Convention Hookers
by Ellen Evans
(BT-50978)


FOREWORD 

Although this work is non-fiction, every attempt has been made by the author 
to protect the identity of everyone inside the covers. Further, the girls 
who cover the conventions and make themselves available to the men, were all 
pleased at the idea of expressing themselves and telling about the life and 
times of Convention Hookers. The men ... well, they liked the idea of being 
in a book, too. A great number of the men who were interviewed had an idea 
that I should pay for them their services in one way or another, however. 

Which says a lot. Prostitution is still considered a woman's field, 
regardless of the growing number of male hookers. And most of the men who 
are in the business feel superior to the women. 

Ellen Evans October, 1976 


PART ONE The Judges 

CHAPTER ONE 

They got out of the taxi and stood on the crowded sidewalk, apparently 
unperturbed by the July drizzle that turned the already dirty streets of New 
York a darker shade of gloom. They waited pleasantly while the cab driver 
took their expensive luggage from the cab, two long-legged, suntanned spots 
of beauty in their white pants suits that clung to every line of their lush 
bodies. The doorman put the luggage on his carrier. The girls called a 
cheery thank-you to the cab driver and went into the hotel with their heads 
held high, an aura of importance about them, yet somehow creating the 
impression of wealth and good breeding. 

One was tall. She was close to six feet, but slender and supple as a wand, 
and she was so assured of her elegant appearance that she didn't give so 
much as a careless glance at the full-length mirror that covered one side of 
the lobby. Instead, she looked at her companion, brushed a strand of honey 
blonde hair from the other girl's face, then addressed herself to the desk 
clerk. Speaking in a well modulated voice that smacked of good breeding, she 
said, "Reservations for Landham and Jenkins." 

"Yes, ma'am." The clerk used the smile he reserved for important guests. 

While the girls stood at the desk and did the business of registering, the 
lobby filled with men. The smaller girl, the blonde one, frowned slightly. 
"Don't tell me there's a convention here at the hotel." 

"They're judges, Miss Landham," answered the clerk. "Very quiet and 
dignified. Nobody rowdy, take my word for it." 

The blonde looked doubtful. "Maybe we'd better check with the folks before 
we take the suite, Bev." 

"Good heavens, Bunny!" The tall brunette smiled. "Judges aren't going 
to-anyway, we're here in New York to shop. We'll barely spend any time in 
the suite." 

A bellman came forward and pushed the stack of luggage toward the row of 
elevators, his eyes both admiring and envious as he looked at the lovely 
girls. Admiring because they were beautiful and graceful and well-bred, 
envious because they were obviously not the kind of girls he would ever know 
except in passing. 

The tall girl tipped him well. They both thanked him and gave him warm but 
reserved smiles. When he left their suite of rooms he stood for a moment 
just outside the door. Another bellman saw him standing there gazing off 
into space. "Somebody stiff you, Clark?" 

"No. I just brought up a couple of rich bitches. Nice girls. Smith or Vassar 
stuff. I'll bet they come from families that are loaded. Christ. What'd it 
be like to fuck a girl like that? You know what, Glen? I bet those girls are 
smart as whips. I'd like to have a woman just once in my life that didn't 
chew bubble gum or giggle when she's screwing." 

"Real quality stuff, huh, Clark?" The other bellman was younger. He turned 
to go on down the hall, whistling. Looking over his shoulder, he said in a 
near-whisper, "What the hell, Clark. You don't fuck a woman's head. Well ... 
yeah, you can, but I'm not talking about getting some head. What difference 
does it make whether a piece of ass is smart or dumb?" 

"You crude son of a bitch." The bellman named Clark hurried to catch up with 
his co-worker, who punched the down bell. "You wouldn't understand what I'm 
talking about. Sometimes I see those golden girls, all suntanned and not a 
wrinkle on their faces, their bodies so perfect...." He sounded wistful. 

The elevator was approaching. The other bellman grinned. "Shee-it. I bet 
they're hookers." 

"No, they're not. Christ. After twenty years in this business I can tell a 
hooker a mile off." 

Nobody but the elevator operator was on it as they went down. He looked up 
from his crossword puzzle, his intelligent face solemn. "Damn judges are 
about the horniest bunch of conventioneers I ever saw. I'm gonna do a paper 
on those bastards. Next fall I'll have my thesis all ready to turn in, and I 
won't have to leave the hotel for research material. How'd you like to have 
one of those jerks hand you down a sentence for, say, drunken driving? You 
know how they look when they sit up there on the bench with their faces so 
stern sitting in judgment?" 

One of the bellmen started to answer, but the elevator was on the lobby 
level and an enormous crowd of men impatiently waited for someone to take 
their luggage so they could get settled in their rooms. 

Margaret Jenkins was stretched out to her full exotic length on her 
queen-size bed. She'd slipped out of the Saks Fifth Avenue pants suit and 
into a demure looking little housecoat of pale yellow cotton that 
complimented her coppery tan and dark hair. It was a short housecoat, but 
not an immodest one. It came to just above her knees, and when it was 
buttoned all the way up to the little round collar it gave her a little-girl 
look. She raised one long, slender leg into the air and pointed her slim 
foot in the manner of a ballet dancer. Her dark eyes frowned as she noted a 
chip in her toenail enamel. "Rats," she said softly as she left the bed to 
rummage through the contents of a girlish-looking cosmetic bag. Then she sat 
down at the dressing table and carefully repaired the flaw in her otherwise 
flawless appearance. 

"What's the matter?" The blonde girl was in the bathroom between the two 
bedrooms. 

"That new pair of sandals I bought in St. Louis ruins my toenail polish." 

"Horrors!" Paula Landham smiled at her lush and lovely self in the mirror 
above the wash basin. Her teeth were snowy white and perfect, an asset among 
many that she was most proud of. The year before she had paid almost five 
thousand dollars in dental bills in order to maintain that well-cared-for 
look. "How's that?" 

Back on the bed, Margaret looked thoughtfully at her fingernails and found 
no fault with them. "How's what?" 

"What I just said. Horrors. Just what a nice girl from Minneapolis would 
say, don't you think? I mean when her nice friend uses an expression like 
rats!" 

"Well, we have to keep in our roles. If I said, 'Oh, fuck,' I might say it 
at the wrong time. Listen, Paula, did you see the suit that good-looking 
judge was wearing? I'm talking about the tall one with the dark hair who 
stood close to the desk when we registered. I'll bet that suit cost him five 
hundred dollars if it cost a dime." Margaret padded over to the open 
bathroom door so she wouldn't have to raise her voice. 

"I didn't see the set of threads, Margie. I saw the bulge under his pants 
when his cock got the message his head was giving him when he saw you." 

"Yeah. Well. According to my schedule, they'll be in the cocktail lounge 
before long." 

Paula tossed her long mane of honey blonde hair. "We're not going in there, 
are we?" 

"Of course not, silly. Our folks would be very upset with us if they thought 
we'd even consider going into a cocktail lounge without a proper escort-to 
whom we've been properly introduced, of course." Her laugh was sexy-throaty. 
"But we have to be seen. So we've only got thirty minutes. Let's give the 
judges another tantalizing glimpse, okay?" 

The girls came down at a strategically planned time. The lobby was again 
filled with judges who were attending the convention. Now and then a splash 
of color appeared alongside the somberly attired men. A glance at the women 
quickly identified them as wives, for the most part. The majority were 
ladies with blue hair, carefully applied cosmetics, and dinner dresses with 
long jackets, designed to hide thickening waistlines and bulging bellies. A 
few were younger, but most of them had a wifely appearance that included a 
tightening of the mouth when their husbands gave the two stunning girls an 
appraising look. A few call girls had already infiltrated the ranks, but at 
that time they were few and far between. 

Margaret Jenkins wore a subdued coral-colored dress that gave her 
sun-bronzed face an extra youthful glow that wasn't needed. Although her 
eyes swept appraisingly across the lobby in one quick glance, her expression 
was well-bred and gentle. She smiled as she chatted with Paula, and her 
appearance was that of a nice young girl from a good family who had nothing 
on her mind but some innocent pursuit suitable for daughters of good, 
substantial, rather old-fashioned fathers. 

Paula wore virginal white and her accessories were beige. A froth of lace 
was at the high-necked beige blouse under her expensive suit. Both girls 
wore very little makeup. 

"Something happened," said Paula just before they reached the revolving 
doors. 

"Walk a little slower," answered Margaret. "It must be the Western Union 
people. You know we can depend on Earl. Anyway, I saw a vase of roses behind 
the desk out of the corner of my eyes." 

The girls came to a halt in order to let the doorman in. "I know what we can 
do," said Paula. "We can go back and leave a message at the desk in case our 
parents call. Saying when we'll be back in the room." 

"Okay." They walked back toward the desk. Just then another group of 
conventioning judges stepped off the elevator, which made the timing 
perfect. Margaret smiled pleasantly as she spoke to the desk clerk. "Would 
it be possible for us to leave a message in our box, in case our parents 
want to get in touch with us? We'd like them to know when we'll be back." 

"Certainly, Miss Jenkins," said the clerk. His face lit up with a smile and 
his voice carried nicely. "Oh, I'm glad you stopped by. I was just about to 
send some beautiful roses up to your room." 

Margaret blushed prettily and twisted the diamond on her third finger, left 
hand. She managed to look shy, embarrassed and just a little upset, all at 
once. "Dear Charles," she said softly as her eyes took in the long-stemmed 
roses. "So sweet of him, I'm sure. Well, can you just send them on up? We're 
already late, and with this rain it won't be easy to find a cab." She took a 
bill out of her purse and gave it to the clerk, instructing him a shade 
imperiously to send the roses up to the room with a bellman. 

After they were inside the cab, Margaret and Paula exchanged a smile, but 
they didn't say anything about how well things went. At least a dozen 
well-heeled judges had overheard their conversation with the desk clerk, 
more than they could have hoped for. 

Since the following three days would be highly lucrative, Paula and Margaret 
indulged themselves in a few little trinkets on Fifth Avenue before the 
shops closed. Then they took a cab to one of their favorite restaurants, 
where they dined on lobster. 

It was almost nine o'clock when the girls returned to the hotel. Paula went 
to the hotel drug store where she purchased a bottle of hand lotion while 
Margaret entered the elevator. Five judges went up with her. One got off on 
the second floor. On the fourth floor, two more stepped off. She very 
carefully didn't look at any of them. "Five, please," she said politely, 
even though she'd said it when she got on. 

One of the judges got off the elevator with her. He wasn't the one she had 
hoped for, but her disappointment didn't show in her face. Neither did her 
elation over making a contact so soon in the game. Sometimes it took as many 
as three trips up and down before she made a hit. And the operators remained 
on duty until midnight, which was an unsettling inconvenience. She didn't 
like their watchful eyes, their knowing glances, and she knew that very 
often the elevator men had their own girls to set up. 

"Miss?" The tall, slender, grey-haired judge was about three steps behind 
her. She knew it because she could hear his footsteps on the thickly piled 
rug. 

With the assurance of someone born with a silver spoon in her mouth, she 
turned around and faced him coolly. "Yes?" 

"I thought maybe you'd like to have a drink with me," he said. 

"Oh, no!" She blushed. Her long sooty lashes rested for a fragment of a 
second on her cheeks. "I couldn't do that." 

"Why not?" He tried to speak boldly, but it didn't quite come off. He was 
feeling pretty good, she thought with elation, as she made careful note of 
his tendency to reach out toward the hall wall so he could hold on. His 
smile showed an expensive set of dentures and he spoke with a slightly 
backwoods accent. "I don't mean anything by asking you to have a little 
drink with me, Miss. I'm a judge." The way he said it implied that anybody 
with an impressive profession like judge could be nothing but loaded with 
integrity. "You remind me of a little old gal I used to date back home. 
Before I married the missus." 

He finally made contact with the wall, which apparently gave him confidence. 
"Been married thirty years and never cheated on m'wife in m'life. Couldn't 
you just-sort of-you know ... gosh! It sure would give me a lot of pleasure 
just to sit and look at you for a little while. You won't have that drink 
with me?" Fumbling, he took out his wallet and showed her an identification 
card which she read swiftly. 

The Hon. Robert Tatterslee 

Tatum County 

Arkansas , "I've got a daughter back home not much older'n you." His eyes 
were vaguely myopic, his mouth slightly loose, and when he spoke of his 
daughter it was as if he might be telling her that anybody who had a 
daughter not much older than she was simply had to be a trustworthy man. She 
appeared just a little frightened. He grew persuasive. "Honey, I'm just 
about the loneliest man in the world. Should have brought along the missus, 
but she's been feeling poorly. I never did fit in with these big-shots ... 
tell you what. Just have one little-bitty drink with me, then you can go 
straight to your room. Do I look like a man that would molest a sweet young 
thing like you?" 

"No, of course not," she said in her best finishing school voice. "But we'll 
have to be quick about it. My friend is down in the drugstore getting some 
hand lotion. She wouldn't approve." She allowed her eyes to look into his, 
and they still looked a little frightened. "She might even tell my daddy 
when he calls tonight. He checks up on me when I come to New York, and it 
really makes me mad, too." 

The man chuckled. "How old are you, honey?" 

"Nineteen." 

"Son of a gun!" He slapped his knee with the palm of his hand as if he had 
just heard the most amazing thing in the world. "Nineteen!" 

Fifteen minutes later The Honorable Robert Tatterslee of Tatum County, 
Arkansas was naked as a jaybird and down on his knees at the side of the bed 
in his room. His arm clasped Margaret Jenkins' elegant legs as he looked up 
at her slavishly. "Honey, oh, baby, oh, honey, please let me lick that 
darlin' little pussy of yours. Just once, huh? Come on, baby. Don't act that 
way." 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Paula didn't make a hit as quickly. Two of the judges were in the drug store 
when she entered. One was a grim looking man of around thirty who struck her 
immediately as one of those people who take themselves too seriously. His 
mouth turned down at the corners and he barely noticed her, so intent was he 
upon the magazines he was picking out. She decided he was going to his room 
to read and jack himself off, pegged him as a cheap bastard who wouldn't 
even want to buy a girl dinner. Or else his wife had come along to the 
convention. 

The other one was buying some sleeping pills. He had a prescription from his 
doctor back home in Vermont, which Paula read with ease from under her long 
dark golden lashes. She picked up some interested vibes from him, but a 
quick glance at his clothes told her he couldn't afford her price. They were 
shabby and shiny in the seat and at the elbows. She knew she could be wrong, 
that some very rich men are careless about their appearance, but she had a 
tendency to operate on instinct. Still, she gave him a nice little innocent 
glance when he turned toward her. He might be a fifty-dollar trick, but she 
doubted it. He smelled more like twenty-five, and she wanted a hundred. 

