Chapter 1
"A Business of My Own"
"I suppose you could say that my being a call boy is a variation on an old family tradition. My mom's a madam, but she'd been a call girl in her younger days. Her mom was a call girl, too, and nobody really knows for sure just how far back it all goes. My mom, Helen, only had one kid—me. I suppose she anticipated the new sexual freedom, or whatever you want to call it. But no matter what the name, Helen's a smart businesswoman. If there's a market for call girls, then surer'n shit there would be a market for call boys. And why not? When you get right down to it, there are really only two kinds of people in this world: those who have to be told what to do, and those who can't stand taking orders. That's why you've got organized people, folks with the right team spirit who think the annual company picnic is really a gas. Everybody else is some kind of a nut, a rebel— writers, actors, hippies, any of us who cannot live a life by the time clock. I read in the paper the other day that since the recession, illnesses and hospitalization have more than doubled. Now these cats aren't all a bunch of hypochondriacs. Some people just cannot exist without a definite schedule to follow. And if you take a beach bum and try to make him work at a desk, he'll either get sick or cop out in some other way.
"I tried a job a couple of times. Helen told me to, told me that every well-adjusted person should know what the other side of the tracks is really like. Her philosophy is that if you've never been sick, you can never, fully appreciate your health. And if you haven't tried it, don't knock it. So I tried it. I got a summer job down in the garment center as a stock boy, but I was so miserable that they finally let me be an errand boy, pushing those big racks of clothes down Seventh Avenue, lousing up traffic. But at least I was out in the open, without a hundred old bastards watching every single thing I did or said. And what used to crack me up was to listen to them talk, or the way they'd snigger whenever a halfway pretty girl would walk by. Shit! Their idea of a hot time was a couple of beers on a Friday night and a girlie show. Balls! Wasn't even one of 'em making enough money to afford any of Helen's call girls for even fifteen minutes, let alone an entire night of fun and games. They were out of it, man, they didn't know nothin'. I bet when they see movies about call girls, I bet to them that's science fiction.
"Oh, they know about whores, all right, or tramps who'll let you fuck 'em for the price of a drink ... but a call girl may as well be a Martian for all it means in their lives.
"So I figured maybe I was in the wrong crowd, maybe I'd like a job if it was in a different kind of atmosphere. So I went to work in the mailroom of a big advertising agency on Madison Avenue. Big deal. Talk about weirdoes! Those guys are really nutty. First of all, you've got a lot of faggots around. Just for openers, I'm already out of place. I've nothing against fags, mind you, as long as they stay on their own side of the latrine. And the rest of 'em are spinnin' their wheels so much I don't think they'd know how to enjoy a lay even if it was given to them for free.
"Oh, they walk around trying to look calm and cool. But that's the trouble. They're trying too hard. It shows that they're really all tied up in knots, all up tight. They might grab a piece of tail from a secretary or some broad in the steno pool, but they wouldn't know how to relax and enjoy themselves. They make a lot of money, but what good is it if you're always tearing yourself to pieces with tension and worry? So, even after a couple of other part-time jobs, I got the picture of where I stood. I don't want to live a life where I'm allowed precisely ten minutes for a cup of coffee, where takin' a leak is treated like goofin' off. Even if I could somehow work my way up and get to be a big executive, shit, man, they're workin' 36 hours a day to live like that! They're on trial every second they're alive. I don't want to be like that. It's not for me.
"Maybe my childhood had something to do with it, and then again, maybe not. Hell, I grew up surrounded by beautiful, college educated gals, most of them from very good families, too. No guy on earth ever got more lovin' attention from women than I did. And there were only two things I was never allowed: one was that I could never answer the telephone—no matter what—and the other was that I was never to know anybody's last name except my own. If there were two gals with the same first name, they became known as, for instance, Sally the Redhead and Sally the Blonde ... but never Sally S ... and Sally J ... Of course, now I know why. You can't let a snotty-nosed kid go around blabbing names all over the neighborhood, or answering the phone at a cathouse. Not that Mom ran a cathouse, nothin' like that. She was too high class for that kind of stuff.
"Mom and me lived in a spacious rent-controlled apartment overlooking Central Park West ... that way, it was never any trouble to take me to the park when I was little. It was also very handy to just about any big hotel in town. Our apartment had three bedrooms and two baths, a sunken living room with a real wood-burning fireplace, no elevator operators, but 24-hour doorman service. Mom kept the extra bedroom for new girls just gettin' started, without the bread to get their own places yet, or for any of the gals who might want to stay a few days and kind of take it easy— or lay low from the fuzz. But the apartment was never empty. We had a parade of gals in and out of the place all the time. Fixing their nails and having coffee with Helen, coming over to chew the fat, play with me, baby-sit, compare notes ... just about any old excuse was good enough.
