Mitchell Smith (51 page)

-a fact of LIFE that women have never accepted, to their sorrow and my profit.

“Well, you’re saying, “if a prostitute doesn’t know what men are really interested in, she’s a pretty dumb prostitute.”

I was a dumb prostitute, and a young one, too, and of course I knew what men were interested in. I just didn’t realize how separate it was for them.

So, I’d suggest when you deal with boys and men, especially if you like them a lot, that you remember the two-part person problem. You can remember it as teepee pee-pee. You might also remember the significance of this synthesis, as they say at NYU (at least they say it in the Continuing Ed. courses). If a boy or a man isn’t your friend, as well as your lover, he’ll never last.

Anyway, that wised yours truly up, and I started to realize I’d been way out of line with Larry. That the Life wasn’t just a game, get-fucked-and-paid, or at least it shouldn’t be. It was a profession, and one that’s done a lot less harm than most of them. So, I got professional, and stopped looking for my personal satisfaction with clients who were paying for theirs. I don’t mean to say that I don’t enjoy sex with them. I do and I always have; it’s the extra that makes the work worthwhile, like a travel agent’s being able to travel cheap. I mean I stopped leaning on them for love, stopped romancing them, stopped trying to take advantage of them. For a prostitute to get a client to love her is like a psychiatrist getting a patient to screw. It’s unfair. The odd thing is, when I stopped trying, I began getting a lot of them failing in love with me. Some people like hopeless love a lot better than the other kind. And also, people are full of surprises.

It’s safer to bet on horses.

“Well,” you’re saying, “what about George?”

George refused to be a client. He asked for his money back. Once I handed that honey back his cash, he was fair game.

Now, one more quick story. The man with the tiny dick.

A friend of mine named Gloria, who used to be in the Life and has since retired to married happiness and three kids with a vice cop-which is quite a story in itself, since he blackmailed her to have sex with him, and then fell in love with her-anyway, Gloria had a friend on Long Island who was crazy in love with a man named Carl who owned a Buick dealership out there.

This Carl was something special, apparently. But there was a problem.

“What was the problem, Mother?”

Thank you, dear. The problem was the man had a tiny penis, and was so ashamed of it that Gloria’s friend had to practically force him into bed with her. And that wasn’t much use, either. We walk around and pass people on the street, and some of them are in agony, have been living in agony all their lives. This poor man had lived like that. Short of serious illness, I don’t suppose there’s much worse suffering than a boy’s with that deformity. Their cocks are a big deal for men. If you put all our worries about our hair and out weight, and how big our breasts should be all together, they still don’t balance a man’s concern for his penis.

Anyway, Gloria’s friend, who was a very nice woman, and who was dying for love of this man, made as light of the matter as she could-“It was not important …

women don’t care about that so” of thing” - - . and so on and so on.

And of course since the man was no fool, he didn’t believe a word of it.

He stopped seeing her.

Of course he stopped seeing her; she just reminded him of another humiliation. Men are great brooders. That’s what they do instead of complaining.

I told Joey-that was the jerk policeman redeemed by love-to send Carl to town, Joey and Gloria and Gloria’s friend all being in on it together, since Carl was a friend of theirs. Of course the man didn’t want to come and see me-Joey presenting it as a sneaky thing the girls didn’t know about and so on, but Joey told the man I was very small and big ones hurt me and so forth, so the poor devil called me, had a few drinks, and came over one summer evening.

Well, he was a very nice man. He was pretty tall, was starting to lose his hair, wore nice clothes, and wasn’t handsome at all. But to look at with his clothes on, nothing wrong with him.

I guess it took me almost an hour, talking, fixing very light drinks for him, talking some more, to get him into the bedroom. Well, sweetheart, yours truly has cooed over and coddled many an inadequate penis-and the truth is most of them will get the job done if the man enjoys doing. But not this one. Your mother stripped and strolled around in her birthday suit, and told of her adventures the week before and so forth, since men enjoy listening as well as looking, and then finally got down to business. No good. The man was just too frightened. And he had reason to be. His penis was bigger than a finger, but not by much.

