.

I pay for my country cabin, the NYC apartment, our cars and the NYC garage which at $140 a month is only $5 a month less than my country cabin mortgage. Laura pays for all our food, drugs and entertainment.

It's a great easy time. Mystical magic greets me each morning. It's my birthday every day. She is my dirtiest fantasy come to life.

“Jeffrey liked to get really high-paying guys to fuck me,” Laura laughs. “He would take me to the Waldorf Astoria—he'd get me all dressed up and we'd go there and I loved it!

“Oh my God; it was so much fun to just fucking blow men's minds! I was really into getting men off, and I didn't ever want to be just another ‘off!' I wanted to get men really fucking crazed! That's the way I would want to be treated!

“We'd go and we'd find these lonely guys sitting there on a business trip and Jeffrey would say, ‘Why don't we go up to your room and you have sex with my wife?'

“They'd be like, ‘What?'

“Jeffrey would do the business. He explained that I was his wife and that I wanted to make believe I was a whore and if the guy would pay me and he could watch then the guy could use me for sex. Some guys were afraid but many could see we were good souls and take us up on the deal.”

Laura laughs, “Whatever Jeffrey would do, he would do for fun. He was definitely not doing it for the money, but he liked to see how much he could get for me. Sometimes it was a lot. Sometimes $200 but sometimes $500 or more. I think he got me $1,000 a few times. He made sure I always got the money and put it in my bank account. It was important to him that he remained a sex maniac, that I got all the money and that he wasn't a real pimp.

“He didn't want to lose his amateur standing, ha ha ha…”