Chapter 7
It was a regional political convention, which meant only certain states were represented, and Juliette didn't tell me we would fly in a private plane to get there until she came by the Las Vegas hotel where I was staying to take me to the private airport. She said, "You have to promise not to tell where we go and not to say anything derogatory about any of the people who attend the convention. I mean, sure, they're here for a political convention. They'll get the job done that they've set out to do, but they're entitled to a little fun while they're at it."
I promised, and away we went. Juliette drives a bright pink Cadillac, with bright pink leather seats and thickly piled floor mats of baby blue. The passengers included six hookers, a little old man with a bald head, and me.
Juliette introduced me when we were airborne. "This is Ellen Evans, a writer. Right now she's doing a book about conventions and the girls who work them."
A dark haired girl who was slightly on the plump side nodded. "I've read some of your books. And I know a person you wrote a whole book about, too. She told me about it, and later on I got a chance to read it. You certainly did a good job of covering her true identity." She was Rhoda, originally from Ohio.
Barbara was a tall, willowy blonde with sad grey eyes. Juliette told me afterwards that three months previously Barbara had had an abortion she'd not wanted. She was new to the oldest profession, and her husband hadn't wanted the child.
Vivacious, red-haired Elaine was about thirty and politically oriented herself. She looked forward to the convention with zest. Elaine was attractive, but not in the usual way, mostly because of her extremely thin build and gauntness of features. Juliette told me Elaine dieted constantly in order to maintain that starved look, and the Johns went wild over her. "On the other hand, Rhoda makes fabulous money, and she's almost what you might call fat. I guess there's no accounting for tastes."
Whether Iris was the fifth girl's actual given name or not, it suited her. She had eyes exactly the color of those big hybrid irises that to me, at least, are far more appealing than any orchid, and her soft, light brown hair was glorious. She was of medium height, had a dusting of pale golden freckles across her nose, and was intelligent.
Serena was an exotic girl of mixed ancestry that must have included a portion of American Indian, black and possibly French or Spanish. She had enormous eyes the color of ripe olives, wore her hair in an afro, and always dressed in stark white. Her only jewelry was rings, and she had at least one on each finger and thumb, two or three on many. She said she was born in Rhodesia, and her accent was charming.
All of these girls were full-time prostitutes except Juliette, who worked in an office as mentioned earlier, and Serena, who speaks seven languages fluently. She's an interpreter and works for the government. I learned that Serena, like Juliette, confines her hooking activities to conventions. She said she can take two or three days off at a time if she doesn't take her vacations. With her huge eyes full of mystery, she explained that she especially liked working the conventions, because in that way she met a lot of different kinds of people. "And I adore people. One of these days, I want to write my memoirs, so I feel I must learn as much about the way folks behave in all walks of life as I possibly can, for I want to truly understand everybody."
Although all the girls except Serena had been married at least once and divorced, they were all single at the moment except Barbara, who said she would never divorce her husband, even though he made her miserable. Barbara was the only one who wanted to talk about her past, and as I made notes, I saw that fascinating Serena was listening intently.
Barbara was born in a small town in the midwest, made excellent grades throughout school and was graduated from a well-known midwestern university at the top of her class. The older of two children, she said she'd always felt driven to excel at anything she attempted. Her younger brother is already a millionaire, and he's under thirty.
Barbara met her husband when she was teaching English in an elementary school in Texas. It was a whirlwind courtship of less than a week. Then they were married.
"Then I learned that Gregg had lied to me about his background. He's mixed up in a lot of illegal activities, prostitution among them. He wanted me to get into it. I was crushed, but after a while I said I would, because I couldn't bear losing him."
"I would kill him," said Serena.
"But I love him," Barbara answered.
"How can you keep loving a man who doesn't care any more about you than he does?" Serena turned to me. "He turns her into a whore." (Serena pronounced it 'hoor.') "He beats her until she is black and blue and he makes her get rid of the baby she wanted. I personally think this is a sick kind of love, maybe no love at all. It's my understanding that if a woman or man loves someone, they must also respect them. Obviously, your Gregg has no respect for you, and cares nothing about your wishes."
"But if I left him, I would die. Or if he left me."
Serena nodded. "Maybe you would." Then she thought for a while. "But maybe you wouldn't, Barbara. It is my guess that you would go right out and immediately find someone else to love. And you can only love someone who degrades you. Why do you think so little of yourself, anyway? You're beautiful, you're intelligent, and you certainly have a lot of love to give."