"My mom was quite a gal when she was younger —though she's no dog now either. She's half Puerto Rican, and half English. She came up here when DeSapio was bringing up all the Puerto Ricans so they'd vote for his guys. Helen had lied. She'd told him men that she was twenty-one, but she was really only sixteen. My age now. She's got this long, black, curly hair, golden skin, and the most piercing gray eyes you've ever seen on anybody. According to Helen, she shopped around for the right man to be my dad. Said she wanted to find the perfect genes to give me every possible chance, especially if I'd been born a girl. She had a customer, a regular, who she got to know pretty well. He was a Scot, red hair and blue eyes, and she says he was smart as all hell. When she learned that he was married to a brunette, but that all their kids had his coloring, that cinched it for her. If his genes were that strong, then he was her man. So she got herself knocked up by him ... and here I am. Strawberry blonde, hazel eyes, and already six feet tall. I've seen a picture of Helen's folks, and I look quite a bit like my English granddad.
"I started pimping for Helen's girls when I was around ten or eleven. Shit! I thought I was helpin' out, y'know? How'd I know what kind of prices they usually got for their services? All I knew at that age was that they all liked men, even though some of them were lesbians, and that the big deal seemed to be to have plenty of clients. I didn't know then that Helen had a special arrangement with a hotel on the East Side. Of course, she wasn't restricted to servicing only that particular hotel, but it sure was a help to her to know that she could rely on a steady business from there. She gave the house dicks a kickback on tips, and in turn, they not only recommended her girls, but kept the operation a secret from management. Nobody ever banged on the hotel room door, yellin' it was the house dick and open up.
"Now, of course, I get kind of a kick out of calling myself a 'house dick' too. It's true. I'm the official call boy of the hotel. That makes me the 'house dick,' doesn't it? You gotta admit that's kind of funny.
"Well, when I was thirteen, Mom caught me jackin' off in my room. There wasn't any big scene about it. She just sort of smiled, said that she'd been wondering how soon I'd become a man, and that it was time to begin my education. I hadn't been masturbating for very long, maybe six or seven months is all. And I was pretty damned clumsy about it. I'd seen some old men in the park doin' it to themselves, got curious, tried it for myself, and that was that. It hadn't occurred to me yet that there was any other way of gettin' my rocks off. Really. Maybe it's 'cause I grew up around women talking about their johns ... but I never really listened to what the girls talked about. It never really sank in what it all meant. Girl talk, that's all. If they'd been talking about a sale at Cartier's, it couldn't have impressed me less.
"So that evening, Mom invited Connie over to have supper with us. She knew I was sweet on Connie. She was the prettiest of all the girls, and was always the nicest to me. It was also the first time I was allowed to have wine with my dinner, the same as they did. I didn't like the taste too much, but I'd have cut off my tongue before I'd have admitted it. And it's a damned good thing I didn't cut it off ... I'd be out of work today!
"After dinner, Helen said she had an errand to run and asked Connie to hang around and keep an eye on me. After Helen left, Connie and I started clearing off the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. We talked about what I was doin' in school and things like that. Then we went into the living room.
"'Do you know where your mom went?' Connie asked me, patting the cushion on the couch next to her for me to come sit down.
"'No.' "'To a movie. To leave us alone for a while. Do you know why?' "'No.' By then I was sitting down next to her, going nuts from the perfume she was wearing.
"'To begin your education ... with women. Are you afraid of me?' "I shook my head. I wasn't afraid of Connie, but I was gettin' jumpy about what she was leading up to. What was this big mystery? You've got to remember that I went to a private school that was strictly upper-class—no rowdies. If any of the other guys were masturbating, too, they surer'n shit weren't gonna tell anyone about it. So I was never exposed to all the jokes and rib-poking that goes on in other schools about girls, tits, and pussies. I never heard of that kind of stuff. We were all perfect gentlemen, and no matter what anybody might have been doing, he never talked about it to anyone else.
"'Have you ever seen a woman naked?' Connie asked me.
"'No, not really. Some of the girls around here have changed clothes from time to time—I mean, I know that girls are made different than boys ... "'From, Alan, different from, not than. But that's beside the point right now. In other words, Alan, you are a virgin. Is that right?' "'You mean if I've ever made out with a girl?' "'Yes.' "'llh-uh. Not yet.' "Connie smiled sweetly. 'Would you like to make out with me?' "I guess I must have turned every shade of red there is, and Connie just smiled. 'Come closer, Alan. Come touch me.' "I leaned toward her and Connie put her warm arms around me, holding me so that my face was pressed against her breasts,—right up against her warm, soft flesh. She was stroking my hair and face with her cool hands, and I could feel myself riding up and down with the motion of her tits as she breathed, her chin resting lightly on top of my head. I thought I was going to lose my mind just from the smell of her, the closeness of her. Then she carefully tilted my face up toward hers and leaned over slightly, her lips fastening onto mine. I felt as if someone had lit a fuse and it was burning straight down to my balls! Even as I was just beginning to get used to the feeling of her lush lips on mine, I felt her tongue begin to snake its way into my mouth, pushing past my teeth and coiling around my own tongue.