He smiled. She didn't. "A bottle of Jergens hand lotion, please," she said 
to the clerk. 

"My mother always used that," said the judge. He moved closer to her. She 
saw his fingernails and moved away, pretending faint alarm. His fingernails 
were not clean, and she doubted if he'd ever had a manicure in his life. 
They were all jagged. Not worth her time. 

She paid for her purchase and left the drug store, which opened into the 
lobby. Two more judges were entering the store. One decided to play games. 
He stepped to the right when she did, and stepped to the left when she did. 
They danced around, side-stepping and smiling at one another while the other 
man went into the drug store, calling over his shoulder, "Come on, Harry. 
Goddammit, you're actin' like a teenage kid." 

Paula smelled a very expensive cologne and appreciated the cut of the 
clothes. She laughed out loud, appearing to enjoy the game although she 
found it stupid. A glance at his name tag told her he was Harry Frame from 
Doolittle, Georgia. A whiff of his breath and his high color as well as his 
bleary eyes told her he was very, very drunk. 

Paula preferred drunk tricks to sober ones. They were easy for her to 
manage, easy to convince they'd been laid when they hadn't, and sometimes 
didn't bother with anything more than a casual kiss and a few feels once 
they had a girl inside their room. Sometimes they even passed out cold once 
they hit the bed, which made it easy to lift a couple of nice-sized bills 
from their wallets in exchange for nothing. 

"What are you up to, you little dickens?" Old Harry was a card, she thought 
nastily as she gave him a bright smile. 

He came very close to her and looked at her tits, with his eyes all bugged 
out in appreciation. In a hoarse whisper, he said, "You got some kind of 
titties, sugarpants. I bet you never did have them titties sucked real nice 
in your life. Bet I could do it for you, though." 

Just then the other man came and grabbed Harry by the arm. "Harry, you old 
fucker, you, we got our wives with us on this convention!" 

"Shit, I plumb forgot all about them frumps," answered Harry with a 
decidedly disappointed look in Paula's direction. 

"Please excuse him, little lady," said the other man. "He don't mean nothin' 
by whatever it was he was saying to ya." 

Her carefree, girlish laughter rang out. "Oh, he reminds me of my daddy. I 
didn't think anything of it, sir." But her soft, tender throat tightened 
with anger as she tripped across the lobby, very conscious but not showing 
it, of the eyes that followed every line of her luscious body. 

The elevator operator gave her a wise look. She went up in the elevator 
alone except for him. He didn't open the door for a second after he reached 
her floor. Instead, he said in a thin voice, "Doll, you want to pick up some 
change?" 

She realized he'd seen the two-step business in the doorway of the entrance 
from the drug store. Feeling frozen, she looked at him haughtily, hoping 
desperately that she was coming off the way she wanted to. He was probably 
pimping for a few regular girls who were hustling the convention and she 
didn't like to think about what sometimes happened to girls who trod on turf 
that was clearly defined as somebody else's territory. "I don't think I 
heard you correctly," she said with a veiled threat in her voice. "At least, 
I hope I didn't." 

"Come on." His shirt was wilted and a mass of ingrown hairs caused pimples 
under the collar. They looked purplish against his too-pale skin. "Don't 
hand me that. Some of these judges got it to burn. They asked me about 
girls, some of them." 

"Oh!" She backed up against the wall. "You're horrid! I'm going to report 
you to the manager. Let me out of this elevator this instant!" Two tears 
rolled down her cheeks, one from each eye. 

"Sorry, chick," he said. "I guess I was mistaken." And he opened the door. 

She took out a nice clean handkerchief from her purse and wiped at her eyes 
as she got off and started down the hall. On the inside she was seething. 
The encounter with the wise-ass could screw her up if she didn't watch it. 
And screw Margaret up, too. At the moment, she didn't dare to risk another 
trip down the elevator. Waiting until midnight, when people had to take 
themselves up and down, didn't appeal to her greatly either. 

Luck loomed up in front of her in the shape of a man in a gray suit. She'd 
been too busy with her thoughts to bother looking around the hallway, and 
past experience had taught her that halls weren't very good for making 
contacts anyway. 

He looked like an undertaker instead of a judge, and he talked like one, 
too, she thought as she read his name tag under the fan of light from the 
wall sconces. 

The Honorable 

Archer M. Smith-Turner 

Wheeling County, Wisconsin 

"Beautiful lady," he began with a bow that almost ended on the floor he'd 
just picked himself up from. "Allow me to slay the dragon that caused those 
beautiful eyes to fill with tears." He gave her a very drunken smile that 
almost made her laugh out loud, because it was so full of morbid woe and 
tinged with the same kind of phony sympathy she'd recently encountered at a 
funeral. "I am at your service, my dear." He straightened up from his bow 
and fell against a hall table. "I'll slay your dragon as soon as I can stand 
up, anyway," he muttered. 

"That elevator operator insulted me," she said. 

"The cad." He blinked owlishly and fell over sideways. She caught him, 
propped him up and said sympathetically that maybe she should get help since 
he didn't feel well. 

"I've had a bit too much to drink, dear," he answered. "But drinking never 
affects my speech. Just my legs. And balance." 

A burst of loud laughter, the kind that erupts after somebody has told a 
blue story, came from the room they were closest to. She offered to get help 
again. He said he preferred not to have anybody see him in his condition, 
that he was a highly respected and respectable judge. Could she let him lean 
on her ever so slightly until he could find his room? If so, he would thank 
her graciously, and when he recovered he would thrash the boorish elevator 
operator soundly for insulting a nice girl like she obviously was. "I saw 
you and your friend down in the lobby, and I said to myself that you were 
certainly two of the nicest girls I'd seen in a long time." 

"She's my cousin," said Paula. "We came to New York to buy her wedding 
trousseau." 

"Upon my word!" The honorable Archer M. Turner-Smith fell to the floor 
again. "I think somebody put a mickey in that last drink. Or else we're 
having an earthquake." 

He crawled along on his hands and knees in a crab-like manner while she 
asked him to tell her his room number. She was relieved when he said it, 
because they were right there. Happily, he hadn't locked the door, either. 
She dragged him inside and offered to get him a bromo-seltzer or run down to 
her own room and get some coffee. "Or we could call room service." 

"I don't drink coffee," he said as he fell across the bed. "My dear child, 
it would please me greatly if you were not such a gently-bred young 
creature. What I need right now is a really good whore." 

"Oh, dear." She didn't bother to gasp or pretend to run away, because she 
thought he was too far gone to notice her acting ability. 

"If I could just get my cock sucked, I think I'd be all right," he announced 
as he rolled his head back and forth. Then he looked unhappy and apologized 
for what he'd just said, if he'd said anything impolite. 

"I'll run down the hall and see if I can find you a nice girl who'll do just 
that," she said breathlessly. And run down the hall she did, to her own 
room, where she threw on a short, curly brown wig that gave her an impish 
look. It seemed prudent to slip out of the pristine white suit too, so she 
peeled out of it quickly and threw on Margaret's little pale yellow cotton 
housecoat. It didn't take long for her to dash back down the hall and slip 
into the bed with him. 

He was snoring. She looked around for his billfold, hoping he'd left it in 
the unlocked room, but he hadn't. Sighing, she began to talk to him, one 
hand reaching inside his unzipped pants, the other fishing around for the 
billfold. "Suck it, honey," he mumbled. 

"Sure, lover." 

He'd left a lamp on in the room. A jar of vaseline was on the night table. 
Never one to pass up a good opportunity, she dipped her fingers into the 
vaseline and massaged the flaccid, pulpy head of his cock. 

"Don't bite it, sugar," he said. 

"I won't." 

He opened his eyes. "How can you talk so plain when you've got your mouth on 
my cock?" 

She didn't say anything, because she didn't know how to answer that one. 
Apparently he didn't see her when he opened his eyes, because he closed them 
again and moaned in ecstasy. His cock began to take a mild interest in the 
action. 

"Prettiest little cock-sucker in Wheeling County," he said. 

She didn't say anything, but she wondered whom he thought he was talking to. 

"I always said, goddam it to hell, you've got lips that were made for 
sucking cock." 

Her hand moved faster. She used her palm and curled her fingers expertly, 
which created, with the help of the vaseline, a sucking sound. 

"When I've shot off and get it up again, sweetheart, I'm going to fuck you 
in the ass. Always wanted to, you know." 

"Mmmm," she said against his belly, knowing he'd think she was talking 
around his cock. 

"Prettiest little ass in Wheeling County." 

"Mmmm," she murmured in a different key, lower and more delighted. 

"Touch my balls a little, angel." 

The hand that wasn't working over the head of his cock snaked obediently 
down to his balls and began stroking them gently. But she wasn't going to 
stop the hand action, because his prick was lurching and thumping, suddenly 
rock-hard. It was enormous, which didn't surprise her, because she'd seen 
his big feet. Size fifteen, without a doubt, which usually meant a whopper. 
She stopped stroking his balls long enough to wrap the fingers of both hands 
around it, and wasn't surprised to see a good four inches sticking out from 
the top. 

"Put your pussy up here in my face, darling. I have to have that sweet 
little cunt on my tongue." 

"Oh, shit," she breathed, but yanked off her bikini panties and let him have 
it, the quicker to get it over with. Right away she wished she hadn't, 
because he chortled with delight, his voice coming muffled from under her 
slit, but very clear. Clear enough to make her think he was either not as 
drunk as she'd thought he was, or that he was recovering quickly. His body 
language was suddenly more alive, too. His long legs stiffened and his feet 
curled. 

"Baby doll! You finally did it! Think of it! All these years I've been 
wanting to taste your adorable little cunt, and you have to wait until we 
come to New York to let me!" His tongue snaked in between her pussy lips and 
she moaned with a pleasure she didn't feel. 

"Beautiful," he muttered, his nose rammed against her clit. She was on top 
of him, her own head several inches away from his cock, but he didn't know 
the difference. Obviously, he was in ecstasy, and before long it occurred to 
her that he must think he was with his wife. He kept saying in between dives 
into her cunt, things like, "I knew it'd be heaven! Just knew it!" And, 
"Twenty-two years and you never let me eat your pussy before." 

She laughed, but held it inside, knowing that if he noticed at all he'd 
think she was jerking in the throes of passion. What tickled her was the 
idea of some middle-aged housewife back there in Wheeling County who had 
been married all those years and never let her husband eat her out-then the 
husband thinking he did when he was drunk. Wisconsin was a long way from New 
York. Then a mind-blowing idea caused her to almost stop all the action. She 
didn't know the bastard's wife was back in Wisconsin. Things would get 
sticky if the wife happened to walk in. 

A quick look at his cock told her he was about to gush, and she'd spent a 
lot of effort on him. So she hurried things along by sneaking a middle 
finger into his asshole and twirling it around. His orgasm was quick, just 
as she knew it would be. His hips thrust violently and his ass hammered hard 
against the bed. He shuddered and shot, an agonized scream of pleasure on 
the lips that went loose against her clit. Under her body she could feel his 
heart thumping as his shudders simmered down to little jerks of limbs and 
torso. Finally, he was breathing normally, and she wanted to get off, get 
the fat wallet that she'd taken from his back pocket and dropped onto the 
floor, get her money and leave. But she wasn't sure he was sleeping, so she 
waited. 

In the next room a deep, hearty and jovial voice asked whoever was 
listening, "You ever hear the one about the Christmas package?" 

Male laughter followed the question, along with a few drunken requests. "No, 
we never heard it, Howard, go ahead and tell it." 

One of the men spoke sarcastically. "You already told that fuckin' story." 

What sounded like about ten other men said no, Howard hadn't told it, and 
for Mike to pipe down. "Go on, ole buddy. Tell us about the Christmas 
package." 

Paula remained very still, waiting for His Honor underneath to go into the 
deep breathing or snoring of heavy sleep. She hoped it would be soon, 
because her legs were getting cramped. 

"Well," began the jovial, happy-drunk voice from the next room, "seems there 
was this man who went into a department store looking for something special 
for Christmas. For himself. By God, it was Christmas and he didn't have 
anybody to give anything to, see, and nobody to give him anything. So he was 
going to get himself a present. 

"So there was this clerk who said he had something really special. Clerk 
told him to reach his hand in this little box he had and take a feel. 
Customer did, and said it felt like pussy. 

"Clerk said, stick your nose in there, ole buddy, and take a whiff. 

"Customer did and said, 'By God! It smells like pussy!' 

"Clerk said, 'Now stick your tongue in there and taste it a little." 

"The customer rammed his tongue inside that little box and-by God! Said, 'It 
even tastes like pussy.' See, it was warm and wet and had all the things 
going for it that-" 

"Just tell the story," yelled one of the men. "Get to the fucking punch 
line!" 

Howard sounded injured. "I'm going to. Give me a chance, will you? So the 
clerk said that little package cost fifty dollars. Customer said, 'I'll take 
it!' 

"Clerk said, 'You want me to wrap it for you?' " 'No,' said the customer. 
'I'll just eat it here.' " Uproarious laughter sounded from the other room. 

Paula moved ever so slightly. Under her, The Honorable Archer M. 
Smith-Turner remained limp and still. He started snoring. She hoisted one 
leg over his relaxed body and pivoted around on one knee so she could look 
at his face. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. The snores 
increased in volume and a weird whistling sound came from deep in his throat 
when he exhaled. Satisfied that he was out of it, she dropped lightly to the 
floor, threw on the pale yellow housecoat that belonged to Margaret and 
reached for his billfold, all in one fluid movement. 

Her fingers expertly extracted two one hundred dollar bills and she was in 
the process of stealthily opening the door that led to the hall when a small 
woman of about forty pushed the door inward, her voice raised in greeting. 
"Arch, honey, I'm back! The Rockettes were-" Her mouth opened as she took in 
Paula, short housecoat unbuttoned, dark brown wig slightly frazzled, bikini 
panties in hand, and her husband passed out naked on the bed. "Who are-what 
are you-oh! You're a whore! Oh!" Her small hands reached out like a couple 
of claws, fingernails long and capable of slashing. 