I wondered the same thing, but I've learned to stop trying to change people around to suit my ideas about how people should behave. Later, through Dell, who was the little old bald-headed man on the plane, I learned more about Barbara.
Dell said he was part of the entertainment committee for the political convention. He said that he'd known Barbara since shortly after her marriage. Dell's voice was gravelly and he tended to growl when he spoke. "She's not happy unless she's miserable. I've seen her when she should have been right on top of the world, without a worry or a hassle of any kind. She'll tell you her husband wanted her to go into the hooking business, but she hounded him until he finally gave in. I know, because I was there when they were arguing about it. Gregg didn't want his own wife to be a whore. Strange world, isn't it? She kept at him, kept shooting off her yap until he said okay, go ahead and hustle. After that she started badgering him about other things. Drove him right up a tree with the most nasty insults I've ever heard. Finally he hauled off and hit her one. Then she was happy. And don't you believe that shit she's laying on everybody about Gregg being the one who wanted her to get rid of the baby. She was the one who insisted on the abortion, but she gets her kicks out of making people feel sorry for her. On top of that, she goes for tricks who will knock her around. Strange the way people are, don't you think?"
Dell's title of "Entertainment Chairman" could have been interchanged with either "Chief Pimp" or "Orgy Arranger." He wasn't too pleased at the idea of a journalist being along. I kept telling him I wasn't a journalist, but he didn't want to listen. He kept saying snide things about members of the press being nosy, which made me wonder about the things he said about Barbara until I saw her in action.
The convention was in the high desert and it was chilly. Rhoda, who spent a lot of her childhood in the south, remarked as we left the plane that it was cold as a frog's ass in December. A couple of cars were at the private landing strip to pick us up and I felt the eyes of the black driver on me as I stepped in. He was curious, I could tell. Later, Juliette told me he asked her what the hell she meant by bringing a forty-year-old broad along.
She said, "Rollo told me the only Johns at the convention who'd be interested in making it with you are the ones who were so old they couldn't get it up any more. He could tell you were at least forty." Since I will never see fifty again, I took Rollo's remarks as a compliment. Before I left, I had a long conversation with Rollo and found him interesting. He said he liked pornography, and Juliette had told him I've written my share of that. He looked at me with a puzzled expression and said he couldn't believe a woman could write about sex with any real understanding.
My caustic tongue responded with my automatic reaction to that kind of chauvinism. "How typical. I suppose nobody ever told you that close to half of the people who participate in sex are women."
Rollo was ready for that one, though. He said, "Uh-huh. I've heard tell. But I never did like to fuck women. Never could see how so many men think it's the only way to go. Women are filth to me. Most of 'em, anyway. Except for my mother."
The dining hall was big enough to seat a thousand people and it was my guess a thousand were there, mostly men. Maybe a hundred were accompanied by their wives, and some had come to the convention with a girl friend. The dinner was exquisite and the wines delicious. Political business took a long time, and it was obvious that the majority of those who attended were there primarily because of their political party. It was just as obvious that some had come because they had some personal axe to grind. But most of them were sincerely interested in getting their own choices installed in prime positions. It seemed to me that only a very few of the people at that particular dinner were there because they had the means and the time to indulge their personal whims. But of course, I knew I could be wrong, because politicians have always been capable of walking along two sides of the street at once. Combining business with pleasure isn't an art that belongs strictly to the pols, but they seem to have developed it to a finely honed edge.
After the last resolution was made, the final rousing speech applauded, and all the booze was gone, over three-quarters of the regional politicians made going-home motions, or at least, back to their motel rooms.
Dell walked around. He strutted like a bantam rooster and did a lot of hand-rubbing as he grinned, talking to certain men who seemed to be in no hurry to leave. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but whatever it was appeared to be very interesting, if the way the faces of the men he talked with lighted up in gleeful anticipation was any indication.
The girls who had been on the plane with us were seated at a long table which they'd occupied throughout the dinner and speeches. They remained where they were, talking among themselves and to me. Other groups of girls were occupying other tables. There were only about a hundred hookers, and after the big room was cleared of most of the politicians, it echoed emptily as chairs scraped, girls giggled, and a few tired-looking waiters and waitresses went about the business of cleaning up the place.
