Laura Meets Jeffrey (24 page)

He moans contentedly. Her Hawaiian princess olive body looks more youthful than usual as they pleasure each other's favorite parts.

“Sit on me.” he half demands, half requests.

“Yes, Papa Bear,” she replies in what I imagine is some naughty child-like dialog they worked out long ago.

She squats over him, on the heels of her feet, in the same position she puts on her makeup or pisses, and grabs his prong with her right hand and teases herself and him with it before sliding it inside her. As she rides the cock up and down, his hands play with her small lovely tits. She works at this until tiny beads of sweat form all over her body, not droplets, just a zillion minute glistening molecules, each potent with her scent. From about six feet away I can smell her through Walter's lingering tobacco cloud (and I have yet to see him light up!) and she's powerful enough to wake up my guys that run my hormone control room.

Just as I am wondering whether it would be cool to join in Laura says to me, “Put it in my ass, Jeffrey. I want the two of you.” I don't need an embossed invitation or a road map. In seconds I am nude, hunched behind her with spit in my hand lathering my dick. I do a gentle push and pull to stretch and enter her without hurting her.

“Shove it in. Hurt me. Hurt my ass,” she orders, shoving against my dick until it's deep in her ass. I can feel Walter's cock through the flesh wall and after a few awkward seconds, the three of us tap into a slow groove and boogie in unison.

Walter and I give each other a cool dude smile. After ten minutes Laura comes first. And second. And then Walter comes and I can feel his every pump, and it is sexy and strong and exciting and it transcends fagdom and somewhere in the middle of this euphoric state I am building and hit my point of no return and Laura comes again. I am lost in my orgasmic rush and the polyphonic aural symphony as the room fills with, “Oh my Gods,” from me and, “Yes! Yes! Yes,” from Laura and loud ursine grunts from Walter. As the fluid dance slows and stalls, Laura leans over to rest on Walter and I lean forward to rest on Laura and we stay motionless like that, me still in her, long enough for it to seem odd.

Finally Walter makes noises. His breathing is labored which isn't surprising so I lift myself up and support my own weight and Laura sits up and my penis squiggles out. We disengage and all lie next to each other, Laura in the middle.

Walter finally lights up a Monte Cristo and offers me one, which I decline, although they actually don't smell so bad live.

Walter explains a little about the oil biz and banking and just how much we are in bed with the Arabs and what a diplomatic and economic juggling act it is to placate American Jews and still keep our cars running with Arab gasoline. He and Laura chat endlessly about shrubs and veggies and sushi and health food diets and people they know.

“I still get Christmas cards from Walter,” says Laura. “He was always surprising to me because he wanted to be taken. We were doing experimental things but he was so shy—eager, but not really experienced. He was ready to experience anything but he didn't really know exactly what to do.

“I used to drip wax on his nipples. He liked that. And he liked me whipping him. He wanted me to be like a dominatrix. But we were like teenagers about it. I didn't act like, ‘OK, this is what I'm going to do to you now.' He would say, ‘Why don't you try doing this?' and I would just become that. We'd role-play. Sometimes he was more dominant, but he was never aggressively dominant. He was like, ‘Is this OK, am I being too dominant?' But his favorite thing was for me to take him, ravage him.

“I remember one thing that I loved that he used to do. When we would get really really hot and sweaty, he would blow on my face to cool me off.”

Walter suggests he pick up a lady friend of his and we'll all go to dinner at one of his favorite French restaurants on First Avenue. He'll introduce us as a couple he met on an airplane. We wonder if we are suitably dressed and Walter says not to worry, “I own a piece of the joint.”

Walter and Laura inhale more coke. I pass. After their snorts, Walter sweeps what's left—several hundred dollars worth—into an envelope and gives it to Laura.

We shower, dress, and continue our chitchat as we go down to the garage and get into a brand-new factory stretched Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. This is his personal car, the largest production car made in America. (Other than this factory stretch all other stretches are made aftermarket.) Laura and I sit in the back and we head uptown to pick up Jennifer.