Paula gave her a push toward the bed and fled. She was grateful that the 
suite of rooms she and Margaret had was not far down the hall. As she ran, 
she heard the woman screaming, and before she was in her own suite she knew 
the men in the room next door to Archer Smith-Turner and wife were rushing 
to the woman's aid. Their voices were raised in a hubbub of startled sound 
that she could still hear even though she was inside, panting, her back 
against her closed door. 

After a while she was able to leave her position against the door to walk 
rubber-legged to the dresser and a bottle of gin. She tipped up the bottle, 
swallowed, gagged and shuddered before she sat down in a chair to think 
things over. Wearing the wig was a good idea, she decided, as soon as her 
senses simmered down enough to help her decide anything. A quick glance into 
the mirror assured her that none of her own honey blonde hair had escaped 
from underneath. Another shot of gin made her feel more secure, because by 
then she realized that Smith-Turner's wife would probably not raise a big 
stink. After all, her husband was a judge! She could hardly afford to 
complain to the hotel authorities. 

The two hundred-dollar bills were still crumpled tightly in her fist. She 
dropped them in her purse, yawned, removed Margaret's little housecoat and 
decided she'd worked enough for one night. After a long, hot tub bath, she 
tried to sleep but couldn't because she kept seeing the violence in the 
violet eyes of that woman when she'd come at her with those long, sharp 
fingernails. She needed to take her mind off the incident, so she turned on 
the set in her bedroom and stretched out to watch television. After a while 
she began to feel pretty good about the incident. Margaret came in, 
obviously prepared to bathe, change and go out for another session. 

"You'd better get up and get at it too, Paula," she said as she applied rosy 
lipstick. "The halls are swarming with horny judges, and they're only here 
for three days." 

"I don't feel like it." Paula told the other girl about the incident in the 
Honorable Smith-Turner's room. Margaret listened quietly. When Paula was 
finished, she said, "You just aren't careful enough. You should have asked 
him if his wife came to New York with him." 

"I just figured something out," said Paula. She giggled. "No wonder he kept 
thinking I was his wife. At the time, I was too busy getting away to really 
think about anything but getting out of there, but you know, that woman 
looks a lot like me. She wears her dark hair in a short style and there's 
something about her features that-of course, she's shorter than I am, but 
just the same...." 

Margaret went to the window and opened it. Then she threw her pale yellow 
housecoat down on the street. "Just in case," she said as she turned around, 
"the wife remembers what you were wearing. Wonder what's going on in that 
room along about now? Well ... I'm glad I'm tall. Nobody would ever mistake 
me for you." 

 CHAPTER THREE 

The wife of the Wheeling County judge immediately regretted that she'd acted 
on instinct; that she'd screamed loud enough to attract the attention of the 
partying judges in the next room and cause them to rush drunkenly to her 
aid. 

Audrey married Archer Smith-Turner when he was a struggling young lawyer who 
showed a marked talent at acting in the Little Theater Group, but not much 
ability in the courtroom. It was Audrey Smith-Turner who did the most toward 
furthering her husband's goals in life by shoring him up when he was down, 
seeing to it that he didn't turn to the bottle when he was depressed, and 
even helping him with difficult cases by using her shrewd mind to his 
advantage. 

Until he became fascinated with pretty young Audrey, Archer had not really 
liked the idea of being an attorney. As a young man, his parents insisted 
that he become a doctor or a lawyer. His family before him had always been 
in a profession, they kept reminding him. And if young Archie thought he was 
going to be a ne'er-do-well, he certainly had better think again. They had a 
position to maintain in the community, and if he knew what was good for him 
he'd uphold that position. 

Archie chose lawyering over doctoring as the lesser of two evils. He fainted 
at the sight of blood and tended toward hypochondria, a condition that would 
have kept him in a state of chronic illness if he'd gone into medicine. All 
he really wanted to do was screw all the pretty girls in town, drink all the 
booze available, and in his spare time, act in the Little Theater 
productions, preferably in Shakespearean roles. His parents approved of 
lovely Audrey, who came from a good family, but not a better family than 
their own. Her father was a veterinarian. Shortly after the marriage, 
Archer's mother had a talk with his bride. 

"Archie is a good boy, but he hasn't as much backbone as he ought to have. 
But he's got a good mind, and all he really needs is the guidance of a good 
woman to get him where he ought to go in life." Then the older woman smiled 
and told her new daughter-in-law a closely-kept family secret. "Archie 
doesn't get his lackadaisical behavior from a stranger, Audrey. His father 
was totally without direction until I married him and took a hand in his 
career. And just look at him now! One of the most respected men in the 
community! Now, Audrey, you can do the same thing for Archie, too. And I'll 
tell you just exactly how to do what's best for him." 

As the years passed, Archie became fairly famous for his astute courtroom 
procedure. His law office was always filled with people seeking his advice. 
Audrey decided, at about the time their children were in high school, that 
Archie would make a fine judge, so she took steps to make him one. He didn't 
protest much, and after a while he believed seeking the judgeship was his 
idea. He'd been a good husband, except for that one sticky affair he'd had 
with a fat girl named Betty Jean, who had come to him about a divorce. 
Audrey had been both appalled and heartsick. She made short shrift of the 
affair, and ever since then, Archie had been well-behaved. 

During the mind-bending moment when Mrs. Smith-Turner walked into the hotel 
room she shared with her husband, and the few confusing seconds shortly 
after when she faced the dark-haired vixen, Archie's affair with fat Betty 
Jean came full-blown into Audrey's mind, which probably had something to do 
with her rush of first panic. But she was not a woman who usually acted on 
impulse, and she was capable of covering errors with the speed of lightning. 

By the time the carousing judges from next door entered the room, Audrey had 
the situation in control. She'd thrown the bedspread over Archie's naked 
body and removed his billfold from the floor to the night table. Then she'd 
glanced quickly about the room to make sure no other evidence of Archie's 
imprudence was lying about. 

Speaking rapidly, she explained that she'd come upon a young woman in the 
process of stealing her husband's money. "She had his watch in her hands 
when I walked in, but I managed to get it," she added triumphantly. Then, 
with a gentle and wifely smile, she added that Archie had no doubt had too 
much to drink. "Otherwise, he'd have locked the door while I went to see the 
Rockettes with Mildred Gibson." 

"No," she answered when one of the men asked if anything was missing. "The 
little thief didn't get to steal anything. But I think we'd better call 
downstairs and make a complaint." 

When the house detective came up to the room, Audrey described the alleged 
thief as a rather small girl, about her own size. "She had short, curly dark 
hair and was wearing a yellow dress. A mini-dress. And she looked very 
young, too, about fifteen." 

Archie snored complacently through the session with the house detective. 
"The girl is probably blocks away from here by now," said Audrey. "But of 
course, that's New York for you." 

The detective agreed that the girl, caught in the act, was probably long 
gone by then, but he said he'd double their security. "You people should 
make sure your doors are locked. The hotel can't be responsible for theft 
when you don't take precautions to prevent it." 

The judges from next door, who had stayed in the room with Audrey were a 
little disgruntled, but since the thief hadn't really taken anything they 
decided to stay where they were for the balance of the convention, even 
though one of them kept saying they should all leave immediately. 

When she had closed the door on all her loyal supporters, Audrey went over 
to the bed and yanked the spread away so she could inspect her husband's 
limp cock. She bent down and sniffed, but had to admit she smelled no 
revealing scent of pussy. Still, those white, flaky traces on his inner 
thighs were come, or she'd never seen come in her life. And the film of 
vaseline that still remained on his balls and penis was something else 
again. "Archie," she said softly. 

"Set 'em up in the other alley," said Archie. 

Mrs. Smith-Turner's rage turned icy. She'd gotten a whiff of his mouth, 
which smelled like perfume, as well as an elusive odor she connected with 
sex, although it wasn't unpleasant. The curly dark-blonde hair that clung to 
the side of his mouth was the real sizzler, though. She held the tell-tale 
pussy hair between her index finger and thumb for a moment while she steamed 
inwardly. Before she spoke again, she put it carefully into a 
hotel-stationery envelope and wrote the date on it, sealed it and dropped it 
into her purse. Divorce was probably not in her future, but it was always 
good to be prepared. Her purse snapped together in a business-like way when 
she closed it before she went back to stand over her husband. She was not 
going to let the sleeping judge lie. A glass of ice water in his face 
aroused him sufficiently. 

"You had a woman in this room while Mildred Gibson and I went to see the 
Rockettes," said Audrey. 

"Dear heart," said the judge. "How can you make such vile accusations? I am 
a sick man." He groaned to prove it and tried to roll over in the bed, kind 
of burrow into the sodden pillow where most of the ice water fell after it 
ran off his face. 

"Don't you try weaseling out of this, Archie," said Audrey as she yanked him 
to a sitting position by the hair of his head. "And I'm not interested in 
flowery phrases, either. You had a whore in this room!" 

"But I-" 

"I saw her!" 

"Most imprudent of me." 

"Imprudent!" Audrey wasn't raising her voice. "How do you think I felt? If I 
hadn't acted quickly to save your reputation, you'd never stand a snowball's 
chance in hell of getting on the congressional ticket next year. You know 
very well that the party boss from back home is here at the convention. Oh, 
Archie, I could just cry!" 

"Party boss, shit. Last I saw of him, he had a woman and they were heading 
for his room. You don't think they were going to play a hand of cards, do 
you? He can't say a thing about me." 

"Listen, he can get out and screw around with New York whores if he wants to 
and get away with it, Archie. But you can't! Nobody gets elected to Congress 
from our state unless they have a spotless reputation! He sees to that. And 
you're a shoo-in! Oh! After all my hard work, Archie, how could you do this 
to me?" 

"Darling girl, I was in a state of inebriation and I mistakenly thought she 
was you! I was in paradise because at last you were going to let me eat your 
darling pussy." Archie's truthful statement did not impress Audrey. His 
Honor spent an uncomfortable night under the tongue, and not in the context 
that he would have preferred. 

The coffee shop on the ground floor of the hotel was doing a record-breaking 
business, considering the lateness of the hour. Waitresses were swift and 
efficient, but hard pressed to keep up with the demands of all those hungry 
judges who were stopping in for a bite to eat before they retired for the 
night, after being out on the town. Short-order cooks sweated and swore as 
they put together steak sandwiches, cheeseburgers, club sandwiches, heros, 
and countless platters of ham and eggs. 

The single men in the coffee shop outnumbered the single women five to one. 

A morose-looking judge from Iowa walked along the street with a new 
acquaintance, a fellow judge from Illinois. They'd been talking politics. 
The Illinois man was seriously trying to make his point. He was a 
conservative and he'd just found out that the Iowa magistrate was a liberal. 
"I had you figured for a man of vision and common sense," he said as they 
neared the coffee shop. "I tell you, we've got to get people back to work 
and off the welfare rolls. Look at what happened here in New York. Certainly 
management helped to bankrupt the city, but the leeches who won't work are 
far more responsible than mismanagement. We've got the same thing up in Cook 
County. I guess you know we're on shaky grounds there. And it's the same old 
thing, freeloaders. As poor as we are down in my part of the state, we have 
our share of welfare recipients, but it isn't nearly as bad as up north." 

The tall slender man from Iowa smiled. The Illinois magistrate was 
encouraged to go on with his dissertation, because it was the first time 
he'd seen Kenneth Jones smile all night long. "What the nation has to do is 
to find some way to make these lazy people get off their asses and-" 

"Judge," interrupted The Honorable Kenneth Jones from Iowa, "did you ever 
have a black woman?" 

"No, I wouldn't touch one with a ten-foot pole. As I was saying-" 

"I think that's the sweetest-looking pussy I've ever seen in my life." The 
man from Iowa watched with obvious appreciation as a lush black girl swung 
into the coffee shop. "Let's stop in for a littie something, judge. I'm 
starving." 

"She's a New York hustler," said the Illinois man. "I can tell by looking." 

"I'm still hungry." 

"So am I, but you want to stay away from these prostitutes." 

"We can still go in and get something to eat. I've never been able to drink 
much without eating afterwards. Wake up with a bad hangover." 

"I never paid for sex in my life," answered the judge from Illinois. "There 
are plenty of women out on the prowl, eager to go to bed with a presentable 
man." 

They found a seat at a table for two that was loaded down with dirty dishes. 
A busboy came and dumped them into a deep tray with a careless clatter of 
crockery and jangle of silverware. "Busy night," he said by way of apology 
when a stray cup grazed the Iowa judge's shoulder. 

A saucy little red-haired girl came to take their order. They had to shout 
above the laughter and talk in the place as well as the constant noise of 
orders being called in and served. "You judges sure do eat a lot," the 
waitress screamed into Bradford Busby's ear. "I can tell you're at the 
convention on account of your name tag. From Illinois, huh?" 

He nodded stiffly. 

"That's a long way from here. I'd like to go there some day, though, just to 
see what it's like." Her eyes lingered on his face, which was handsome as 
any motion picture star's. She smiled invitingly. "Why don't you put me in 
your pocket and take me home with you, huh?" 

Bradford Busby smiled back at her. The frost in his penetrating dark eyes 
melted visibly under the girl's obvious interest. She turned a pleasant but 
business-like smile on Judge Jones. He didn't notice because he was too busy 
looking at the delectable black girl, who had seated herself at the counter 
with a seductive display of legs. He ordered ham and eggs, because he hadn't 
wanted to take his eyes off the beautiful girl long enough to glance at the 
menu. 

Busby leaned forward. "I bet I could take that little charmer of a waitress 
to bed if I wanted to." 

Jones reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the black girl. "Why don't you?" 

"Because I'm a married man, that's why." The answer was sharp. 

"Even married men like to screw. You ever screw your wife?" 

"That's a hell of a thing to say." 

"Why?" Jones kept looking at the black girl, who was having coffee. She 
finally looked his way, and her smile was intriguing. She moved slightly on 
the stool and it was a highly sensuous movement. Jones left ,his booth and 
went over there, where he spoke softly, but directly into her ear. "Room 
437." 

"Sure, honey," answered the girl. 

He gave her his key, knowing he could get a duplicate at the desk. Back at 
the booth, he gathered his features into a melancholy expression that was 
habitual with him. To Busby, he said, "You were wrong. She's waiting for her 
husband." 

"Bullshit," answered Busby. "If she's waiting for her husband, he's probably 
a pimp. I'd hate to see you get mixed up with a New York hooker, Jones. I'm 
glad she turned you down." 

"That's the breaks," said Jones. 

"What I'm going to do is find out when that redheaded waitress gets off 
work," announced Busby. "Why don't you play up to that little blonde over 
there? The one serving the order of fried chicken to that couple. I bet 
she'd be tickled to screw a judge. And let me tell you, friend, you won't 
have to pay for it." 