Slowly, almost as if they were reluctant about the whole thing, the men who hadn't left with the rest of the crowd began to walk around the hall. They gravitated to the tables where the girls were, and most of them appeared to try very hard to come off casually. Twenty or so circled our table and I was reminded of male dogs in the process of smelling out a bitch in heat. But they all looked ill-at-ease and dogs never look the least bit inhibited.
Dell came pussy-footing up and invited all the men to what he referred to as a special party. It was to be held in Juliette's room, he said. Then he went to the other tables where the girls were and did the same thing. Each table had four to six girls.
Juliette is a fine actress. To see her in action, one would never know she doesn't enjoy sex. Her eyes glowed and every line of her body was an invitation. The other girls were equally alluring to look at and all the men were looking at them with that certain expression.
Just as we were about to leave for Juliette's room, wherever that was, I saw Rollo out of the corner of my eyes. He was surrounded by a group of handsome men, all dressed to the teeth and obviously there for the enjoyment of other men. A tall, slim, handsome blond man who looked about thirty rubbed against a short, balding politician who looked like a holdover from Tammany Hall, and they both giggled.
If there were any gentlemen of the evening who were available for the pleasure of women who had come alone, I didn't see any. I wondered why so many of the men looked worried. Once or twice it occurred to me that my own presence might have something to do with the way so many of the men looked over their shoulders as if they thought the long arm of the law might be reaching out for them at any minute, but Juliette assured me, when I asked her, that I had nothing to do with it. "Hell, you could pass for an old hooker, easy as pie. Don't pay any attention to what was said earlier. I know some fine ladies who are still in the business, and they're in their late sixties and seventies."
Dell gave Juliette her key. It was the first time she knew where her room was, and after a short discussion with him in private, she turned back to the rest of us and explained why the men were so uneasy. "There was a rumor that we were going to get busted, but Dell found out it was started by some jealous old bitch who was afraid her husband would leave her in the hotel room and go off with a strange girl."
The room was the usual beige and brown with bright patches of yellow and orange for relief that is so often used by hotel and motel decorators. We all had rooms of our own, but I was not part of the group. Instead of mine being attached to the rest of them with a handy connecting door, I was far removed from the action around the corner, which was a disappointment. Seeing how things were set up so the men could enjoy the women and pay for it was fine, but I didn't want my night's research to end there. Still, it looked very much as if I had been given a quick but wordless order to take myself off to bed.
I went over to the desk to put in a call to one of my editors. Just a few days earlier she'd reminded me to find out, if I could, whether the taxpaying public paid the tab on some of these parties that had been written up in some of the scandal rags. Some recent articles had hinted that sex and political conventions are another area of public repoff. I had my credit card in my hand and started to lift the telephone from the cradle when I caught a strange movement out of the corner of my eye. Realizing it was just the mirror over the desk, that I was seeing my own reflection, I put my hand back on the phone when I decided I was coming unhinged. There had been two images in the mirror, something that didn't register at first because I'd been so intent on what I was doing. I'd enjoyed the wine with dinner, but on only two goblets of wine along with a full meal, I didn't think I should be seeing double. A further look in the mirror told me I wasn't coming unhinged after all. It was a two-way mirror. It didn't take me long to find the little button down at the bottom that would turn it into a real mirror instead of a window that looked directly into the next room. But of course I pressed the button again, because I was not interested in looking at myself.
The gay crowd were enjoying themselves greatly. The tall, slim blond dude was swishing around the room, obviously the star of the show. He was doing an erotic dance and when I listened very hard I could hear the music. The rest of the men were sitting around on the floor in twos and threes, lounging intimately on the bed while they fondled one another (five of them), and the rest were on the chairs in close embrace.
The dancer did bumps and grinds. His only garment was on his massive cock, and I don't really believe the three daisies all linked together could be referred to properly as an article of clothing, but the daisy chain was symbolic. Before long, all the men began to grope in groups, and after a while they were all down on the floor where they did something I had read about but never seen before-a classic daisy chain.
My door opened and I jumped about a foot. Dell stood there with a grin that split his face into a comic mask that reminded me of one of those happy faces. "You know what that song is, Ms. Evans? The one they're playing in there, I mean."
I said no, I didn't recognize it. "But the one they were playing when I first realized-uh-well, just a minute ago. It was The Stripper, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, but I put this particular number on the stereo unit because I think it's pretty fitting. It's The Cake Walk."
"Oh." At the time, I wasn't operating on all eight. My senses were still pretty well zonked by the surprise view through the two-way mirror-window.