"While she was kissing me like that, her hands began to rove across my young chest, undoing the buttons on my sport shirt and touching my flesh lightly, teasingly. Oh, wow! I'd never even dreamed of sensations like that! I'll tell you something, I think that movies should be made showing women making love to men. Women know how, they do it with thought and care automatically, but a man must learn how to make love to give pleasure to his partner, he must learn to pace himself. Women just seem to know, to sense what is required.
"The next thing I knew, Connie had my shirt all the way off and was kissing my torso all over, sending goose bumps all over my inexperienced body. 'Help me out of my dress, Alan,' she whispered, and I scrambled to reach the zipper behind her. Then I unhooked her bra with trembling fingers. Connie took off her clothes and stretched out on the couch so that I could look at her. And I did. Her body was not only fascinating to my eager eyes, but it was also truly beautiful. Her firm breasts didn't flatten out, but remained rounded with the nipples arching toward the ceiling, a dark pink in their readiness to be kissed. Her rib cage gently sloped into a flat belly, her navel only a dimple in her flesh, and her cunt was covered with a soft, filmy down of blonde hairs.
"By then, I was unable to control myself even if I'd wanted to or known how. My pants were bulging awkwardly with my young erection.
"'Take off the rest of your clothes, Alan, and come lie with me. Come kiss me again.' "I didn't have to be told twice. My clothes came off faster than you could peel a banana, my cock standing up straight as a grown man's, aching with my need to orgasm. I went to Connie, and stretched out on top of her, burying my beardless face in her bosom. I could feel my burning cock resting against her abdomen, and I wished to hell I knew what to do next.
"'Kiss my titties, Alan, kiss them nicely. First one, then the other. Here,' she said and took one breast in her hand and raised it toward my mouth, 'lick the nipple, kiss it ... "I did as she told me, feeling her silken body moving and writhing beneath me, torturing my cock with each motion while I sucked on her nipples. Then I realized that her squirming was not just a result of my kissing her titties. I felt my burning, rod-like cock slipping down between her legs, into her crotch. I felt her hairs tickling my shaft on all sides, felt the wetness she had down there. It was a slippery kind of wet, hot and even a little sticky. I was in agony. The heat from her snatch was matching my own, and I couldn't help but begin to pump my cock against her.
"Wouldn't you rather be inside of me, Alan?' she asked. 'That's where your penis goes, you know, up inside of a woman's cunt. When you're jacking yourself off, remember how good it feels to wrap your hand all the way around your prick? Well, up inside a woman's snatch is even better—a lot better. Here, let me help you!' "I near about died. I was sure that if she said one more word, I was just going to come all over her. But I didn't. I felt her lovely hand gently take my throbbing cock and rub the head of it and down her pussy a couple of times. It was like having boiling oil poured on me, but the feeling was terrific. Then she seemed to be positioning me against a kind of opening in her down there. With one hand on my painful cock, and the other hand on my buttocks, Connie eased me into that hole of hers. I almost passed out with the sensation. She did it so slowly I could feel her grasping wet tunnel crushing softly against my cock, almost suctioning it. I could feel the wet walls of her hole fitting themselves around my stiff prick like a burning glove, and when I had sunk in as far as I could go, I thought for sure I was going to come right then and there.
"But Connie wouldn't let me. She kept bringing my hands back to her breasts, kept talking to me about her titties needing to be kissed and wanting me to please her—even half as much as she was pleasing me. Well, all that talk sort of distracted me. Kissing Connie's titties, feeling their firm flesh, smelling her perfume, seeing her blonde hair all fanned out across the cushion, her eyes half-closed, half-glazed watching me ... it was like some wild erotic dream. I wanted so desperately to please her.
"But Connie knew that I'd never hold out, not my first time. After just a few minutes of holding my cock imprisoned in her hot hole, she began to move her hips slowly toward me, then away from me, toward me, then away again. My cock was slipping up into her, hitting against something there, and then sliding out slowly, pulling at the flesh, tormenting the head of it, and I could feel her pussy walls pulsing against my own throbbing cock.
"'Go, Alan, go! Do what you want, whatever you want!' Connie commanded, and I lost my mind. I began to hump into her, shoving and pushing for all I was worth, and feeling her body humping and pushing beneath mine, feeling that terrific hot box of hers wrapped around my prick. Oh, shit. I don't think I even lasted a full minute. I felt my balls getting like hot water bags under some terrific pressure. I felt myself getting all twisted up inside, all burning and gushing and rushing, and the next thing I knew, I was spurting out my boyish come into Connie's lovely snatch. I kept on humping, letting her cunt milk my prick like a cow's teat, and felt my come go shooting time and time again into her snatch. Oh, wow! If I'd died right that minute, I wouldn't have cared. I sprawled out on top of her body, sweating and gasping for breath. Jackin' off had never, but never, felt like that!
"I was just getting my breath back when Mom came in the door. I didn't know what to do. Should I hide under the couch? Or what? But I shouldn't have worried. Mom just grinned at us both, asked me if I was hungry and said she'd brought home a pie from the bakery. She told me to go shower and to wash my penis very, very carefully, and then to put on my robe and get ready for bed. Then we'd all have some pie together, and then I'd have to go to bed.