Busby arranged to have a drink with the red-haired waitress when she got off 
work, which she said would be within half an hour. She agreed to come to his 
room. He winked broadly at Jones, who waited until the girl he wanted left 
the coffee shop before he ambled toward the lobby entrance and said he'd 
left his key in his room. 

She said her name was Georgia, and she was born and brought up in Manhattan. 
Jones found her more exciting than any woman he'd ever seen before. Her 
voice was vibrant, but at the same time gentle. She wore her hair in a mass 
of tiny braids that were intertwined, which showed off the beautiful shape 
of her head as well as her features to good advantage. Her cheekbones were 
high, her eyes enormous, and her mouth expressive as she composed herself 
across the room from him, obviously very much at ease. "Are you interested 
in something special, honey?" 

"Everything special," answered Jones. 

"I'm not cheap, but I'm worth the price." 

He waved a hand in the air. "I'll pay it. Whatever it is." His eyes were on 
her mellow breasts. They stuck out like grapefruit, the nipples visible 
under the fabric of her dress. "You're not wearing a brassiere." 

"Don't have to, sugar. Not yet." 

"Stand up and take your dress off. I want to see your breasts naked." 

"Sure, honey." She stood and pulled the dress over her head to reveal 
nothing but smooth brown skin underneath. Jones licked his lips before he 
moved in on her. He buried his sad face between her sumptuous breasts for a 
long moment before he left her long enough to remove his clothes. 

Judge Jones adored all women. He loved his wife of thirty years beyond 
reason, idolized his mother, and adored his two daughters. He and his wife 
had a reasonably good sex life. She was attractive and looked much closer to 
forty than her fifty-five years. When Jones was home he found it difficult 
to indulge in his passionate desire to have sex a minimum of three times 
within a twenty-four-hour period. His wife was still exciting to him, but 
she wasn't capable of accepting his passionate nature. He often thought he 
was oversexed to a great degree, which caused him considerable concern and 
contributed to his habitual expression of melancholy. His wife had never 
called him a sex maniac, but about six months after they were married she 
began to show a marked weight loss and developed dark circles under her 
eyes. Since Jones was a considerate man, he realized he was too much for 
her, and hoped to get over his driving urge to screw so often. He never did, 
though, and since he was ambitious as well as well--liked and respected in 
the community, he seldom gave in to his wild nature when at home. Instead, 
he discreetly excused himself when he was in the company of others, when the 
need to relieve himself of a load came over him. He realized his friends, 
co-workers and acquaintances probably thought he had a problem with his 
bladder. But sometimes he just had to find a bathroom and masturbate. If he 
didn't, he was afraid he might rape somebody some day-like the minister's 
wife, or his secretary, or any woman he saw on the street who struck his 
fancy-and almost all of them did. Sometimes he even found himself involved 
in an erotic fantasy in which he made love to both his college student 
daughters, something that terrified him when it happened, but came back with 
alarming frequency, mostly at unsuitable moments. Like during a particularly 
uninteresting court case, for instance. He was nearing sixty, and often 
hoped he'd get to the age where he'd simmer down a little in the sex 
department, but no sign of a drop down to normal was apparent. He felt like 
an aging Portnoy, torn between the desire to behave and feel like the figure 
of importance and respect he represented in his community, and the raging 
needs of his ready cock. 

Georgia represented a number of the things he had always wanted. As a child, 
Judge Jones grew up in the deep south, and his mother didn't consider it 
lady-like to nurse her own babies. As a result, His Honor dreamed 
nostalgically of big, generous brown breasts with hard nipples. He adored 
the sight of brown skin, delighted in the texture of it, which made him feel 
loved and secure in that love. His wife made him feel loved and secure too, 
but only when he was making love to her ... but that was the thing. The only 
time he felt happy and truly content was when he was either about to fuck, 
actually doing it, or found himself floating in that delirious state of just 
having done it. 

His fingers parted her incredibly soft cunt lips and his middle one dipped 
into the slick juices. His cock responded by growing two full inches and 
throbbing with hot anticipation. "You're as sexy as you look, Georgia," he 
murmured. 

"You turn me on, honey, and that's a fact." 

He believed her. Her eyes were big, and almost tearful with desire. He'd 
been with a lot of women who pretended a passion they didn't feel, including 
his wife sometimes, when she wanted to please him but didn't really need it 
for herself. So he knew all about the difference between the way an excited 
pussy feels and one that just wants to be left in peace. Georgia's pulsated. 
Her inner channel sucked at his finger. He grazed her clit with his thumb 
and felt it flutter. Her nipples were dark red-brown and puckered 
enchantingly all around the tips that stuck out at least half an inch. Her 
body humped and her eyes rolled. "Fuck me," she breathed into his neck. "Oh, 
fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" 

The Honorable Kenneth Jones mounted quickly. His hard cock sought out 
Georgia's pulsating little pussy, and he groaned with pleasure as he drove 
it in there all the way to his throbbing, roiling balls. When he said, "I 
love you, Georgia," he wasn't lying. At the moment, he loved her very much. 

She charged him fifty dollars, but he gave her another fifty out of 
gratitude, so she said she'd come back in the morning. But then she 
stretched out to rest a bit before she had to leave, and decided to spend 
the night. 

The red-haired waitress was named Cindy. She was twenty-one years old, an 
art major at Pratt and a full-time waitress. The following year she planned 
to go to Ireland to visit her mother's people, but she was having a hard 
time saving the necessary funds for the trip. All night long she'd watched 
the street hookers parade around and make marks. They often came into the 
coffee shop for a quick cup of coffee to make contact, too. She knew the 
regulars from those who came for the convention, and even though she'd never 
done it before, she'd made up her mind she was going to take advantage of 
the judges' convention to pick up a few dollars toward her trip. 

Cindy was just a little more determined than she was afraid, but a lot of 
things scared her. Her boy friend wouldn't like it if he found out, for one 
thing. For another, she didn't feel very capable when it came to sex. It had 
never done much of anything for her, although she didn't find it unpleasant, 
not even with her boy friend. Of course, she'd never told him she preferred 
to get herself off, because she was in love with him a little. To tell him 
the truth would hurt his feelings, and even though she'd been an easy lay 
since she was fourteen, she wasn't all that attractive to men, and she 
wanted to keep him. But the most important thing that kept her from coming 
right out and telling one of those judges that she was available for a price 
was the manager. 

He was a fat, silly-acting young man of around thirty who liked boys. Every 
day he warned all the waitresses that they'd be fired on the spot if he 
found out they dated any of the hotel guests. But when she saw him playing 
up to a wizened little old judge from some western state, Cindy decided to 
hell with the manager and his threats. She suspected that he was going to 
suck the old man's cock for him, or at least let the judge fuck him in the 
ass, so she figured she had the right to do her thing, too. Anyway, it was 
safe. She saw the manager mince toward the lobby entrance shortly after that 
dried-up looking old judge left the coffee shop. When she came on to the 
Illinois magistrate, she was still a little unsure of herself, but knew it 
was then or never. All she hoped was that she'd satisfy the stern-looking 
man, and that she wouldn't have any trouble getting the money. 

He stiffed her on the tip, which made her have a few more doubts about him, 
but before he left she agreed all over again to come to his room. He told 
her to knock three times. She hoped he'd make up for the tip when he paid 
her for screwing him. 

As soon as she was off work, Cindy ran up all seven flights of stairs, her 
heart pounding, her mouth dry. Uppermost on her mind was the fear of getting 
caught where she wasn't supposed to be. She couldn't afford to lose her job. 

As soon as she was in Busby's room, Cindy felt even more unsure about the 
whole thing. He talked to her about what was wrong with the country. "I 
don't see why everyone can't see this moral decay within the confines of our 
United States and I hope you understand-in fact, I'm sure you aren't one of 
those young people who make up the masses of the great unemployed. That's 
the trouble in a nutshell. Today's young people don't want to work for a 
living, and I'm glad to see that you're willing to support yourself by doing 
honest labor. And going to school to make something of yourself. People have 
gotten away from the churches, and when that happens the backbone of a 
nation begins to deteriorate." While he lectured, he was taking his clothes 
off, which he did as he walked briskly around the room. When he was naked, 
he said, "Well, I think we'd better get to it, don't you?" 

"But you said we'd have a drink." It struck her that he certainly was a 
strange kind of man, as well as a stingy one. The bottle was right there, 
and since he didn't know yet that he was going to pay for fucking her, she 
felt the least he ought to do was offer her the drink he'd promised. 

"Oh, yes. Excuse me." He had a shot glass that held a double, but he was 
careful to pour a single for her. Exact as any housewife measuring out the 
ingredients for a cake, he didn't let the cheap brand of bourbon get any 
higher than the single-mark on the shot glass. And he didn't have anything 
to mix with it but water, either. Again, she remembered the tip he didn't 
leave. 

"You're such a handsome man," she breathed after she downed the burning 
booze. It almost made her gag. It was true, though, that he was handsome. 
Yet there was something about his face that turned her off, and she wished 
she'd played up to the sad-looking judge who had sat with him in the booth. 
But then she remembered how the other man had been so taken with the 
beautiful black hooker, and realized she couldn't have made it with him 
anyway. Still ... she wished circumstances had been different. This very 
good-looking man with his slender body that appeared in excellent shape 
wasn't going to like it when she asked for money. She sensed that he 
expected a free ride, that he was against prostitution on the same grounds 
that he was against everything else that didn't fit in with his structured 
view of how things should be. His talk about religion and morality confused 
her. She wondered how he could accept his desire to fuck-how he equated it 
in his understanding of right or wrong. He was a married man, because he 
wore a wedding band. 

"You're a nice looking girl," he answered the compliment she'd given him. "A 
little on the thin side, but I guess waitress work is hard. Of course you're 
lucky there. Insurance companies keep telling us that we're healthier and 
live longer if we keep thin. My wife is a little on the heavy side. She's a 
self-indulgent woman." His mouth, the way he drew it downward, showed how 
much he disapproved of anybody who was self-indulgent. "But I don't believe 
in divorce. The family must remain sacred to our nation if we're to survive. 
Besides, I couldn't possible afford a divorce, because of the income bracket 
I'm in. Being married saves money, at least. She'd ask for over half of all 
I've made if we divorced. Get on the bed." 

She got on the bed and realized that fucking was just like everything else 
to Bradford Busby. A necessity and a physical release, but not something he 
particularly enjoyed. Of course he enjoyed it anyway, she suspected, but 
he'd never admit it to himself any more than he would admit that he really 
got off on a good meal. She'd watched the picky way he ate. As if he might 
be chewing up sawdust and swallowed it. But he ate every bite and licked his 
lips, too. 

He'd left his socks on. She wondered why and thought maybe it had something 
to do with his moral principals ... maybe he figured if he didn't take all 
his clothes off when he was getting ready to screw a woman who wasn't his 
wife, then. he wasn't really naked. 

He didn't kiss her, nor did he touch her breasts, hold her in his arms or do 
any of the usual things a man did when he was with a woman. "Turn over," he 
instructed. 

"Why?" 

"Because I'm going to fuck you in the ass, that's why." 

"I'm not sure I'd like that." 

"Of course you'll like it. All women secretly yearn to be ass-fucked." 

"I have never even thought about it." She was terrified at the idea. He 
wasn't very big, but still she knew it would hurt. 

"Well, I simply can't do it any other way. I'm a married man. How do you 
think my wife would feel if she ever found out that I was intimate with 
another woman in the same way I'm intimate with her? It's morally wrong. 
What you want is strictly reserved for husband and wife, girl. Anyway, I 
can't take any chances about getting you pregnant, and I'm a very potent 
man. Now turn over and get on your hands and knees. I'll show you how to do 
it so it won't hurt. All you have to do is listen to me and do what I say." 

"If it hurts, I'll scream," she warned. 

He laughed. It was a stingy kind of laugh, as if giving in to a real 
belly-buster would cost him something. I've got this good old KY jelly. Keep 
it with me whenever I take a trip and don't have my wife with me. Just stick 
your skinny little rear end up here and I'll put some of it on your ass." 

She closed her eyes and felt the coolness of the stuff against her puckered 
anus. Then he put in a finger and she winced, but it didn't really hurt. 
After a second or two the jelly didn't feel cool any more. He told her he 
was putting some on his cock, too. "That way, you'll hardly notice when it 
goes in." 

She noticed all right, but she didn't complain, because she was too busy 
following his instructions about relaxing and letting herself go. It didn't 
hurt as much as she had thought it would, though. In fact, it felt pretty 
good. About as good as fucking in the usual way, except it made her feel 
like her bowels were going to move. 

He told her to start humping, so she humped. Within a quarter of a minute 
she felt his hot juices spurt into her and his weight fell down against her 
back. It was all over, and she was glad. During the time it was going on, 
she'd wanted to reach between her legs and stick a finger in her cunt, maybe 
massage her clit, but she wasn't sure he'd want her to, and she was a little 
shy about doing things to herself in front of anyone, anyway. She hoped 
someday she could get her boy friend to do it to her that way. If he did, 
she'd ask him to massage her clit and finger-fuck her in the cunt. Maybe 
she'd even come that way, she thought, as the judge's stringy cock oozed out 
of her. 

He went into the bathroom and she heard him in there, clearing his throat 
and running water. Her asshole felt on fire now that it was over, and it 
hurt worse every time she took a step. The bottle was right there on the 
desk where he'd left it, so she tipped it up and took a healthy slug, hoping 
it would ease the pain. She felt humiliated and degraded, and the more she 
thought about the way he had treated her-not even kissing her once, not 
touching her anywhere-the madder she got. His pants were where he'd left 
them, across the back of a chair. She thought about reaching in and taking 
out his wallet; of taking everything he had. It'd serve him right. But 
before she could cover the distance between where she was and the chair with 
his pants on it, he came running in from the bathroom with water dripping 
from his cock, and grabbed his pants. He'd gone quite pale, and she realized 
he'd either picked up on what she was thinking, or just coincidentally 
remembered the vulnerability of his wallet. 

She dressed, wondering how to approach the subject of money. He said 
nothing. She sat down and asked him for another drink. Grudgingly, he gave 
it to her. She stood up after she downed it and walked over to the door, 
wondering if she could muster the courage to tell him what she wanted and 
hating herself for even thinking she might not. But her throat felt like an 
orange was lodged in it. Her voice came out in a wickening, little-girlish 
croak. "I need fifty dollars." 