We arrive at a newish building with a posh-sounding English aristocratic name in the East 60s. Walter gets out and asks the doorman to ring Jennifer. She's a tallish girl with fine light brown hair and a long forehead that took a minimum of six generations to evolve. She has that frail yet healthy look that only inbreeding Protestants can create. It's only late October and she's already wearing a full-length fur that I assume isn't faux. I beg Laura not to go on an anti-fur tirade and she agrees.

Jennifer is pissed that Walter is fifteen minutes late, which is unfair because it's well within the rules of being on time in Manhattan. She sounds like one of those well-bred WASP girls like Becky whom I dated just before Laura, an apple-pie, ethnic-less All-American with a prudish exterior and, I suspect, because she's sleeping with The Bear, a secret Hester Prynne fantasy under her pillow.

Dinner goes well with lots of snails and laughter and
blanquette de veau
and
canard a l'orange
. Walter tells us how he bought a zillion gallons of aviation fuel and crude oil that day and how he will create trades through straw parties and conduits so that warring or at least spitting-mad factions can trade with each other with a wink and a nod. Then we have some fabulously gooey desserts.

Walter says he'll drop us off downtown before he heads back to his place with Jennifer. We pile into Walter's Caddy and are driving down Second Avenue when all of a sudden the car spurts, burbles, then dies.

“I'm sorry. I think we've run out of gas,” says Walter with an interesting use of the first-person plural.

“I think there's a gas station a few blocks down,” I remember.

“Let's let Jennifer steer and we three push,” says Laura.

And there we are on Second Avenue, pushing the car of the man who just that day bought half a gazillion gallons of aviation fuel and West Texas Crude. (Now there's a name for a rock band!)

Without saying anything, the three of us look at each other with tacit understanding of the absurdity and laugh all the way to the gas station.

33

Living weird is the new normal

1981–82

In 1981, the world takes yet another leap into insecurity. Reagan gets shot and survives. The Pope survives an assassination attempt and Sadat, a man I admire and who had intelligence, a large sense of destiny and the biggest set of balls in recent history does not survive.

The Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization strikes, which to my surprise and I'm sure all the striking air traffic controllers, leads to the permanent firing of nearly an entire work force. Marshall McLuhan and Moshe Dayan, two of my heroes, pass away. Lech Walesa makes Polish jokes obsolete.

One non-sex oddity happens in the Los Angeles airport while Laura and I are waiting for a flight back to New York. There is a small herd of American Olympians, male and female. All are in red, white, and blue official clothing; all are in great shape and most are smoking cigarettes.

Athletes smoking? Laura and I ask them why. One of the men, a tall blond and handsome All-American Olympian poster-boy says that they smoke because it doesn't have any effect on their sport. Laura figures it out in about three seconds. It's high diving.

Laura turns tricks, buys and sells coke, does too much coke and begs me to whip her just about every time we fuck. As for me, I am doing too much coke and too much whipping her.

I'm really getting into it. She takes the guilt away by telling me over and over and over that it doesn't hurt, that it feels good to her, that it makes the sex hotter. I don't exactly understand her words but I get the meaning when she says, “I beg you to love me, to do me, to manipulate me into you. I need you to own me.”

Whatever her kink is, it suits me.

In New York we go to Club O, the Hellfire Club, and Trapeze. I especially like Trapeze, a disco club that had coasted into the sex club scene. It was the only on-premises club I knew with a great sound system and a large, hardwood dance floor. Dancing at an on-premises sex club has no limits. You can dance naked or start out clothed and end up naked having sex right there on the dance floor. Laura sucking my cock while I dance with her head in my hands is a legitimate dance step.

We also visit half a dozen other sex clubs in L.A. and Miami. Playhouse South in Miami is a favorite, full of good-looking Floridians and winter snow bunnies. One night, Richard, a cokehead lawyer friend in Miami comes over at 8:00 a.m. to our hotel room at the Fontainebleau to consummate a trade I arrange for him. He gives Laura $100 and a gram of pure uncut Miami drug-dealer coke in exchange for the first hooker sex of his life. I get to watch Laura in her favorite hunch-down primitive squat, ride up and down on his cock, slowly at first then very quickly, touching him only with her pussy until he comes. He softly says, “Oh my God,” about sixty-five times until I ask him to stop.