"You're pretty dense for a smart woman writer," said Dell. "Cock walk. Get it?"
I said I got it. Then I asked point-blank if the regional offices of that particular political party picked up the tabs when it came time to pay for sex.
"Oh, you got to be kidding." Dell's big eyes narrowed as his grin grew even wider. "No way!
Maybe up in the top drawer of politics the men get taken care of by the party. I wouldn't know about that. I mean, I don't know any of them personally and haven't ever furnished them with girls. But in this group of party-pols, the fee is strictly paid by the men who get the service." He cleared his throat. "Then there's a little something for the party. Like I just explained to a fella down there who wanted to turn on with Serena. He said he only wanted her for an hour so he thought he shouldn't have to kick in any more than twenty-five bucks. I said, man, that beautiful gal isn't any twenty-five dollar whore. She's a hundred-dollar call girl. You ought to be able to tell that by lookin' at her.
"He said he didn't think he ought to have to shell out twenty-five dollars for thirty minutes. That was as much as he paid his psychologist. I said hell, he'd get more good out of spending the money on'Serena than he ever got out of a visit to his shrink unless he screwed his shrink-and even if he did, it wouldn't be near as good as Serena.
"He allowed as how I was probably right. Then I laid it on him that he had to throw in ten bucks for the kitty. He asked what the hell I was talking about, so I told him the party needed money, and it was understood by all the men that wanted to be with one of the girls that ten dollars extra went for the cause.
"And you know what he said? Swear to God he did. Came right out flat-footed and said he'd heard everything, he thought. But he'd never heard tell of the party accepting a pimp fee. I told him he'd not been involved in politics very long." Dell grinned again and snapped his fingers. "But he didn't want to miss out on a chance, to prong Serena, so he paid up. We'll add a lot to the treasury tonight."
I said, "I suppose all the girls have taken their guys to their own private room by now."
Dell's face took on a mortified look. "Why, you don't think we'd do that without letting you in on a few little bits of the action, do you?"
"Yes, I sort of thought that was the way it was going to be. Except for the scene across the way there." I gestured toward the next room where the daisy chain was growing pretty ragged due to a few of the men falling away.
"Well, that's why I came. To escort you down the hall a piece to let you take a look-see through another one of those mirrors. I hope you don't mind, but it's my room. I kind of-enjoy looking in on things, to make sure nothing gets out of line."
I said I didn't mind. I followed Dell down the hall, wondering if maybe it wouldn't be a good idea for me to go back to writing gothics for a while. Research is research, I told myself firmly. But still and all, I wasn't looking forward to becoming a Peeping Tomasina. Asking questions, and taking notes or making a tape, is one thing. When I do that, I'm leveling with the people and they have the option to refuse to talk with me if they choose. Looking at men and women engaged in sexual embrace without their knowledge was something else again.
Once I met a man who owned a motel similar to the one Dell had arranged for the convention hookers. It was considerably smaller, though. At the time I met this motel owner, I was working as a newspaper reporter, and like a lot of young reporters, I had a yen to do some detective work. A local woman was seen going into the motel. She never came out and her husband suspected foul play. So I became cozy with the unsuspecting motel operator, cozy enough for him to take me into his confidence. My ability to relate to people in a way that makes them want to tell me everything has often come in handy. That compassionate quality is sincere, and combined with a certain quality about my features that I was lucky enough to be born with, moves people to confide everything-if they're inclined to confide anything. The motel owner was no exception. He was proud of his innovation. Not only was he running a nice little house of .prostitution, he was picking up a considerable amount of extra revenue by renting out rooms to those who don't want to participate but enjoy watching.
That was many years ago, and my introduction to those who watch. Later, I learned that watch-artists have been around a long time. Back in the days of the Roman Empire, long before Nero diddled while Rome burned, there were peepholes for the exclusive use of men and women who got off watching others engaged in sex.
The motel owner was the first person who ever let me in on the two-way mirror for hire, but my urge to play detective and be the brilliant young newspaper reporter who solved the crime came to an abrupt halt. The missing woman wasn't being held prisoner and forced to work as one of the girls. Instead, she was living with the motel owner, and the only reason she'd remained out of sight was because she was afraid her husband might kill her. He eventually did, but that's another story. But I was thinking of that long-ago time as I went into Dell's room and watched him slyly adjust the two-way mirror.
It had been a long time since I had seen an orgy.