"You're out of your mind," he snarled. 

"Well, twenty-five, then." 

"I thought you cared for me." He'd removed the snarl quickly and replaced it 
with a fabricated look of disappointment. "Downstairs in the coffee shop you 
acted like you liked me. Do I look like the kind of man who comes to the big 
city and looks around for a prostitute?" 

"No, you look like the coldest son of a bitch who ever walked in clothes." 
The phony expression he'd put on his face designed to make her feel sorry 
for him was what did it. She didn't have that red hair and Irish ancestry on 
her mother's side for nothing. "And you don't only look like it, you are! 
Besides that, you're a rank-assed liar and the worst kind. You lie to 
yourself. You said your wife is a very self-indulgent woman. Well, buster, 
you're the most selfish, unthoughtful bastard I ever heard of! You used me! 
I never charged anybody anything for a fuck before, and when I came up here 
I wasn't even sure I'd charge you, because I doubted if I could get up the 
courage to come right out and ask you for money." All the time she was 
talking she was heading toward the pants he clutched in his arms as if they 
were wrapped around Fort Knox. 

One of her feet came up and pushed him over backwards onto the bed. He 
flailed about and tried to kick her back, but she was a slashing, goring 
little mass of temper. She grabbed the wallet and shook the contents onto 
the bed. All he had was what appeared to be around two hundred dollars, most 
of it in twenties. She scooped it all up and ran like hell for the door, got 
out, scooted down the hall to the stairway, and pushed the door open. 

Judge Busby caught up with her at the door. He was panting, but so was she. 
She looked at him out of wild green eyes and said, "I'm keeping this. And if 
you tell, I'll swear you raped me, that you fucked me in the ass, and if I 
have to, I'll go to a doctor and make him swear you tore it. Besides that, 
I'll write to your wife and all those people back home who think you're such 
hot shit just because you're a judge." 

Very slowly, the Honorable Bradford Busby turned to go back to his room. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

The Honorable Clayton Fairfax had agreed to come to the penthouse under what 
he considered false pretenses. Once he was there, he protested in a 
high-pitched, almost falsetto voice. The girl who invited him sat 
unperturbed at his side. Now and then she'd raise her eyebrows at him and 
say, "Shh". 

"But I tell you, I don't go in for this kind of thing. I'm a married man, in 
the first place, and I'm a judge. What would people think if...." 

"I know," murmured the wholesome-looking girl who had suckered him into 
coming up to the smoker. "A judge from Nebraska. Christ. And I thought I had 
a live one. Why don't you just let yourself go, Clayton, honey? Enjoy the 
show." She took her hand off the knitting she held in her lap and grasped 
the growing bulge between his legs. "You are enjoying the show. You've got a 
king-size hard-on or I never saw a king-size hard-on." 

"Stop that!" His Honor looked around the big room. It was very dark in 
there, and the small man told himself to count his blessings. He started to 
remove the girl's hand from his cock but it felt so good-and it was pretty 
dark in the room, after all-and all the rest of the men were judges, too and 
he didn't really know any of them- 

The girl unzipped his pants and the delicious shock of her bare hand on his 
throbbing cock made short shrift of any further protests. He was guiltily 
glad that she'd put her knitting down. It was the knitting that threw him. 
Clayton Fairfax hadn't thought a girl who went around carrying a knitting 
bag, which she took out in public and actually worked at, would be a bad 
girl. But bad girl she was and he knew it, but with that hand massaging so 
sweetly up and down his cock it didn't seem so important. He hoped he 
wouldn't come in her hand. But the tableau on that makeshift stage up there 
at the end of the big room wasn't doing much to calm his passion. He 
swallowed, noticing that he was not only drooling, but his tongue was 
hanging out as he watched the two girls going at each other with such 
abandon. He knew where he was. It was a girlie show. He'd heard of such 
things, but thank God they didn't have that kind of problem back home in 
Fairhaven County. The girl bent over and touched his cock with her lips. He 
felt the wetness of her mouth, the heat of her breath, the sudden sweetness 
of her tongue as she began licking all up and down the length of it. 

"Oh, my God in heaven" he breathed in a near-whisper as he shut his eyes and 
groaned in mad ecstasy. "If Alma June knew about this she'd kill me. And 
motherdear!" The horrible idea of his mother finding out almost lost his 
erection for him. But not quite. 

That girl certainly knew how to make a man feel good, he thought as he 
humped wildly and drove his cock deeper into her hot mouth. He felt lost in 
a cesspool of wickedness and to his shame he found it wonderful. Part of his 
mind told him to yank his thumping, driving cock right out of that awful 
woman's mouth, to remove the hand from his balls where it cupped and 
squeezed so tenderly, and force her other one off his staff. It was milking 
him just as surely as he milked the cows back home, and it was a terrible, 
evil thing he was allowing to happen to him. But that mouth! That hot, 
sweet, wet, wildly working mouthl His senses sizzled and his ears rang. Now 
and then he opened his tightly shut eyes to take another look at the filthy 
practices taking place up there on stage. But mostly he felt himself torn 
between the delectable pull of that girl's charming lips on his cock and the 
fear of being found out. 

Another frightened, guilty look all around made him feel more secure. Other 
men, judges every one of them, were having the same thing done to them 
everywhere he looked. "Uhh," he breathed. "Oh, God, God, God, I can't take 
much more of that." She had both hands on his staff and every stroke she 
took downwards brought him closer to the brink of spilling into her mouth. 
Such a notion was shocking, against the moral principles he'd been brought 
up to believe and embraced for himself as he grew into manhood. 

Up on the stage the two girls were flailing about with abandon. They made 
sickeningly suggestive sounds through their noses and mouths as they tongued 
and sucked each other down there where Clayton Fairfax believed nothing but 
a man's penis should ever touch (except for soap and water)-and then only in 
a state of holy wedlock for the purpose of procreation. 

But the quick look at those writhing, undulating, erotic female bodies 
locked in forbidden sexual embrace caused his cock to leap even deeper into 
the girl's mouth. "Oh, dear," exclaimed the Honorable Clayton Fairfax. "Oh, 
mercy me!" With his two hands he tried, yes, he did, he honestly tried to 
push her head away. He could feel his sperm roiling around getting ready to 
surge forth into a tremendous orgasm, and to come into a woman's mouth 
was-well, it was just awful, that was what! He wondered if she knew what she 
was doing, if she were aware of the effect she had on him when she all but 
swallowed his penis like that, all the way to his balls! 

"Oh, God," he yelled, and gave in to the insane drive to spend. "I can't 
help it," he screamed as he shot a wad down deep into her throat. "Oh, God 
help me!" 

For what seemed an eternity afterwards, he reveled shamelessly in the 
aftershock while his hips kept humping and his body trembled mightily. In 
the distance, at the time seeming like at least a mile away, he heard a male 
voice speaking derisively. "Look at that mammy-jabbin' sumbitch, Sam! Looks 
like a dog shittin' razor blades! Ain't that some kind of action for a 
Sunday School tea-chin' judge from Nebraska? You owe me fifty bucks, judge." 

Forever afterwards, those words would come back to haunt Clayton Fairfax, 
along with the accompanying brilliance of what he recognized as a number of 
flash bulbs. He died a hundred deaths each day as he went about his civic 
duties in Nebraska. Like when the mail was delivered to home or office, when 
the telephone rang, whenever a stranger appeared in the little town where he 
meted out justice. Moments later, when the girl had efficiently wiped off 
his shriveled cock and tucked it back inside his pants, when she'd put out 
her hand and said that'd be twenty-five dollars, when he was paying her with 
the speed of lightning and looking around for an exit, he was visited with a 
premonition of the future, and those thousands of deaths he would endure. 
And he said, "You-you-you don't think anybody'll try to blackmail me later 
on, do you?" 

"Nah," she answered with a careless toss of her pretty blonde head. "No way. 
There's always a few guys in any party like this who want to take a few 
pictures. Don't worry about a thing, judge." 

"I-I-I-I'm going to have to go back to the hotel, Gloria." He stood up, made 
sure his pants were all zippered up and walked on rubbery legs, wondering if 
he ought to thank her or revile her. "It was-" his adam's apple bobbed up 
and down as he looked down on her, remembering how lady-like she'd appeared 
when he first met her. "Very nice," he said feebly. "But-" 

"But what, honey?" She looked up at him with big blue eyes. 

Nervously, he tried not to notice the blob of white sticky stuff on her 
chin, thinking it would be impolite to call attention to a drop of come 
she'd neglected to wipe off. 

"Nothing," he said with a quick gulp and a fast turn on his feet that headed 
him toward the door. 

He wanted to get back to his own hotel very quickly, where he would get down 
on his hands and knees and pray for forgiveness. Then he would put in a 
long-distance call to Alma June and tell her how much he missed her. Maybe 
he would even call motherdear. But as he walked along the dismal streets of 
New York his mind kept going back over the mind-boggling experience and he 
found himself wishing that Alma June could be-well, not like that dreadful 
young harlot, certainly!-but more affectionate. She'd never touched his 
penis, something he'd wanted very often. He didn't think it could be 
considered wicked if a couple were married. She'd never come to bed without 
a nightgown on, and during the fifteen years they'd been married he'd only 
seen her naked one time. That was when she fell getting out of the bathtub 
and broke her ankle, which wasn't the way he'd have preferred seeing her 
naked. 

Those were base desires. He knew it, but just the same, he kept thinking 
about what was going on back there in that penthouse in the other hotel, and 
a part of his mind wanted to return so much that he made the wrong turn and 
found himself right back in the doorway of it. Praying for strength, he put 
his feet on the proper path. 

Back at the penthouse, the action increased. Gloria moved in on the two men 
who had been instrumental in setting things up with her and Judge Clayton 
Fairfax. "You bastards oughta be ashamed of yourselves. That poor little guy 
was about to cry." 

The Honorable Milton Morrison from Mississippi laughed. "Did him good. A man 
shouldn't hafta go through life without knowin' how good it is to get a blow 
job, baby. That poor bastard has got the kind of wife you'd expect. I reckon 
they deserve each other. He told me, and I believe it, that him and her was 
both virgins when they got married. I said oh, shit, now, there ain't no 
virgins, especially men, and he swore he was too, that they both was. 
Started out in life to be a preacher. Went to the seminary for a year and 
came home one summer a nervous wreck. Seems some of his fellow students went 
in for masturbation and even bragged about it. Did it in groups. I reckon 
they was kind of into psychology. Hell! It never took no psychology for me 
to learn how sweet it is to whang off back when I was a kid and couldn't get 
no pussy. I started doin' it when I was about seven. I came right out and 
asked Clayton. I said, goddamit, man, you gone stand right there and tell me 
you never pulled your meat any? He kind of flushed and admitted he'd done it 
a few times, but his mother caught him and throwed such a fit he quit. Calls 
her motherdear. Looked plumb self-righteous when he told me he was proud to 
say he'd never even looked lustfully at another woman since he got married. 
I knowed all along the little fool was lyin'. Lyin' to himself, which is the 
very worst kinda liar, but hell, he cain't he'p it. I said to him, man, what 
the hell you think that pecker of your'n is for if it ain't to get 
pleasurin' out of; but he just gave me that sorrowful look of his and didn't 
answer. You know, I had a brother who went to the seminary. Turned out to be 
a right smart preacher, too. But talk about horny! I reckon a man like poor 
old Clayton-seein' young men doin' what he'd been taught all his life long 
to deny, well, no wonder he had a nervous breakdown and turned to studyin' 
law." Morrison jammed his cigar back into his mouth and looked at Gloria 
shrewdly. "He pay you all right, honey?" 

"No. And I didn't have the heart to insist. I think you men are terrible." 

"Oh, shit, now," answered Judge Milton Morrison. "Whoever heard tell of a 
whore with notions like that? Here." He gave her five dollars and turned to 
Magistrate Sam Cronkite III, his fellow conspirator in the seduction of 
Clayton Fairfax. "Give Gloria five bucks, you fool. Gloria done turned 
into-that storybook creature, a whore with a heart of gold. Couldn't bring 
herself to ask Judge Fairfax to pay her." 

Cronkite gave the girl a five-dollar bill. "It was worth it to see that 
little fella get his rocks off good and proper for once in his life. I bet 
he shot you a wad big enough to make you shoke, Gloria." 

"I usually charge twenty-five for a whole hour," she said with a sweet smile 
on her pretty face. 

"Well, you suck my cock for me the way you did for Clayton and I'll give you 
twenty-five more," said Cronkite. "That five bucks was just a gesture of my 
appreciation for what you did for your fellow man." 

Gloria hesitated. She preferred to look around in the smoke-filled room for 
another mark, and there were plenty available. Cronkite lived close by. He'd 
been her trick before and she knew it took a lot of work to get him off. But 
a bird in the hand-she compromised by telling him she'd be right back, she 
had to go to the rest room. That way, she'd have him standing by while she 
looked around for easier work. She wished Alice would bring on another act. 
It had been several minutes since the two girls slumped to the floor to rest 
a bit after their act that culminated in multiple orgasms-or what appeared 
to be multiple orgasms. 

A glance at her watch told Gloria the night was still young. Counting the 
extra ten she'd picked up from the Johns who set her up with the little guy, 
she'd already made sixty dollars, and she wasn't going to mention that ten 
to Jimmie, either, the bastard. She might not mention that first trick, come 
to think of it, because she hadn't made the first twenty-five in the 
penthouse apartment, and she was getting sick and tired of the high-handed 
way Jimmie had been treating her lately. 

As she wended her way through the crowded room, Gloria considered, possibly 
for the tenth time that day, breaking it off with Jimmie. Back in the days 
when she was on her own she hadn't made as much as she did under Jimmie's 
protection, because he had all kinds of contacts and ins with everybody that 
counted-but just the same, she still felt used. Goddammit, she thought, as 
she turned a bright smile on an old judge whose name tag said he was from 
Texas, it's my body. Why should I give Jimmie a percentage, anyway? 

The Texan had snow-white hair. Tufts of it grew out of his nose and ears. 
"Hello, honey, you look lonesome," she said. "You want a little company?" 
When they got that old they weren't much to Gloria's taste, because the 
old-man smell made her gag sometimes, but coming from Texas and all, she 
figured he'd probably be loaded. "Where you from in Texas, Mr. Waldecamp?" 

"Dallas," he answered dourly. 