"Later on she told me that she'd only left me alone with Connie so that I wouldn't feel embarrassed during my first lay, but that from then on, she'd be supervising my education herself. She'd see to it that the girls taught me everything I'd have to know about pleasing a woman, and that in no time at all, I'd be old enough to go to work. I remember Helen laughing and tousling my thick hair. 'One nice thing about this kind of work, Alan, you never pay any income tax. Pure profit.' "I remember asking her how she could call it work, and she explained that the women I'd have to please would not always be as pretty, or as young, as Connie. I still couldn't see how that could be called work."
In no way can the subject of this case history be considered as a "typical" call boy. Actually, there is no such animal as a "typical" anybody, in spite of the fact that Samuel G. Kling, in his previously cited Sexual Behavior and the Law, quotes a "recent United Nations Committee Report on 'The Suppression of the Traffic in Persons and of the Exploitation of the Prostitution of Others'" that attempts to typecast prostitutes into the following mold.
"Prostitutes have generally slight mental or physical abnormalities (instability, abnormal lack of emotion, excitability, pronounced nervousness) and a great number of them suffer from psychosexual immaturity. The number of prostitutes who are psychologically and emotionally normal appears to be very limited. On the other hand, the number who are actually feeble-minded is relatively low ... The relationship between the prostitute and the customer is by no means the meeting of an abnormal and a normal individual, but both show deficient integration in the structure of their personalities and of their sexual behavior."
If one considers prostitution as a profession rather than as an immoral or criminal act, if one, in other words, takes an objective point of view, stating that Alan L— is a "typical call boy" has as little validity as stating that Louis Pasteur was a "typical chemist" or the First Earl of Woolton was a "typical businessman and administrator." The only "typicality" that might be attributed to the subject of this case and all of the other male prostitutes is their nature of business. They all sold or, more precisely, rented their bodies for a period of time for the sexual gratification of their customers.
It might be pointed out that—shocking though the comparison might seem to some—basically, there is often very little-difference between prostitution and marriage. In fact, the contractual time element (and in rare cases love) may be the only distinguishing characteristic between the two. There is a certain freedom of choice initially utilized by the "seller" and the "buyer" in both of these transactions, and aside from the fact that in prostitution the arrangement is on a "rental" basis while in marriage it is on a more or less "long-term lease or permanent sale" one, both involve an exchange in which the male or the female body, or both, are bartered off for one form of payment or another.
In the event that the married reader, particularly one who is "deeply in love" with his or her mate, consider the above comparison of marriage and prostitution as unjust, a ready concession is made to the existence and power of love (there have been, there are, and there will be marriages into which pecuniary motives do not enter); however, the word dowry has a reason for existing in almost every language and for not being classified as either archaic or obsolescent in Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary. The definition therein reads: "the money, goods, or estate that a woman brings to her husband in marriage," or "a gift of money or property by a man to or for his bride."
In order to ask the question—and to obtain a legitimate answer—as to why the subject of this case, Alan L—, chose prostitution rather than marriage, however, one must accept the fact that there are a great number of modern-day marriages that are totally unlike the exploitative marriage arrangements of the past. With the ever-increasing acceptance of women not as members of the "weaker" sex but as man's equals, marriages are becoming less of an arrangement and more of a true partnership. There is more of an equalization of responsibilities, with both the husband and the wife sharing the breadwinning roles. Consequently, to answer the above-posed question it is not sufficient to say that Alan L— selected prostitution instead of marriage because he "preferred" to be paid rather than pay or because he "preferred" to use rather than be used. (The latter —the question of "usage" or exploitation—of course depends on the attitude of the person involved. One could say that the women, Alan's customers, having an excess of money and a scarcity of sex, were using him, or one could say that Alan, having the sexual ability and know-how and a scarcity of money, was using the women. Either point of view is correct, and the fact remains that there was—and in all cases of prostitution is—exploitation.) Although a great number of cumulative reasons could undeniably be found for the subject's total involvement in prostitution, there are two primary and interrelated reasons for his chosen mode of life that stand out starkly out of the tapestry of his narrative as it has been presented here. The first of these is, of course, the environment within which he was raised. One might say that he was weaned on prostitution. His mother, apparently a successful call-girl-turned-madam, following in the footsteps of her own mother, not only did not conceal from her son the nature of her business but actually trained him in the functions of a call boy or male prostitute. With such a sexual carte blanche, it is not at all surprising that the subject manifested neither desire nor interest in pursuing any other career. A youth entering adolescence has powerful sexual drives, and Alan L—, being no exception to the rule, found that the "work" for which he was prepared by his mother via the direct tutoring by one of his mother's regular call girls was always easy and, more often than not, quite satisfying.
