Chapter 8

Lilli de Witt had been a successful madam, and we were lucky that she was willing to talk to us. Her real name was something like Lily Barnes, it wasn't Barnes, but she won't permit us to disclose it. She had come from Indiana, straight out of high school) and had gone right to the top in her chosen profession. She told us that she had decided upon whoring because she liked money and the things it would buy.

She hadn't known the pitfalls, and had been lucky. She had been one of the few who had looks and seduction ability combined. Most girls didn't know how to really entice a man, she said. Lilli had saved her money, stayed out of the hands of pimps, and become a madam.

She was rather exceptional in many ways:

LILLI DE WITT:

"You said to start at the begininning. Well, I had an uneventful beginning, I guess. My parents were normally well off, dad was a druggist and had his own store-still does. Mother was always understanding and still is. I had very few childhood problems.

I went through school, got good grades and got into very little tourble. I was practically a model student.

How then did I become a whore? Romance, probably. I had never known a whore, had only read about them. The things I read were only the good side. I really had no idea of what the life was like. Actually.

It sounded easy. You know, go to bed with men and they give you money for it. Simple.

I read a lot when I was in high school, all the best sellers, and in fact everything I could get my hands on. Lurid and whatnot. I heard a lot about what people faced when they got out of school, perhaps I was a more serious sort, I don't know. But I thought about getting a job, factory or office, or getting married. It didn't seem to be the best thing. My reading had given me a taste of wanting. I wanted to see the Riviera or the moonlight on the Ganges. I had never been far from my hometown, but I had the urge to travel. I saved up my money and went to Chicago one summer.

I was a virgin when I hit town and that was one of the things I wanted to correct. I had to do it out of the familiar surroundings. The trip was an experiment.

I went there to see what a big city looked and felt like, and to lose my cherry.

The boy I picked to do that chore turned out to be just as shaky as me. I was, of course, picking from my limited experience. Not knowing any better, I automatically selected a companion who looked like the kids I was used to. I invited him to my room at the hotel and he was more scared than I, I think.

Naturally I didn't tell him I wanted him to deflower me, I thought in my innocence that nature would take its course. It did. He got all shook up and pooped out on me.

After he ran out, I went downstairs to the bar, frustrated and worried that I was a social failure. I was actually too young to drink, but the bartenders were rushed and hardly looked at me. I sat on a stool and sipped a pink lady and thought I was one hell of a sophisticated girl-barring my recent bust.

"And what have we here?"

I still remember his opening line. The oldest, corniest opening remark in the known world. Only I didn't know that.

I smiled and so he wedged in beside me and ordered us another drink. He was short and dark, with a pencil moustache and a pinstripe suit that I thought looked expensive. "I'm Gene," he said.

I never did learn his last name. I told him mine, and we had the drink, and another. Then he wanted to go to another bar, "Where there's a show."

I went along. What the hell, I was on an experiment. So far, I liked it. Gene was a good spender. I was on a very limited budget, but I didn't skimp on the pink ladies with him paying. They had hardly any alcohol in them anyway.

That's what I thought.

I remember waking up a little, groggily, in a strange, darkened room, hearing voices. Somebody was pressing on me, intimately. The bed seemed to be moving far more than beds usually did. They were men's voices, two perhaps. It was all too fuzzy. I couldn't make out faces. After a moment I realized what they were doing, but I was in no condition to protest. I couldn't speak, only make sounds.

Before I passed out again, I was sure there were two of them-taking turns on me.

I wasn't a virgin anymore.

The next day was awful. I woke about noon with a huge head and a miserable taste in my mouth. Whether I had been drugged, I don't know. Perhaps I had just been drunk. I wasn't used to liquor, of course.

But the bed was a mess, bloody and smelly. My clothes hadn't been torn, they had undressed me. I had a bath and dressed and got out of there. It was a small dingy hotel and the clerk looked at me oddly when I hurried through the lobby.

I was prepared to scream if he spoke to me, but he didn't.

I went back to my own hotel, getting a lifted eyebrow from the clerk. I didn't care about him. In my room, I sat and considered. I had got what I had come for. But I hadn't enjoyed it. That was my own fault. I had drunk too much. I made up my mind right then not to drink. The only other thing that worried me was pregnancy.

I was lucky there too. I stayed in Chicago two more days, and I really looked for a man to give myself to, to really experience sex, but did not find one. After the bad time, I was probably much too careful and scared them off by droves.

But I went home deflowered. And it hadn't been an impossible thing. I began to wonder what the life of a scarlet sister was like.

In my senior year of school, I went to dances and out on dates, like all the other girls. I also had a steady. I let him do everything he wanted. And we often had sex. I enjoyed it. I managed to get a diaphragm, used it diligently, and had no problems.

So how could going to bed with men be bad? It was fun. I thought about it and thought about it, and came to the conclusion that my female organs would provide me with bread and board. All I had to do was be careful.

My steady didn't realize how I experimented with him. Looking back, I realize he must have thought he had a very hot little girlfriend. I got him to try everything either of us could think up.