"Why, you don't even have a drink. It's empty! Why don't I run over to the 
bar and get you a fresh one?" Her smile grew wider, because men from Dallas 
gave the very finest pay. He agreed that it'd be nice for her to bring him a 
fresh scotch, and her thoughts returned to Jimmie, the pimp, wondering if 
she could get by with another trick on her own. She hoped the Texan would 
spring for fifty. 

Jimmie was at the bar. He gave her a quick smile that chilled her to the 
bone because of what she'd been thinking. Working the streets in New York 
just wasn't the way it had been back home in Detroit, she thought in sorrow 
as she asked the bartender for a scotch and water. 

"That's not for you, is it?" Jimmie kept his voice low, but it penetrated 
Gloria's ears and seemed to shove a shiver into her heart. 

"No, of course not, Jimmie. It's for that old judge over there." She 
inclined her head in the direction of the old man. "Damn it all, Jimmie, you 
watch me like a hawk. Anybody'd think I was an alcoholic or something." 

"It's not that I think you're an alcoholic, Gloria, it's just that you don't 
do as well when you've got a few drinks under your belt as when you're 
sober." He smiled again. "Everything all right?" 

She nodded. "Yes, fine. One here, one before I arrived and an extra ten, as 
a kind of tip." 

He gave her a brotherly pat on the shoulder. 

As she was trying to get back to the Texas judge, Gloria's hands were 
shaking. Marline, who lived in the apartment across the hall from her, and 
also belonged to Jimmie's stable, gave her an appraising look. "You're white 
as a ghost." 

"I saw somebody who reminded me of one of those men I told you about when I 
first came to New York," she lied. "It was just a resemblance, but-you know. 
It kind of got to me." 

"You stick with Jimmie, Gloria. It don't set so hot with you to have to give 
him his take, but Jesus! Your tits are the only ones you've got." 

Sometimes Gloria could still feel the excruciating pain in her left breast 
even though the doctor who sewed it up after the carve-job said it was fine. 
Shortly after she had started working the New York turf she found out about 
territory. The wound required seventeen stitches and her nipple still didn't 
look just right, since it tended to lop sideways. The doctor had done a good 
job, but the nipple had been almost completely severed. Yes, Marlene was 
right. Jimmie wasn't so bad, when she stopped to reconsider. He never hit 
any of his girls or anything like that unless he was living with them, and 
she'd already been initiated. What bothered her was the threat that he might 
do something to her if she tried to fuck him over. 

A chill raced up and down Gloria's spine. But with her chin up and her ass 
swaying, her tits making little seductive bounces with each step, she headed 
toward the Texas judge who was eyeing her with a leer, the drink Marlene had 
left with him in his hand. 

"How much you going to charge me to take care of me, doll?" 

"I was thinking fifty," she said sweetly. 

"Just to go down on me? I heard the going price was twenty-five at this 
party." 

"But I was thinking fifty anyway. It doesn't hurt to dream a little, does 
it?" 

Sighing, she sat down beside the old judge and hoped it wouldn't take 
forever and a day. 

"You know, I'd have that big-assed nigger drawn and quartered if he came 
down to Kickingcreek County and tried that kind of a shennanigan with one of 
our gals," said Judge Waldecamp. 

"Yes, well ... it's just part of the act," said Gloria. "Marlene doesn't 
mean anythinp personal." 

The judge cleared his throat. "Looks pretty damn personal to me." He eyed 
his drink. "About as damn personal as she can get, the way she's rubbin' her 
snatch up against that big black prick. Wonder if she'd been back there in 
one of those rooms pumpin' him up before she brought me my drink? Goddam! 
Just thinkin' about it's enough to gag me." 

"No, no," said Gloria. "Nobody has to pump Billy-Boy up. He stays hard all 
the time unless he just went off." 

"How you know, gal? You ever fuck a nigger?" 

"Oh, no, sir! I wouldn't dream of such a thing." 

"Ever suck one of them big black pricks?" The judge looked angry enough to 
bite a nail in two. "Never sucked one of them lick'rish sticks, sure 
enough?" 

"No, sir. I never did and I won't ever, either." 

"Well, I sure-Lord wouldn't want to think you did, when you're gettin' ready 
to suck mine." He made another awful harrumping sound and brought a big glob 
of phlegm down into his mouth, where he wallowed it around, in his mouth 
while he talked. "You know, if I was a judge up here in New York, I'd clean 
house good and proper. We don't have any whores in my county. Don't have any 
performances like this taking place in a hotel room, either. Isn't there a 
law against people doin' these things in public here in New York City?" 

"Yes, but-people seem to like to see-" She reached for his cock. Took it out 
of his pants and looked at it without enthusiasm. It was very long, but 
stringy and flabby, no bigger around than her thumb. 

He gave her a grin and pinched her titty until it hurt. "Got me a big prick, 
all right. Bigger than that big black buck has got, once it gets good and 
hard." She looked into his eyes and saw that they were hard and glinted with 
meanness. Back underneath was something else, though. She thought it might 
be self-contempt. 

On the makeshift stage, Marlene dry-fucked against Billy-Boy's lean and 
sinewy thighs. She was of average height, but Billy-Boy was over six and a 
half feet tall. The audience made sounds of approval except for a few who 
catcalled or booed. Gloria's old man made a disgusted sound down deep in his 
throat, but his cock hardened as Marlene humped faster against Billy-Boy. 

Marlene jiggled and swayed. The tape began to play a mood piece with a lot 
of jungle drums. Billy-Boy picked her up and turned her around so her back 
faced him. Then he forced her to the floor of the stage, his eleven inches 
sticking straight out in front of him, appearing as big as a baseball bat. 
Except for an undertaker from around Kankakee, Illinois, that Gloria had met 
when she worked an Undertakers' Convention in Detroit, she'd never seen 
anyone hung like Billy-Boy. She often thought about the undertaker, who took 
out his billfold after she'd given him a blow job that almost strangled her, 
to show off his family pictures. His wife looked small and dainty, with 
light brown hair and a pale complexion. All the children had red hair like 
the undertaker, so she supposed they were his, and she'd asked him how he 
managed to have sex with his wife. He said he didn't put it all the way in. 

Billy-Boy's long, artistic hands pulled Marlene's ass-cheeks apart. He 
grinned as he appeared to admire her anus. His cock looked bigger than ever 
when he shoved it under her pussy, slid it back and forth against her slit 
while she rode back and forth on it. The glans and at least five inches 
appeared and disappeared from between the front of Marlene's legs as he slid 
it back and forth. 

"Fucking savage," muttered the Honorable Waldo Waldecamp. "He's not going to 
put that thing in her ass?" He said it because Billy-Boy had his massive 
dork in his hand and appeared to be aiming it at Marlene's rear end. 

"No, that's just part of the act," said Gloria. 

"It'd split her in two. No normal woman could accept that," said the judge. 
"She's not very big, either." Waldo was panting, and his cock was hard as a 
rock. Gloria bent down and took it in her mouth, trying not to notice the 
rancid smell that came from between the folds of his flesh. Under her 
fingers, and with the visual aid of Marlene and Billy-Boy, he'd reached full 
erection. Although his cock had appeared quite long when it was soft, it 
hadn't grown any bigger, except in circumference. Now it was as big around 
as two of Gloria's thumbs put together, maybe three inches long. She 
wondered a little at the oddities of nature and started skillfully 
manipulating his balls and cock, at the same time applying a growing 
pressure with her vacuum mouth. 

"Bet that black son of a bitch doesn't have a bit of holding power," the 
Texan said nastily as Billy-Boy drove his tool deep within the quivering 
walls of Marlene's channel. "I'm a sixty-minute man, myself." 

Gloria sighed. She hoped not. Out of the corner of her eyes she watched 
Marlene's pussy suck up every inch of Billy-Boy's outsized equipment, and 
appreciated the way the girl gave the impression that she'd just love to 
have a little more. There was something very beautiful about seeing black on 
white that way, especially with Marlene on her hands and knees. That 
happened to be Gloria's favorite position when she was fucking a man. It 
made her pussy twitch and a little juice came rushing out between her legs 
to watch it. Of course, what she really liked was to have a girl giving it 
to her that way, a girl with a dildo strapped on, but not a very big one. 
She adored feeling another woman's breasts so soft and lush against her 
back, went crazy with pleasure when a woman's hand worked over her clit, the 
other one pulling at her tits. But she could appreciate what was taking 
place up there because of the sheer animal lust and beauty. 

Just then the old judge, the "sixty-minute man" who had said Billy-Boy 
wouldn't have any holding power, went off in her mouth. 

Pleased, Gloria went about the business of appearing to swallow it right 
down with relish, but of course she never did. Instead she held it in her 
mouth until she could see a chance to spit it out in Kleenex. Usually she 
was able to get away with pretending she'd swallowed it. If there was 
anything that made her sick, it was a man's come. 

The old gentleman paid without grumbling and gave her a five-dollar tip. She 
told him how much she appreciated having met him and excused herself. Then, 
after she'd gotten rid of his load on the sly, she turned to him, kissed his 
old leathery cheek and told him she'd just loved taking care of him, that 
some day she'd like to spend some time with him just for fun. 

He flushed with pleasure while she walked slowly back toward the bedroom 
where Hobo was waiting. 

PART TWO Political Conventions 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

He spoke in a voice full of authority and wasted no time choosing his words: 
"You get a certain percentage of these Conventioneers, they wouldn't touch a 
hooker on a bet. Some bring their wives along and that kind of puts a damper 
on any fun and games a man might like to have with some strange cunt, and 
most of them wouldn't turn it down if they had a crack at it. But you know 
how some wives are. Won't let a man get a foot away from them. So you can 
more or less take it for granted that some of the men booked into a 
convention aren't going to need a hooker. 

"Then some of them bring along the girl friend: Take this bald-headed man 
from Kentucky. Every year when he comes to the Florist's Convention, he's 
got a new chick on his arm. A real old guy, you wouldn't think he could get 
it up any more to look at him but he must be some kind of a swinger because 
the girls he brings along all are stunning, and they don't step out of line, 
either. Every year, and the florists have been coming here for five years, 
he checks in with a different woman and says she's his wife. I got to 
talking to him one time and he leveled with me. Said he has a wife, all 
right, and she's a good woman, a good mother to his children, and they've 
got eighteen grandchildren and two great-grandchildren, but once a year he 
liked to indulge himself. Those were his words, too. Indulge himself. I 
don't know where he finds those beautiful women he brings here, but he 
certainly has himself a good time. 

"About a third of the Conventioneers can be depended on to want a hooker and 
they don't mind coming flat out and saying so. Those are the ones you see 
get off the plane and before they've picked up their luggage they're yelling 
and laughing and cavorting around, saying, 'bring on the girls.' Back home 
they might be respectable businessmen, but when they get away from home they 
turn into studs. Something happens to a lot of people when they get away 
from home. You take a little old housewife from Missouri. You wouldn't 
believe the things she does when she comes here to the hotel. Back in 
Missouri she's the President of the Garden Club, a church leader and sings 
in the choir-but here she really cuts loose. Drinks herself silly, screws a 
different man every night, throws money around, too. I'm just telling you 
that to prove my point. It's getting away from home that does it. So when 
you've got three thousand men coming here, you know you've got to have a 
thousand girls lined up to take care of the one-third who expect a woman 
when they attend a convention. 

"Then you have to have around five hundred for the ones who aren't decided. 
They're the ones you see hanging back. They want a pretty little thing who 
will make them feel young again and important, and give them the kind of sex 
they don't get back home. But they aren't going to come right out and say 
so. Instead, they say to one another, 'I've never paid a woman for sex in my 
life, and I don't intend to start now.' Those are the men who like to feel 
attractive enough to pick a woman up on their own. We have little side 
arrangements to keep these men from losing face. We include the price of the 
whore in the check. A whole lot of fun gets paid for under the miscellaneous 
column." 

The convention under discussion was national in scope and political. Since 
there are only two major parties in the United States it wouldn't be prudent 
to state Which one it was any more than where it was taking place. So I'll 
call it the Republicrats National Convention, and you can choose your year. 
Which brought up another point: women. 

While florists arranged centerpieces and caterers started to arrive with the 
food, the man I spoke with attended to a number of details that had to do 
with making everything ready for the kick-off banquet. Little flags marched 
up and down the long tables. The speakers and special guests had a table 
that was slightly elevated. It faced the major portion of conventioneers. It 
was decorated with bunting and each place setting had a single rose in a bud 
vase as well as a miniature flag which served as a place card. The 
centerpiece was bigger and more lavish at that table, too. 

A glance at the place cards affirmed my sudden (and shameful, from the point 
of view of a longtime believer in equal rights for all including women) 
realization that men might not be the only ones arriving who might require 
some special services. Strange, I thought as I listened to my informant get 
into a hassle with the head bartender, how early concepts continue to hang 
right in there in spite of intellectual enlightenment. All along, my concept 
of a smoke-filled room of politicians had included only men. It irritated me 
to awaken to the idea that I was still a victim of early conditioning. The 
world of my youth was male-dominated. Men were doctors, lawyers, dentists, 
truck drivers, construction workers, storeowners, executives and 
politicians. Women were wives, mothers, whores, nurses, beauticians, 
secretaries and worked for men. A woman doctor came to town when I was about 
ten and moved away before I was eleven, because nobody was willing to 
believe a woman was capable of practicing medicine. A male prototype still 
leaps to mind when I think of the traditionally male-dominated professions, 
though I keep fighting it. So I determined to ask about arrangements being 
made for the sexual pleasure of the female politicians. 

The convention manager finished the heated discussion with the head 
bartender. By then the place had taken on the aura of a true banquet 
complete with the heady fragrance of roses and carnations and the 
rush-rush-rush of waitresses and waiters attending to last minute details. 
Ice tinkled as water glasses were filled. A few early arrivals came in and 
hung back, glancing around at the banquet tables, shuffling their feet and 
looking important. They wore nametags that included their state, county and 
particular political office. A dumpy looking little woman from one of the 
eastern seaboard states clumped around in a pair of wedgies that squeaked 
every time she took a step. She wore a mink stole, a stiff, 
fresh-from-the-beauty-salon hairdo and a determined look. Her name tag said 
she was the County Chairperson from a town I'll call Zilch, in Whopping 
County, Maine. Her voice was rather shrill as she spoke to her companion, a 
greying blonde from Montana. "I hope the food doesn't give me indigestion. 
As much as it costs, it certainly does look like they could see to it that 
it tastes good." Her eyes, however, were not on the tables. Instead, they 
were locked hotly on a young, creamy-skinned busboy who looked as if he 
belonged on a motion picture set. As she spoke she made a vague gesture 
toward her groin, probably unconsciously. 