The second reason for the ease with which the subject "embraced" the world's oldest profession —a reason that at first glance appears somewhat of a paradox to the first one—was the feet that he was consumed with an underlying hatred of women in general, and his mother in particular. The reason for this hatred becomes obvious if we accept the fact that no matter how amoral a person's upbringing may be, no matter how seemingly isolated from socially accepted modes of behavior, rumors (at least) of "ethics," of "right and wrong," of "morality and immorality," etc., eventually will seep into his limited sphere, strike his ears, and fill his mind with doubt. Besides, in the case of prostitution, there is always the threat of apprehension by the police—a prospect very few individuals relish to consider. And then, it goes even further than that. As Bertrand Russell states in his Marriage and. Morals: ... It is obvious that the more strict the standard of morality in any country, the more degradation will attach to the life of a prostitute.
Association with prostitutes, if it becomes at all habitual, is likely to have a bad psychological effect upon a man. He will get into the habit of feeling that it is not necessary to please in order to have sexual intercourse. He will also, if he respects the usual moral code, tend to feel contempt for any woman with whom he has intercourse....
And when it is the mother who directs one toward such a life, such contempt might be expected to be of an even more acute nature. Further on in his narrative, Alan L—states, in fact: "It didn't take me long to learn that I wasn't in love with Connie or with any of 'em. Women were for fucking. If you gave them a good lay, or sucking, they'd do anything you wanted. Women are, let's face it, animals. If they've got any brains at all...." Those are not words of an angered man; they are words of an extremely bitter man, a used man, a male prostitute.
"A few days went by and I'd begun to think that maybe Helen had forgotten all about my education. But I should've known better. I came home from school one afternoon and found Elaine having coffee with Helen. They were talking about me, and didn't stop just because I'd walked into the room. Elaine, I knew, was one of Mom's 'specialists,' though I'd never before thought to ask what her specialty was. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, poured a big glass of milk, and then came in to sit down with them.
"'Look, Elaine, the most important thing for the boy to learn is the value of sex. He can have no real appreciation for his art unless he knows exactly how much pleasure he can get from it. Once you know how great it can be for yourself, you're far more likely to want to make it great for someone else. That's just plain good sense. So he must learn everything. Oral, anal, sadism—though we don't have to go overboard on that—the whole ball of wax.' "Elaine grinned. 'It's more blessed to give than it is to receive.' "'Well, in our profession, we make the best of both ends, don't we? We give, and we receive in turn. That's fair. Anyway, Alan must learn the difference between a lousy blow job and a superb one. You're the expert in fellatio around here, so you show him. Alan, c'here,' Helen said and I went to her. 'llnzip your fly and show Elaine the size of your cock.' "I did as I was told and I don't mind admitting that I was rather pleased with myself when Elaine commented on how mature I was for my age. She wet her lips as she said it, and something instinctive, I guess, got my blood to turn hot.
"'Now, look, Elaine. This is the boy's education. Not just jollies for you. I want him to learn, and learn right. When he knows how good it feels, then I'll get Maxine to teach him how to go down on a woman. But right now, he must learn some control or he'll be useless later on.' "'At his age?' Elaine asked. 'He can't control himself at that age for crissakes!' "'Well, he sure as hell can start to learn!' Helen gave Elaine a knowing look then turned to me. 'Go take a shower, Alan. No, better take a nice warm bath. When you're finished, come back out her. Just put on a robe, don't get all dressed again.' "After I'd bathed, I came back into the room and walked up to Elaine automatically. She reached inside of my robe and felt my limp prick in her hand, then reached under and cupped my balls. I had some pubic hair then, but not like now. Baby fuzz, really. Elaine opened my robe and began to fumble about with my cock and my balls, squeezing a little too hard for pleasure or comfort. I was getting hard fast, but frankly, I wasn't enjoying it very much. What I mean is that, well, it felt good in a way, but it wasn't like with Connie ... I wasn't going out of my gourd with pleasure. Elaine got down on her knees, then, and took my semi-hard prick and shoved it into her mouth—doing it like it was some goddam favor I'd asked her to do. She ran her tongue around my shaft and kept playing with my balls.
"Well, shit, I came pretty fast. I mean, if a woman's got your cock in her mouth, you're going to come. But, well, it just wasn't very inspiring. So it occurred to me that maybe I was in love with Connie, maybe that's why it was so much better with her.