I suppose Carl had been told by every woman he’d tried to go to bed with, that it didn’t matter. And hadn’t believed any of them, of course. I could have continued that lie, but it was killing poor Carl, so I didn’t.

“Holy shit!” said yours truly. “That one’s nice for tickling, Carl, but it’s too damn small for heavy duty.”

Well, the poor guy sat on the side of the bed staring at me like I’d shot him. Couldn’t believe I’d said that to him. The truth is your know-it-all mother was also scared this was only going to hurt him worse and not accomplish anything. “Carl, you have a handicap,” I said, “just like being deaf, or missing a hand or a leg.

Why in hell haven’t you done something about it? You must have left a bunch of pissed-off ladies in your life.”

No response. Carl can’t believe someone is saying it to him.

“You better get on the ball,” says the Big Mouth, “and learn to dance around that dingus, or you’re not going to make any lady happy. Ever.”

“What?” Carl says. “What in hell … can I dooo?”

The ice is broken, and I, as a lewd, down whore, spend the next half hour with the Buick dealer crying in my arms, begging for this and that, help me, help me, help me … blowing his nose in my handkerchief, wiping his eyes. Sob, sob, sob. Yours truly sobbing along (anybody cries, I cry too) and at the same time breathing a big sigh of relief that more good had been done than harm.

Next two and a half hours: anatomy, funny stories, more anatomy, more funny stories, instruction in the arts of love talk, lovemaking, caressing, kissing, more love talk, more lovemaking, the use of the hand, fingers, tongue, and last and not least, vibrator one, two, and three.

It all cost Carl the price of a microwave oven with limited features.

And, if I may be permitted to boast, made a new man out of him. I will hasten to add, after blowing my own horn this way, that that was an unusual session. With most of my clients, it’s fairly routine….

“Hi,” he says. “How’re you doin’? How’s it going’?

My partner is the asshole of the world and is ruining the business.

Ruining it! How much this time? …

That’s a lot of money. Let’s do this. Let’s do that. Oh, that’s fabulous. Oh, that’s great. You’re fantastic….

Not bad myself? Thanks; I try to stay in shape. My wife’s crazy about me. And I love her, too. She’s a wonderful, wonderful woman and we still have great sex. What do you hear about the market? You must have guys in the market up here. Running fairly stable, but be careful? Guy must know his stuff. Listen, before I go; this friend of mine is having a relationship with a girl at his office. It’s a very casual thing, but it could be getting serious, and you know, this guy, this friend of mine is a lot older. Keeps himself in shape; he’s really in great shape, but he is older. You got a lot of experience; what do you think? This could be a serious thing. What do you think? … You think my friend is about to make a fuckin’ fool of himself. I think you’re right. You know, you’re quite a woman. You ask me, you’re too good a woman to be in this business. Listen, you want to go and have a drink? Just go somewhere and have a drink and talk? No. You don’t.

You find me dangerously attractive. You’re scared I’ll ruin you for other guys. Very funny. I’m falling’ in love here and you’re making’

me laugh. Listen, take care of yourself; you’re a sweet girl. Now I’ll get the hell out of here and leave you in peace……

A typical hour for a typical working mother.

Oh, and a footnote on the Carl thing. Carl did get together with Gloria’s friend, they got married, everything fine, and a couple of years later he left her for a lady customer that bought a spruce-green Regal with power sun roof and adjustable lumbar support in both front seats. (I made the part about the car up.)

Poor women … Poor men. And what does your mother find so fascinating about these clumsy, cocked creatures? Sweetheart, there’s a world in every one of them. Get them in bed, get them close to you, and you can tear the “man” right off them like an animal’s hide, the lawyer, doctor, businessman, the brother, father, husband, or son; you can tear all that away, fuck, lick, and suck it away, listen it away, talk it away, nag, cry, scream it away … and then deal with the tender truthful animal that comes crawling out, stark naked.

It’s a game no woman ever gets tired of, Every good two-hout trick is like being introduced, going together, getting pregnant, having the child, raising it, kissing it goodbye, then getting a friendly divorce

… but moving faster. In fact-and get ready to be grossed out entirely!-I’ve suspected for some time that mothers and fathers should screw their children fare well when the kids are old enough to leave home.