The Montana woman was a delegate. I couldn't hear what she said, but her 
attitude was not like her companion's. She looked all around as she spoke, 
apparently more interested in the political aspects of the convention than 
anything else. The two women parted company when they found that the seating 
arrangements didn't place them together. A rather vague expression of relief 
was in the Montana woman's eyes as she headed toward her own group. 

A number of other people began to fill the convention hall. There was a lot 
of laughter and talking. While the handsome young busboy made the rounds of 
the tables with coffee, the dumpy looking little woman from Maine continued 
to cast meaningful glances in his direction. Before long she managed to get 
herself situated in between a couple of tables where the young boy was 
forced either to look directly at her or turn and walk down the aisle with 
his back to her. He chose the latter, and his face reflected confusion. She 
put a commanding hand on his shoulder and her voice was full of authority 
when she said, "Just a second, please." 

Turning, the boy looked down at her with an uncertain but polite smile. 
"Yes, ma'am?" 

She turned coy as she moved in on him, her breasts appearing to jiggle, the 
upper portion of her body making amorous movements as she almost, but not 
quite, made body contact. The words she spoke were lost in the general 
hubbub, but it was apparent that she'd said something that took the boy by 
surprise. His cheeks turned red and his head snapped back. Her face took on 
a cunning, persuasive look and her hands patted the purse she carried. The 
boy continued to look taken aback for a second or two, then his big brown 
expressive eyes widened as he nodded. From across the room I could see what 
she wrote on the piece of paper she took out of her purse. It was her room 
number. 

Carlos: "When I got this job as busboy I considered myself very lucky, 
because this hotel is one of the finest on the strip, and I had heard that 
there is a chance for advancement. You see, I go to the University and if I 
did not find employment I would have been forced to go back to Mexico for 
the summer. The first two years I lived here in the United States I worked 
in a hospital, but as time goes on I require more money to get by. 

"I consider myself lucky to have this position, but, you see, I come from a 
very religious family and in the beginning I was not able to understand 
exactly what was expected of me regarding women, and when I did understand, 
I didn't really believe it. 

"Please do not misunderstand. I knew of sex, for I am a normal man, and all 
normal men have these drives. Also, I learned to speak English when I was a 
very young child, perhaps the year before I went to school. Nevertheless, I 
was not in complete understanding about the women customers, because even 
though I speak English fluently, I am not aware of all the slang words or 
expressions. It was my impression that I was to service these women only in 
the area of taking care of their coffee or tea, making sure there were 
plenty of hot rolls and butter on the table, that kind of thing. A regular 
busboy's job, you understand. It did seem to me that the amount of money I 
would be paid by each individual I serviced was a lot for such menial tasks. 
At the same time, in my country we are brought up to believe that most North 
American women are exceedingly rich and throw their money around carelessly. 
I also grew up believing that American women are without morals, at least 
for the most part. But after I came to this country I learned that much of 
what I believed about North American women was a myth. Girls here are very 
much like girls in Mexico. Some of them allow sexual privileges, others do 
not. 

"Now we come to this woman, this Anna. I saw her looking at me from across 
the room that day of the Republicrat Convention, which was my very dirst day 
on the job. More than once our glances met, but as far as I knew it was 
merely coincidence. Then, there between the tables, I could see that I would 
have to walk around her if I were to continue going in the direction in 
which I started. And so it was that I turned around, for I did not wish to 
inconvenience a customer of the hotel. It surprised me very much when she 
put her hand on my shoulder, but when she spoke I did not know how to 
answer. She said, 'Are you available, honey?' 

"'Yes. Of course,' I said, still thinking she meant available for some kind 
of service I was not as yet familiar with. 

"Then she said back to me, 'If you are half as good as you look, you'll be 
worth every dollar. Do you like to eat cunt?' 

"I wanted to run away from her, for even though I did not understand what 
Mr. Johnny said to me in the full context, I certainly did know what the 
word 'cunt' meant. 

"To be quite honest, I had never been terribly interested in going down on a 
girl. Once I tried it with a very fast and loose girl at home, but the smell 
made me turn my head away, and even though she kept insisting that I do it, 
I could not bring myself to. You must remember that I went to church every 
Sunday with my parents and younger brothers and sisters, and confession is 
part of my religious belief. To put one's tongue on the parts of a woman 
that are covered and secret is a sin, for it is an unnatural act. I do not 
know how I answered Anna, but whatever I said must have led her to believe 
that I-indulge in relations with my own sex. She laughed and said she would 
soon get me over that kind of thing, or something of that nature. And then 
she said she would give me one hundred dollars if I spent the night with 
her. For that kind of money I would have spent the night with the devil." 

* * * 

Anna: "Rufus, that's my husband, was spoiled rotten by his mother. She 
taught him he was better than anybody else and deserved everything he 
wanted. Then he was blessed with a handsome face and a talent on the 
football field, as well as good grades, so he was the darling of Marling 
High School when I met him. And I mean darling, too. Everyone adored him, 
students and teachers alike. 

"When we moved to Marling I was a sophomore and Rufus was a senior. I was 
about the cutest little thing you ever saw back in 1940, and it didn't take 
Rufus very long to see that. He was irresistible, and besides that, I knew 
all the other girls in school were wild about him, so it'd be a feather in 
my cap if I started going with him. We made out in the back seat on our very 
first date. I was a virgin, but I was pretty disappointed. He went off like 
a jackrabbit. It didn't hurt much, but it didn't feel very good, either. I 
remember wondering what the hell made sex so great if that was all there was 
to it. But I always read a lot, and back in those days women had to toady to 
men. It was the way things were. So I pretended I went off, too. You know, 
did a lot of moaning and groaning because I knew it was expected of me. 
Maybe I was being careful about Rufus' ego in, a way-but mostly I think I 
was making sure I did my best to keep him. You know, make him think he was 
Mr. Super-Stud himself. 

"That sort of set the pattern for our future. Rufus considered me an easy 
lay, but he considered all the girls he ever went with easy lays, because 
they were. Maybe I was the best actress, hell, I don't know why he kept 
hanging around and taking me out. We didn't really go much of anyplace 
because he didn't have a lot of money to throw around on dates, but it was 
worth the price I had to pay to keep him. I mean, it wasn't any big thing 
for me to screw him and pretend I adored it. That is, it didn't hurt me any 
until I got pregnant. Then I was scared to death. 

"By then I was a junior and Rufus was in college. He lived at home, though. 
If I had it to do all over again, I'd never marry him, but in 1941 girls who 
got in trouble got married. My son was four years old and my daughter two 
before I ever got any good out of sex, and then it wasn't with Rufus. He 
just never was any good in the sack, and that's all there is to it, but we 
stayed together and raised our family, and he did well in his business. 
Looking back, it was as much my fault as Rufus' that he didn't make me come. 
I started out. wrong with him in the first place by pretending it was so 
great when it was never anything but a chore. After you've been pretending 
for such a long time, it's not easy to come out and tell your husband you've 
been lying all those years-just putting on a show. So I kept seeing the man 
down the street on the sly. His wife was frigid. At least that was what he 
said. I bet Rufus told his girl friends his wife was frigid, too, because I 
used every excuse I could think of not to screw him. Of course, I didn't 
know my husband had girl friends for a long time. Didn't suspect a thing 
until he brought me home a dose of clap after he'd been to a convention in 
New York City. But I didn't throw a fit or anything because, after all, I 
hadn't exactly been true myself. But I did know George didn't have the clap, 
so I knew who gave it to me. 

"After that, Rufus couldn't get it up any more. We stayed together, and 
we're good friends. I wouldn't get a divorce if you paid me to. Maybe I love 
my husband, in a way. I know I would be heartbroken if he died. George died 
a few years ago and that nearly killed me. We'd been carrying on in secret 
and getting away with it for years, and I loved him, too. I'm a very loving 
woman. 

"Getting used to not having any sex was one thing I couldn't do. With George 
it was wonderful. Just think, I'd never had anyone but those two men. One 
was no good and the other great. Well, after George died, I took a good look 
at myself and realized I couldn't attract men the way I did when I was young 
and small and cute. My middle had thickened and my face was sagging, and 
well ... I just didn't have what it took any more. I even tried to help 
Rufus get over his impotence again. Not that I didn't try very hard when it 
first came on him, but nothing helped. Rufus was about as inhibited as a man 
can get. George was a real lover. He had a lot of Latin in him, and making 
love came pretty much second nature to him, I guess. At least that was the 
way we got started, and I just adored it. But when I tried to suck Rufus' 
cock for him he had a terrible fit, and his opinion of men who go down on 
women is pretty bad. So I didn't try that again after George died, but I 
tried everything else. 

"Well, anyway, I just couldn't get along without sex. Tried doing it for 
myself, but after almost thirty years of the very best sex with a man, 
masturbation was a poor substitute. I even went out and bought some dildos, 
and if you can believe it, I tried it with another woman. Everyone in town 
knew Frankie-(her real name is Frances, but she likes Frankie best because 
it sounds more masculine). We all knew she was a dyke and it wasn't any 
problem for me to get next to her. I just couldn't hack it. 

"Don't get the idea that I'm a prude. I don't have a thing against 
homosexuality. Oh, when I was young, I thought men who did it with other men 
and women who did it with other women were terrible, but we all thought so. 
Now I can see it. It's a personal preference, and that's all there is to it. 
I like a man's arms around me. I like the so-lidness of a man. Oh, well, 
that's getting off the subject. 

"A friend of mine got me interested in politics. She's always been very big 
in the party, and with the children married and gone I decided to get 
involved, mainly because maybe if I took up an active interest in something, 
I might forget about that continual ache and emptiness in my body. 

"Back home I would never get away with paying a man to take care of me, but 
once I learned how men politicians take on hookers, I decided I was just as 
good as any man, and I truly believe I have every right a man has. 

"Carlos isn't the first boy I've purchased for the night and he won't be the 
last. But once I got him over his inhibitions, I'll tell you this much: He's 
about the best." 

* * * 

Later, I put their interesting incident together from what they told me. 

When he went to her room after the speeches were all over and the big 
banquet room was no longer in the need of the services of a busboy, he was 
having doubts. His mind was ready to accept the hundred dollars but his 
instincts were repelled at the idea of making love to a woman as old as Anna 
appeared. The room was 1131. He walked past it three times before he could 
make himself knock. 

"She opened the door right away, and she was naked. I was shocked. There 
wasn't going to be any playing around with this woman. By her attitude, I 
felt she didn't even care if she got a kiss. 

"Actually she looked better without any clothes on than when she was 
dressed. Her body was not as heavy as I had thought. She was built solidly 
and for some reason or other her waistline appeared more-how do you say 
it-supple. And her legs looked much longer. They were rather delicate 
looking, those legs, and perfectly shaped. And she had washed the makeup off 
her face, which made her look softer and younger. Strange. I would think an 
older woman would look better with the face inade up, but in her case, it 
seemed to accentuate the lines and wrinkles when it was on. And she smelled 
lovely, something like jasmine, but not as strong. 

"She was trembling and I could see right away that she needed me. Right 
away, her hand went to my cock and, although I wasn't sure she would be able 
to make it hard, I had no trouble. Somehow, the young girls I wanted faded 
away from my mind when I was with this healthy, frank, very aroused woman. 
She tore away my clothes as she led me to the bed and she was panting ever 
so slightly. I don't mean that she ripped them, but it gave me the 
impression that she would, almost any minute. Her hand began to milk up and 
down on my cock and my senses grew steamy hot. Her breasts were nice. They 
sagged somewhat, but they didn't hang down as I had expected them to, 
considering her age. There was no mark on her skin to show that she had worn 
a bra when dressed, and those breasts were very sensitive to my touch. The 
nipples hardened immediately, and they grew even harder when my thumb and 
finger began to rotate them. She moaned with pleasure and trembled harder. 
'Oh, fuck me hard. I can't stand to wait any longer!' 

"Her eyes were all rolled up in the back of her head and the breath was 
coming fast and hot from her mouth. I asked her if she wanted me to mount 
her on top and she screamed that she did, to hurry. At that time, she was on 
her back, crosswise on the bed. I remember wanting to get her head on the 
pillow but she was in such a state of urgency that I...." 

Anna: "I was going out of my mind. All during the banquet and those 
ridiculous after-dinner speeches I kept looking at him and the crotch of my 
panties was as wet as water. I kept dripping and the longer I waited the 
hotter I got. I thought I'd die with need. 

"It's doubtful if I heard any of the speeches. Through my mind rushed this 
delectable scene of the way it would be between this handsome young man, and 
me. Other pictures flowed through my brain, too, that made me, even wilder 
with desire. I'd think about George and the way he used to suck on my clit. 
He had a way of running his tongue round and round on it that sent me right 
into multiple orgasms. Once I came sixteen times while George was eating me 
out, then I fainted and scared poor George half out of his mind. 

There's no explaining the passion I had for this boy whose name I didn't 
even know-not until afterwards. In a way, I think he reminded me of George 
with all that dark hair and his fantastic skin. The way he walked, too. 

"As cocks go, Carlos didn't have a big one. Maybe it was a six-incher. But 
he was kind and interested, and I'm no fool, you know. I could see in his 
eyes that he was repelled at the idea of screwing me when I first talked to 
him. He's too young to be a good pretender, and I think I probably shocked 
him, too. The thing is, I was pretty sure there were men around for the 
purpose of screwing the women at the convention. There always are. And when 
I saw him, I guess I just took it for granted that he was one of them. It 
wasn't until he came into the room that I realized I had a novice. But 
getting back to it, to the way he behaved, I mean, I could tell that when he 
saw me in the nude he liked what he saw. 

"Oh, that delicious, delightful, darling prick of his! I was so slick and so 
hot. It slid right in, but it felt big and full of life. I went utterly 
wild, but he stayed right in there and I went off within a couple of 
minutes." 

Carlos: "It was so different with her. Refreshing. The young women don't 
respond that way. If they do feel anything, I think they might be too 
reserved to admit it. The way Anna was with me made me sure of myself. She 
wrapped her legs around my back and locked her feet together at the ankles. 
I looked in the mirror once to see how she managed that. There was a mirror 
above the dresser and it was tilted at an angle to show almost the entire 
bed with us on it. I couldn't help going into her hard and fast because she 
set the pace and it was clear to me that she wanted to be fucked as 
violently as I could fuck her. When she came her pussy sucked and gobbled on 
my cock. It was like nothing I've ever experienced before, but then of 
course, I hadn't been with a lot of women at that time. Still, I've never 
felt another woman contract on me the way Anna did. And I could feel her 
come, too. Suddenly it rolled all around the head of my pulsating cock and I 
felt drenched in it. 