"But then Elaine fetched a warm washcloth and washed my cock and my balls tenderly. 'Now, Alan, that's what's known as a rotten blow job. But I had more in mind than just to show you that. It's part of your education, certainly, but it also served the purpose of taking the edge off, so to speak. When you want to be sure that you'll please a woman, jack off earlier in the day. Never come to a woman so horny that you'll pop off right away. It's no fun for you, and you'll be worse than useless to her. I've yet to meet a man who has brought me to orgasm without going down on me. And why? I can come if I use a dildo or even a candle. Not even touch my clitoris. But you see, when I am vaginally fucking myself, I do it very slowly, very easily with all the time in the world, no pressure, no urgency. I just let it feel good for as long as it takes for me to come. Some women take longer to orgasm than others, and I'll admit that I take a while longer than what seems to be average. But where there's no love involved in the sexual act, then it damned well better feel awfully good. If a man could learn to be in no rush for himself, to just make love to a woman as languorously as she requires, well, there'd be a lot more happy couples around. A woman begins to feel up tight and guilty if she knows her man is holding out for her sake. And more often than not, she'll just fake an orgasm to make him happy. And that's stupid. It leaves her frustrated, and worse, she feels martyred. But if a woman knows, really knows, that all her man wants is to give her pleasure and that he's in no rush at all ... well, that's music! And a smart woman should know how to blow her man and blow him before he fucks her, unless they've fucked earlier and he's gotten his rocks off.' "All the time Elaine was talking, she was running her hands across my body, letting me see down the neck of her blouse to the full mounds of her tits underneath. Just her talking about it was getting me all hot again, and she knew it. She smiled and, standing before me, removed her blouse and bra, letting her huge breasts literally tumble from their enclosure. She was much larger than Connie, with dark brown elongated nipples like baby Tootsie-Rolls. I stared in absolute wonder as she lifted her breasts up, pushing them together so that they created a mountain of flesh. Then, kneeling down before me, she placed my penis between her breasts and enveloped it in all that human gelatin. It was a strange sensation. Dry, of course, until she began to perspire a little from the combined heat of our bodies, but it was a different kind of wetness, not slick, not slippery, just damp. It was like trying to fuck a warm pillow ... it felt good, but it left me wanting more. I could feel my cock beginning to come alive, beginning to twitch with wanting something more.
"And Elaine knew it. That's it, Alan, get it nice and hard again. I've got a real hunger to suck on your cock. I want to lick your prick, to make you feel real nice, real hard for my mouth.' "Still holding my penis captive between her breasts, Elaine began to lick at my torso, nipping my nipples lightly, and then working her way downward slowly. Eventually, she allowed my semingid penis to slip from between her breasts so that she could reach it with her mouth. She began to tongue the base of my cock, pushing her long, hard nipples at my ass and my balls from underneath. Her hands massaged my buttocks, then traveled to caress me all over, to gently squeeze my now-hard cock. There was something exquisitely exciting this time about watching Elaine licking at my cock like some delicious treat.
"I'm not sure just how long she worked on me like that, just licking and loving on my burning penis. I could see my engorged member as it responded to her tonguing, see my veins pulsating with the blood of passion. Then, ultimately, she took my stiff cock into her mouth, letting the head of it slip past her lips into the hot, moist cavern of her mouth until I could feel my glans resting against her throat. This time it was a maddeningly beautiful sensation. She began to draw in her cheeks around my painful member, suctioning on it. Elaine would occasionally let her teeth graze upon my cock, but so expertly that it was thrilling instead of painful.
"Perhaps it's just the idea of sticking my cock inside a woman's mouth that turns me on so much, I don't know. But I do know that I could never go through life with just plain and simple fucking. Whenever I meet a woman, I'm very quick to evaluate her mouth, trying to decide whether or not she'd be a good or a bad cocksucker. And it's a real talent. A woman's got to really dig sucking cock or she won't be any good at it. And too, I suppose the fact that my mother was present while Elaine was sucking me off made a difference. I liked the idea of her watching me. I watched her lick her lips as she saw how close I was to orgasming. She didn't play with herself, or anything so crude as that, but that night was one of the few times I ever knew about my mother turning her own tricks. Somebody must've gotten one helluva good lay out of Mom that night!
"My 'education' went on for several months. I learned just about every position there could possibly be. I learned to suck each of Mom's gals, and how to lay each of them. Learned what each of them liked, when, how fast, how slow. Learned the subtle signals a woman gives when you're doing the right thing, and when you're doing the wrong thing. It didn't take me long to learn that I wasn't in love with Connie or with any of 'em. Women were for fucking. If you gave them a good lay, or sucking, they'd do anything you wanted. Women are, let's face it, animals. If they've got any brains at all, which damned few of them have, they seem to forget all about them once they're in the hay like a big memory block. If a guy knows how to please a woman sexually, he can have anything she's got. I'll never understand why guys go off the deep end over a broad, not as long as they're so easy to manipulate.
"The time finally arrived when it was my turn to go to work. Mom had tipped off the house dick at the hotel that she was fully staffed and able to service bored wives of traveling businessmen or career women staying over alone. I don't mind admitting that I was pretty nervous on my first job.
"I arrived at the hotel a few minutes ahead of time, so I checked out exactly where the room was, then went to get a fast smoke before my appointed time. Just what kind of woman would she be? Some toothless old hag? A weirdo with a big thing for castrating young guys? I began to appreciate what Mom and her girls went through. At least a guy has a fighting chance if he ends up with a weirdo ... he can overpower a broad, but what chance has a girl got? If some nut decides to tie her up and burn her with cigarettes, what can she do about it?
"My appointment was for three o'clock sharp, and at exactly that time, with nervous stomach and sweaty palms, I knocked on room 1105.
"The door opened, revealing a plump, blonde woman around forty or forty-five years old. She was the type who you just know was the darling of her high-school class, the cute bouncy one who everyone voted the most popular. The kind who just doesn't hold up very well with years. 'You here by mistake, sonny?' she asked, a doubting yet sly kind of smile on her face.