I wanted to become an expert in all forms of pleasing men.

But we didn't think of all of the possibilities.

Anyway, I went to Miami the summer I got out of school. I convinced my parents I was a big girl, and they didn't protest too long. After all, I had gone to Chicago and returned intact. For all they knew.

I registered in a small hotel. The bellhop went up to the room with me, carrying my two bags-and propositioned me.

"Look, I send guys up here, I get ten percent, OK?"

I stood and blinked at him. That wasn't what I thought the whore business would be like. "Well," he said, "how 'bout it?" I stammered.

He pulled me to the bed and was almost on me before I fought him off. He didn't like that at all.

"I got to try you out, dammit! You think I'm gonna recommend you blind?"

I told him to get the hell out. Slamming the door on him, I almost cried, I was so angry. Then I thought about turning around and going home. Suddenly being a whore didn't sound so good.

Then I talked myself out of that mood. I hadn't given it a try. I had natural talents, I was sure. That night I dressed in my best frock and diaphragm and went into the nicest bar I could find. The most high class.

I attracted a man immediately. He bought me a drink and wanted to go upstairs. I set my little jaw and discussed it in a very lady-like manner.

He gave me twenty-five dollars for an hour's work.

That, I thought, was better.

I moved out of the cheap hotel into a much fancier one. My theory was right. A girl could make it with men if she really wanted to do it right.

I was wrong, but I didn't know that. Then.

I was several thousand dollars richer before I discovered how wrong I had been. I was both right and wrong. But mostly I had been lucky.

"In some ways being a whore is a good bet. Depending. There's never a slack season, I mean guys want sex all year round. You just have to be in the right spot to catch a John's eye.

You have to consider it a business. You let yourself start enjoying it and you're through. That's my opinion anyhow. If you want to enjoy, do it outside of working hours.By now I've met and employed and talked to a hell of a lot of whores. They differ naturally, in every possible way. They don't agree and they have likes and dislikes like anyone else. But most of them seem to agree on some things. Like you have to keep yourself desirable if you want to get the good money. You have to stay off H and the other drugs. If you're keeping up a habit, you're stupid.

In my opinion, if you keep up a pimp you're stupid too. But try to tell that to a lot of broads.

Men want sex all year round, as I just said. They also want it when they're high, feeling good about something. So when I ran a house I tried to keep it a cheerful place. That helps too, when you separate the suckers from the dough.

But the guys want it when they're down on their luck also. If a guy is feeling bad, maybe a dame will bring him out of it. A whore has to be able to figure guys. Read their moods. She has to be sweetheart and even a mother. A hell of a lot of Johns want a mother to comfort them. And they pay well for it. If the girl doesn't understand, she loses the fee.

A good whore ought to know some psychology. Of course that has been said before, but true, real true.

I've met a lot of girls who don't have any idea of what they're selling. They think it's between their legs. That's only part of it. I had no end of trouble getting girls who were seducers and not just lays.

In my opinion, the girls who accost a man and rub it on his leg are always going to be cheap whores, and will probably get saddled with a pimp and a habit and never come out of the life with a dime.

Of course, that's just my opinion. But I don't remember one who didn't.

A prostitute, to get anywhere, must be a pretty good conversationalist, smart, sophisticated, and not rough or coarse. She must look good enough for a man to take her anywhere, and know enough to talk about general subjects in good English.

Maybe my English isn't the best, but when I was hustling I was careful about what I said. And I was interested in what the man said to me. I showed it. Man, they pay for tact.

Money is the name of the game.

I've just said that a girl must look good enough so a man feels he can take her anywhere. Men are vain as hell, more so than women, I think. Anyway, what I was about to say is: looks aren't everything. A girl must look good, yes. But if she's got a pleasing or interesting personality, that's a lot better than looks any day. Any day.

Whorehouses are full of beautiful girls. Beauty isn't enough. In fact, to my way of thinking, beauty may be a handicap. I have talked to men who steer clear of the beauties. They say the beautiful girls expect to get by on that commodity alone and do not make an effort.

Give me a girl who can charm a man and you can have the beauty. When I was hiring girls, I could never find enough girls with personality.

A girl has to fake it. She can't enjoy every client, not like they enjoy her. Otherwise, naturally, she'd burn out. She mustn't make her John feel that she's rushing him either. If she puts a watch on the bedside table and gives him twenty mintues to work, then she is telling him exactly what she is, and he'll treat her accordingly. She should beguile him instead. Most men don't want to feel they're buying sex. Sure, they know they are, but they'd like to kid themselves.

A good hustler would help out the illusion. And maybe get a little extra dough for it. I found that guys were generous-if you didn't ask for anything.

I know you can't teach personality, but it is possible for some of the tricks of the trade to soak in. It's all an illusion of love. The closer to the real thing you can make a John feel, the more dough he is likely to give you; and he'll want to become a steady customer.

Baby, it's an illusion. But it pays."