Maybe the lack of that kind of loving goodbye to their children’s childhood is what keeps both parents and their sons and daughters permanently unsatisfied, unseparated, dealing with each other like disappointed lovers.

What do you think? Yes? No? Scare you?

Anyway, I don’t have a son to screw, and your father lives in Chicago.

Of course, just for example, a really adventurous young woman might go out to Chicago in a few years, find that old dreamer, and seduce him as, say, a friendly young waitress … or a new girl hired into the office or a local college girl getting a business interview for the school paper. A girl like that might get to bed with Fred Pascoe, who I’d guess could still get it up for a new young piece, and learn more about her father in half an hour than most women ever know. Maybe enough to make up a little for not having a daddy as she was growing.

“Mother! Will you please cut that shit OUT?”

Well, darting, if you don’t want to do it, then don’t.

People talk a lot about knowing other people, but usually they don’t want to know that much, after all.

What they really mean is, they’d like to find out something that will comfort and please them. Of course, you don’t have to do any such thing; it just occurred to me it might be an exciting exploration, a way to come to terms with what’s been missing for you. Something to make you richer, more interesting to yourself. Otherwise, you know, you’re not talking about a father at all, are you? You’re dreaming about a daddy, and there’s a lot less to a daddy, and less to learn from him, and less to learn about yourself. It’s true that most women are content to have only daddies. Then they wonder why they don’t understand men.

And of course, concerning the above, exactly the same is true of men and their mothers.

How well do you want to know people? How well do you want to know yourself? Sex is one of the great can openers, if you’re sure you want to know what’s in the can, Most people don’t want to know, and are scared to death of the opener.

And don’t think I don’t know how nutty some of my ideas sound. Sometimes I think I’m like someone who can see, where everybody else is blind. And sometimes I just think I’m a w’eirded-out hooker, and I must be the blind one. I suppose everybody feels like that about something, think they know something that nobody else has noticed.

O-K. Men. How do you handle these fragile beasts, practically? How do you get them? How do You keep them? %en do you get rid of them? And F

m aware I have much less long-term experience with a single sample than most women have. Well, a good friend of mine, a man, always says riding is the best way for giTIS

to learn about dealing with men. It’s Practice controlling a big, strong, dumb, smelly, hairy-animal between your legs. So, concentrate on those riding lessons with His. Strickland; maybe they’ll be useful.

Seriously? O. K.

Here’s what I think, seriously, To get them. To get a man. And it’s amazing how many women still want one around, Womeri You wouldn’t think need anything or anybody still want one, even if he can’t hit the toilet when he pees that - All us b instinct, and it gets 0 go.

eyes Look into their the i look le Never cling, not even look. Wal slowly, move slowly when you’re near a man or a boy you want. Don’t jump around, don’t be perky, don’t be a pal. Let them look at u, even if yo YOU’re dressed in a snowsuit. Let them look. Say to Yourself,

“Here it is, here’s what you want to see. Here’s what you can see all naked, soft and smooth. Here’s what you can kiss.

You can lick it. You can Put your fingers there. if you’re gentle …

if you’re gentle, you can slide a finger in, and find out where I hide.

Then, if you want, you can hurt me a little … and please me a lot,Ìn other words—get hot. A man who can’t smell wet panties is one you can do without.

Handling them. The best way to handle them is to enjoy them - Love them all out. Open yourself up like a book. Open those legs till your hips ache, and show them everything you’ve got. Open up your mouth, open up your memories, open up everything. Let them settle down and live inside you. Hold them up like a plant stake, comfort, praise, cook, and clean—scratch those little specks of shit off the toilet bowl with your fingernail.

And if they don’t do the same for you at first, if they’re slow learners, then teach them and give them more time…. But if they won’t ever do the same for you, if they won’t ever learn, then close your legs, close your mouth, store your memories, stop cooking, stop cleaning, get up from the bathroom floor, and kick that asshole out the door. , Clean shit forever. Eat shit, never.