"'No, ma'am. I was sent to room 1105. To Cora. You're Cora, aren't you?' "'Shit! You're just a boy!' "'Old enough, Cora,' I said, braving it, trying to sound older than I really was.
"'C'm'on in, sonny. We don't have to tell the whole world our business.' I stepped in and noticed men's clothing on the bed—her husband, I guessed. There was booze and mixes on the coffee table in front of the settee.
"'Hardware. My busy husband is in the hardware business. In case you don't know it, there's a convention going on. Sam'll not be back until they close the bars—that's four o'clock in this town, isn't it? I'm meeting him later on, making nicey-nice with the executive wives over dinner. But as long as I've got to be dragged to these damned things, I figure I might as well get myself a little fun.' "She looked me over carefully, mixed herself a drink without offering me one, and then sat down. 'I don't mind paying for my pleasures, sonny, but I expect my money's worth. Are you worth fifty bucks?' "I grinned. 'Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back,' I told her.
"'I'm from Missouri, boy, you've got to show me. Okay, do your stuff!' "It was taking all my willpower to fight down an intense dislike for this middle-aged woman, but her challenge to my abilities made all the difference in the world. That broad was gonna get laid like she'd never been laid in all her life!
"I had jacked off beforehand, even as I'd been taught, so I knew I wouldn't have any trouble keeping hard for as long as she needed. I'd been trained by experts, so this out-of-town broad wasn't going to upset me. I went over to her and took the drink from her hand, sipping at it first so I wouldn't taste the liquor on her breath when I kissed her. Then I leaned forward slightly, not even an inch from her face, and as I placed my lips on hers, my hand went to her waist. Women love to feel that they have small waists, and you can make her feel that she does by the way you massage her there. It's also a very exciting way to make her want you to touch her more, to play with her breasts. Cora wasn't any exception. She was a bit flabby around the middle, but not hopelessly so. Her reaction to my touch, to my kiss, was one of surprise. I suppose she expected me to be some fumbling bumpkin, but while I had my tongue deep inside her mouth, my hands creeping up to her surprisingly firm breasts, the moan that came from her told me that she would indeed be a pushover.
"Expertly, I undid her bra and cupped one breast in my hand, letting my thumb flick her nipple into a hard nubbin. I could feel her breathing become shorter, her body beginning to arch toward me hungrily. I broke the kiss and brought my lips to her taut, shriveled nipple. It responded immediately to my mouth, to my tongue, and Cora began to actually groan as if she were in intense pain.
"'Forget about the foreplay, sonny, just stick that hot dick of yours up inside of me,' she commanded.
"My reflexes and responses had been well trained. All I had to do to get a real nice hard on was think about sex, so I was quite ready to do as she ordered. I unzipped my fly and brought out my ready prick. 'Do you want to see it?' I asked her. 'See if you'll be getting your money's worth?' "But even as I asked the question, I was shoving my burning member between her thighs, pushing Cora onto her back on the couch. Her cunt was already slick with expectation, and I let my cock toy with the sensitive tissue of her vulva for a few seconds.
"'Shit, sonny, ram it up me!' "So I did. Violently. I skewered her with my prick until I heard her gasp. I could feel her pubic hairs tickling my own, feel my balls riding in the valley of her spread ass and began to hump her slowly. I could feel how tight she was and knew that she didn't get laid regularly. She was almost tight enough to be a virgin, and my young cock was more than enough for her. Her small chubby hands raked at my naked back, a frantic sort of scratching, like a very nervous squirrel, each time I'd ram her with my prick. 'I can keep this up as long as you like. Cora, so just relax and enjoy it.' "Her face was mottled with passion, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and in between sharp intakes of breath she asked, 'No shit?' "Her pussy was like a vise on my cock,- a burning hot canal of molten oil that I slid in and out of, feeling the walls of her cunt grasp at my rod as I rode her. I began to concentrate on her orgasm and repositioned myself discreetly so that her clitoris would ride along my shaft as I pistoned in and out. She started muttering to herself, almost a babbling, as I massaged her clit with my cock, thrusting myself downward inside of her toward her asshole. It would hurt her a little doing it that way, but if done right, it would be a pleasurable kind of pain. I kept it up for a very long time, constantly reassuring her that she was a great lay, that I really liked sticking my prick into her, fucking her. Finally, Cora began to cry, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"'Oh, God! Oh, God! I'm comin', I'm comin' ... '"
"And she did, her pussy spasming wildly on my throbbing cock, then she relaxed completely, like a rag doll, letting her tears of joy run freely. I remained on top of her, my cock still inside of her.
"'You didn't come?' she asked me after a few moments, a tone of total surprise in her voice.