Laura and I fuck secretly or not so secretly in semi-public places: in a doorway, a quickie in an express elevator, on a rooftop, against a car hood in an empty parking garage, blowjobs in cabs and highway blowjobs with truckers as the audience.

We go to adult bookstores in a variety of cities. One night we chat up a black uncle and his nephew. Uncle says they like to go out and drink together, then come here and jerk off separately in different booths. We invite them into a large booth with a couch. Laura does each of them twice simultaneously—one in the mouth, one in the pussy, and then they switch positions. She says she will never forget “the ravenous intensity,” of the younger man who says, “You the most beautiful woman I ever seen.”

I take lots of walks with Necort for an hour or two when Laura turns tricks in our New York apartment. When I come back Laura and I are both so horny we fuck immediately, sometimes before we reach the bed.

One day I run into Al Goldstein, the intermittently fat, always sassy and fabulously hedonistic publisher of the porn newspaper
Screw,
whom I have known for years. Al had just lost a lot of weight, maybe a hundred pounds, and wants to join me for Saturday Morning Boxing. He is the only dude who ever arrives at the gym in a chauffeured car.

Laura comes down to meet me after boxing and meets Al, who is quite taken with her. The next time I run into Al, he tells me that he thinks Laura is gorgeous, sexy beyond mere mortals and that he wants to fuck her more than any other woman in the world.

He doesn't know she is for sale; it is just his way of giving a compliment. I ask him how much was the most he ever paid for sex, and he says $500 for Seka, that year's current blonde goddess of porn. I tell Al that Laura occasionally turns tricks and would be available for $600, just to make sure she is the most expensive pussy of his life. I also get him to agree that I can be there and watch.

“Jeffrey hooked me up with Al Goldstein; I got $600,” Laura laughs. “I was the highest-paid girl Goldstein had up to that point, which Jeffrey took a lot of pride in, ha, ha, ha. That really turned me on—that Jeffrey controlled me and once in a while would sell me to men who would use me for their pleasure.

“They would pull down their pants and make me suck their cocks or eat me or both and then spread my legs and shove their cocks in me and use me and shoot in me, come in me, and be as happy as they could possibly be. I liked
that men used me for their pleasure. I liked being able to do
that for them. I could make a difference. For a moment or two they would love me more than anything in the world.

“Jeffrey would sometimes get the money and then he always gave me the money in front of the guy. That was so much fun! And I loved the money! What an insane way to make money. Have the best time of your life and make hundreds or thousands of dollars in just an hour doing what I would most want to do even if it was for free! I mean I would have paid for it if it was offered to me. I mean there was nothing I'd rather do than do drugs and fuck. I loved it all!”

One afternoon, in some little apartment that Goldstein keeps near his office, I watch Laura fuck Al, and I enjoy every moment of his pleasure. Al says she is worth every penny.

He becomes a semi-regular of hers and, I think, quickly negotiates a volume discount. I go the second time but not after that. Laura says he always treats her well and can eat pussy better than not only me, but also any man she'd ever met, even better than her film director ex-lover, so she especially likes him as a client.

By late 1981, Laura starts divorce proceedings against Sandy and with Walter's help, buys out Sandy's half of their house.

We commute regularly between my cabin, her house in New Hope and our apartment in NYC. Sometimes we are separate and sometimes we are together. We are a movable feast. And an expensive one. That's three sets of everything like toothpaste, shampoo, toasters, frying pans, stereos, bagel slicers, sheets, TVs, beds, sofas, refrigerators. All of it. Thank God Laura's cash-cow pussy holds up her half. With our three domiciles we have the lifestyle of the rich and famous but without servants, fame, or a lot of money.

Gastronomically, Laura and I have become full-fledged Sushi Junkies. We have a $400 a week habit. I go from never wanting to try the stuff to loving it on a near daily basis. Repetition makes our peculiar lifestyle normal.