"That was just the introductory offer, Cora. I'm sure you'd like some more.' "Well, she laughed then, slapped me on the back and told me I was 'all right.' With my cock still inside of her, we managed to pour each other a fresh drink. When she had trouble getting it down without spilling it, I suggested that we change positions. That we sit up, with her straddling my cock, facing me. Cora managed it, though not very gracefully, and once she was upright, she began to bounce a bit. Apparently, she'd never fucked in that position, so it was a whole new ball game for her. She wriggled on my stiff prick, pushed her titties against my chest, wriggled some more. But her whole attitude had changed. Suddenly, she was coy and tittering. It didn't become her, but it was her money. If she thought straddling my prick was a giggle, who the hell was I to contradict her. About halfway through the drink, I gave it to her again. Only this time I started her juices off just sitting up like that, then I lay on my back and let her do most of the work, riding up and down on my cock at her own tempo to suit her own pleasure. She was like a kid with a new toy.
"I must've fucked Cora at least five times that afternoon, though I only came twice. I showed her positions she'd never dreamed of. By the time I left, Cora was exhausted. When I'd dressed and softly shook her shoulder to tell her I was leaving, she dreamily nodded and whispered, 'Take a hundred, sonny, you're worth it!' And I did. As I stepped back into the carpeted hallway, I couldn't help smirking over my first job. One hundred dollars just for screwing a lonely middle-aged woman. And I thought about my days in the garment center. By the time I reached the elevator, I was laughing out loud!
"The toughest part of being a call boy, for me at least, is going down on a woman you don't know. I don't mind it with Mom's gals, and I suppose that if I ever fall in love I won't mind doing it to my girl. But I know that call girls keep themselves clean, I know they douche regularly, get regular medical checkups. Sometimes I wonder about these paying broads. I wonder even if they've bathed.
"But the clients I enjoy the most are the women who are terribly vain, who've kept themselves in perfect shape. They're the ones who usually like to play a game they call 'Come Here, Little Boy.' It's weird how so many women, from totally different parts of the country, have all settled for the same game. They like to pretend that they're seducing you, that you haven't the faintest idea of what's in their minds, and that you've never had a woman before. One of the reasons that I enjoy this game is that so many of these women insist that you help them bathe as part of the game. At least I know that their cunts will smell sweet and taste clean. Then they all want you to go down on them.
"Usually, once we're really into the game, they will leave the tub and go into the bedroom, then stand before the vanity with one leg up on the bench so that their snatches are exposed to me and they can see themselves in the mirror. They like to see me crawling on my hands and knees toward them, see me licking their ankles and their calves, working my way up their legs slowly until my nose is buried in their cunts. Then they watch my face smothered in their pubic hair, watch what I'm doing in the mirror, usually fondling their own breasts as I wash their pussies with my tongue.
"Almost invariably, after they've come from being sucked off, these gals want to get raped. Right. They want me to get tough with them, throw them on the bed and bang the hell out of 'em. It's a kick for them I guess.
"Of course, as Mom has pointed out, I'm beginning to be too old for that game. I'm full grown now, and few women are going to believe that I've never fucked a gal before. Not even in a fantasy. But now that I've filled out, I've got a cock on me that would make most men turn seven shades of green. I'm not worried about my market value, not at all. Besides my stud fee, I've yet to lay a broad and not get a damned good tip out of it. I figured that as soon as I'm older, around 30 or so, I can start to run a service like Mom's—call men, a regular escort service for lonely women who couldn't go to nightclubs unescorted, and who'll get laid —you know, exactly what a top call girl does, only this will be guys. I talked it over with Mom, and she thinks it's a terrific idea.
"And, since Mom's a pretty smart cookie, I'm taking her advice and preparing for my career. I'm taking dancing lessons, learning all the latest dances as well as the old-fashioned ones like the waltz or tango. I'll go to college during the morning hours when there's never a call for me and take a variety of liberal-arts courses so that I'll be able to converse with anyone, anywhere, and about anything cultural. Let's face it, I'm never going to be a corporation patsy, and I haven't got the discipline to learn a profession like a doctor or a lawyer. I want to just go on doing what I've been doing, playing it smart like Mom. Hell, she's bought herself a nice little house in the country for when she's ready to retire, and has a nice retirement insurance plan that she's been paying for regularly all these years. By the time Mom's too old to cut the mustard, she'll be rather well-fixed financially. She's got investments, good friends, and one hell of a fun-filled life to look back on.
"I might if I feel like it, marry a rich broad when the time comes, but I don't want to feel that I have to, or that I'll be broke the rest of my life if I don't marry well. I want to be financially independent, and hustling lonely women is the easiest way in the world to get there!
"When I think of the millions of guys in this world who work their balls off to support some slob of a wife and a dozen snotty kids—shit, man, they've gotta be crazy!"
It is doubtful that anything but a prolonged and concentrated series of psychoanalytic sessions with the subject of this case will succeed, if even then, to alter his rather bitter and distorted outlook on life. Alan L—'s momentary allusion to a possible marriage is not encouraging, since he regards marriage as nothing more than a comparatively longer-termed prostitutional venture. The chances of his "falling in love" are exceptionally slim; he holds too much hatred and contempt for women to permit a germ of love to settle in his heart.