"After that, she calmed down and took time out to kiss and caress. It was a 
beautiful experience, something I shall never forget. And I will always be 
grateful for it." 

They bathed together. The hotel was equipped with sumptuous bathrooms and 
the tub was a square one. They worked up a lot of lather and sudsed one 
another all over their bodies, but before they were finished rinsing, Anna 
had Carlos' cock in her mouth. 

"Young men are far superior to older ones," she said in fond and slightly 
wistful memory. "Such smooth, taut skin. Such stamina. Do you know, Carlos 
was ready to fuck again within fifteen minutes!" 

She said they fucked missionary-position the next time around. Then they 
slept for a while. "But half an hour later, Carlos' cock was hard again. 
He'd remained where he was, on top of me, and with his cock still in. What a 
heavenly thing it was to wake up with his magnificent cock inside me, 
lurching and growing bigger. We went on and on and on, all night long, and I 
think we tried it every way we'd ever heard of or read about, every position 
we could think of." 

I asked her how she felt about giving money to a man. She smiled. "At first 
... I mean, the very first time I handed money to a man I felt depressed. 
We're brought up to believe women are giving in to a man, you know. At least 
my generation felt that way. It's as if we're doing the man a favor and he 
owes us. Women, I mean. I think most people still feel that way down deep in 
their guts, because it's been customary for the woman to be passive for so 
long. Women have to wait for a man to ask them for a date. At least they did 
in my day. I think young people with their more open attitude toward sex 
have a better understanding of themselves; but even in the younger 
generation you'll find a lot of girls still playing that waiting game. They 
hang on to their virginity because they're taught they must. Nobody comes 
right out and tells a young girl to keep her cherry because it's the most 
marketable asset she has, but the idea is still part of our culture. A man 
offers to marry a woman and take care of her in exchange for steady sex, and 
some men still expect to get a virgin. A lot of women are taught right from 
the cradle that if they get out and screw around, they're going to be 
ruined. Well, I felt that way myself. You know, after Rufus and I screwed 
that first time, I was spoiled merchandise. I remember my mother telling me 
nobody wants to buy a cake from the bakery that has a slice taken out of it 
already. She used that gem in one of her little talks with me when I was 
very young. 

"That long, long affair I had with George was probably the best thing that 
ever happened to me. He was very important to me, and he didn't feel that I 
was somebody else's property. What I'm trying to say is that he gave me a 
sense of worth when he gave me his love. Probably, if it hadn't been for 
George, I would never have been able to go out and shop around for a man in 
these later years. 

"But to answer your question-I did find it very hard to pay a man the first 
time I did it. Of course by the time I met Carlos I was accustomed to it. It 
dawned on me one day that I'd been mouthing all those things about equality 
of the sexes, but I didn't really believe them because of my background. At 
about the same time, I admitted to myself that I would probably feel less 
awkward if the situation were reversed ... that is, if I were in the 
position of accepting money in exchange for sex. Somehow, that angered me, 
so after a while I changed my whole concept of the way things are between 
men and women. I just took a good look at myself in the mirror and I said, 
'Anna, damn it to hell, you have just as much right to sex as a man, so just 
stop feeling that way.' After a while I was able to peel off a bunch of 
bills to pay for sex with as much unconcern as I did when I paid for, say, a 
pair of shoes. 

Carlos: "Anna will always remain one of my fondest memories. She was a 
loving woman with great warmth, and she taught me so many things about sex 
that I hadn't even dreamed of. But when I marry and have children, I 
sincerely hope that my daughters will remain virtuous until they marry. And 
I believe I will be very upset if I become wed to a woman and find out later 
that she's been with another man." 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Juliette works alone. 

She's a stunning brunette with a flawless ivory complexion, expressive hazel 
eyes, a soft, vulnerable-looking mouth, and a perfect size seven figure. 
From a good family in the state of Washington, Juliette left home when she 
was fifteen and went to San Francisco, where she became involved in the drug 
culture. She lived in the Haight-Ashbury district when it was still a 
reasonably safe place to live, before the underworld moved in and took over. 
At eighteen, Juliette had slept with three or four hundred different men and 
women, she says, and sex was no longer even vaguely interesting to her. She 
met an older man, a construction worker, who asked her to get married. She 
said she didn't have anything else to do at the time and she kind of liked 
the guy. 

"He was sweet, but awfully square, and little by little he found out that I 
wasn't what he considered wife material. You know the bit-he wanted me to 
settle down and have two or three children, take care of a house, join 
social organizations. Well, I didn't want to live out my life in misery the 
way my mother did. My folks weren't happy, they just stayed together because 
of their religion and because they felt responsible for me and my brother. 
They finally got a legal separation, but of course they blamed it on me, 
because I dropped out of high school and disappeared. My brother did all the 
things they wanted him to. He was four years older than me. He went into the 
service even though he really wanted to stay out of it. We were pretty 
close, you know. But my parents kept ding-donging at him about what people 
would think and my dad was really uptight. Gung-ho for America, right or 
wrong, that sort of thing. My brother let himself get drafted and he was 
killed in Viet Nam. To this day, even though my folks don't even speak to 
each other any more, they both feel proud of my brother and insist that he 
did the right thing by going to Nam and getting killed. Well-they aren't 
proud of me, but I don't feel guilty about any of the things I've done." 

When Juliette and her construction worker husband divorced, she left La 
Jolla, where they lived together in a neat little bungalow, took the money 
he gave her for the divorce, and went to Reno. 

"I got a job as a cocktail waitress but lost it after the manager found out 
I wasn't twenty-one. At the time, I didn't know how to go about getting fake 
I.D.'s. But in the three days I worked as a cocktail waitress I made enough 
contacts to live well, which is the way I like it. A girl has to be very 
careful in Reno, though. At the time I was there, hooking was a dangerous 
occupation. The fuzz, you know. Still, I was able to make enough to pay my 
way to Vegas. Perry told me there's a lot more money floating around there 
for a girl like me." 

Perry acted as Juliette's procurer during her Reno days. He was a small-time 
hanger-on around the vice industry. "Actually," said Juliette, "Perry was 
more hot air than anything else. He said he had all those contacts, but I 
think most of his contacts were wishful thinking." 

At this writing, Perry is back in the Nevada State Prison, his third trip 
there since the late 1960's. "But Perry did steer me in the right direction, 
I mean to Las Vegas. I decided to go it alone after he was picked up in 
Washoe County, mostly because I can't see paying a pimp to make contacts for 
me. It's a lot safer to work with somebody, but I play it pretty cool. I 
have a regular nine-to-five job in an office and never bring a trick to my 
apartment. Lately, I've been working nothing but conventions and I command a 
high price." 

Before Juliette's reputation became good enough to let her wait for the 
telephone to ring, she went about the business of meeting her clients in a 
difficult as well as dangerous way. At this writing she never works the 
streets, never takes a chance on getting arrested for soliciting. "Because 
I've never been in jail and I don't intend to do anything to get me there. 
But I took all kinds of chances in the beginning, chances that make me 
shudder when I think about them now." 

For the past few years, Juliette has lived what she considers the good life. 
She awakened one night out of a drug-induced stupor and decided to get off 
drugs. "People will tell you it's impossible to break the habit without 
professional help, and I'm sure some people can't go it on their own. But I 
did, and I'm sure I'm not the only person who ever did it the hard way. I 
took a good look at myself that night and realized I'd be dead within ten 
years if I didn't do something quickly." 

It took her four weeks. "It was hell," she said with conviction. "Plain old 
unmitigated hell." 

She said she depended on word-of-mouth advertising as well as repeat 
business in her avocation. Shortly after she arrived in Las Vegas she took a 
business course so she could support herself in case hooking didn't work 
out. For the past six or eight months, Juliette has been branching out, and 
she's seriously considering giving up her office job. With a vivid smile, 
she explained, "I've worked myself into a position where I'm not able to 
handle all the men who call me. So I've contacted two other girls to fill in 
for me. They're gorgeous girls, and intelligent too. Quality, if you know 
what I mean." She laughed. "I never thought I'd be a madam, but in a way I 
guess you could say I am one now. But so far, I've never taken a percentage 
from the girls who fill in for me. I know I probably should, but I just 
haven't wanted to." 

Juliette is an avid reader of the two Las Vegas newspapers. She knows when 
and where a convention is going to be held. "This is really the town for a 
girl who specializes in conventions, because there are always several. Some 
of them I wouldn't touch on a bet. I command top money for my services, and 
a lot of the men who come to conventions expect to get a high quality girl 
for as little as twenty-five dollars." 

Her favorite conventions are political ones. The ones she likes least of all 
are the American Legion and morticians. "Because the men who belong to the 
American Legion are chintzy, and say things that rub me the wrong way. For 
instance, most of them would like to see the country get involved in another 
war, and they're hard-nosed about people I like and respect. I mean, men who 
were conscientious objectors during the Viet Nam thing and had the courage 
of their convictions either to go to jail or leave the country to keep out 
of that sad and unnecessary war. Legionnaires insist that the C.O.'s were 
all cowards, which I know isn't true. Naturally, there were some men who 
didn't go to Viet Nam because they were afraid. Historically, there always 
have been. But I feel that the honest conscientious objectors were far more 
courageous than those who went because they felt they had to. A lot of my 
friends objected to the war in Viet Nam, and didn't go. Believe me, it takes 
a lot more guts to stand up for what you believe in and go through all the 
miseries of it, than simply to follow along like sheep. So I no longer have 
anything to do with the American Legion men. 

"Morticians are all right. It's a personal thing with me that causes me to 
steer clear of their conventions. I just can't get it on with a man who 
makes his living taking care of dead people. I'm sure it's my own little 
hangup, though, and I know very well somebody has to take care of the dead. 
It's just that I get to thinking about-well, the things they do like 
applying cosmetics, patching up missing places in faces and that sort of 
thing-and sometimes I could swear I smell embalming fluid, even though I 
know that's impossible. After all, they don't practice their trade when they 
come here to a convention. I think it's just that, well, I like to give a 
man what he needs. Call it my own special brand of integrity if you like. 
But I can't come on to a man with the kind of warmth he expects when my mind 
is all cluttered up with unsavory thoughts about how he makes his living." 

Now twenty-seven, Juliette is able to look back on the past with a smile. 
"The chances I took! And some of the things I was forced to do! Now it seems 
funny, but back then I was running scared most of the time, and I was lucky 
to come through it unscathed. Or at least without any more problems than I 
did encounter." 

She was afraid to hang around the hotels and look available. "That's because 
prostitution was illegal in Clark County. Still is. I didn't want to get 
picked up for soliciting, so I developed what I thought was a unique way of 
making marks. Later I found out my method is as old as hooking itself. Women 
did it back before there were automobiles. 

"Thing is, there's always a transportation problem around convention 
centers. In Vegas, there are plenty of taxis, but it is a busy, bustling 
city and has been ever since before I was here. Taxi drivers go where the 
most action is, and the men who come for conventions would rather spend 
their money on girls or at the casinos than on taxi fare, so a lot of them 
are pretty chintzy when it comes to tipping a cab driver. So the men come 
pouring out of the convention centers in a hurry to get someplace and can't 
find a cab. They wait and wait. So I waited, too, pretended to be waiting 
for a cab, and pretty soon a man would notice me. We struck up a 
conversation, something easy for a woman to do when there's a crowd of men, 
all of them horny and expecting something to happen just because they're 
away from home. 

"I never came right out and offered my services. If a prospective client 
didn't come on to me, that is, if he didn't ask me to go somewhere and have 
a drink, or go to dinner with him or something like that, I just moved away 
and talked to someone else. Usually, though, the first dude I talked to 
would show some interest in going somewhere and doing something. 

"Even then, I still didn't mention anything about money, because it wasn't 
possible to look at a man and tell whether he was a plainclothesman working 
for the vice squad, or a genuine conventioneer looking for a whore. Oh, I 
know a lot of girls will tell you they can smell a cop a mile away. Maybe 
some of them can, but I wasn't blessed with that kind of second sight. No, I 
would always wait until afterwards. Until that moment of truth, I kept 
perfectly quiet about payment. It was taking a chance, and sometimes I 
didn't get my fee, but I usually did. One man told me he'd been cleaned out 
at the tables. Well, we'd had an expensive dinner with champagne, and I saw 
the size of the tip he left for the waiter, which was a big one. I didn't 
believe him, but back in those days I was too scared to insist. Now I don't 
have to insist, because no man calls me who isn't willing to pay what I 
expect for my services." 

On two different occasions, Juliette was slapped around. "It happened the 
same way with both those men. I allowed myself to be picked up at the taxi 
stand, and from there we went to a place on the strip where we had a 
delicious meal and took in a show. Then we went to the hotel where the mark 
was staying. After we balled-and I never short-change a client-I mentioned 
my fee. They both reacted in the same way, said they'd thought I just wanted 
a good time. I said I did want a good time, but that included being paid for 
my services. Of course, I didn't say the exact same thing to both these 
tricks, and they didn't say exactly the same thing to me, but they were both 
very angry when they found out they'd taken a prostitute to dinner. One 
slapped me the other one knocked me down. For six weeks after I got knocked 
down I had a big nasty lump on my jaw, but I took what I felt I had coming 
from that one. The one who slapped me didn't have any money. Not cash. He 
used traveler's checks, and I couldn't make him give me any of those. But 
I've always felt very good about the way I handled myself with the man who 
knocked me down. 

"My whole face hurt so much that tears came to my eyes. At first I thought 
maybe my jawbone was broken, but I just picked myself up off the floor and 
walked calmly over to where the bastard had left his billfold on the 
dressing table. I extracted two fifty-dollar bills, grabbed my clothes and 
got out of there. He was still naked too, and I guess he didn't have the 
guts to come after me. I honestly think he was under the impression that I 
would leave quietly after he hit me, but he had another thought coming." 

Juliette laughed. "I'll never forget the startled look on the faces of the 
women who were in the hall when I came bolting out of the hotel room without 
a stitch of clothes on. There weren't any men in the hall, just women. I 
think they were attending some convention of their own. They all opened 
their mouths and pointed to me, and some of them screamed. You'd have 
thought they were looking at a naked man instead of a naked woman. I thought 
it was funny then, and I still do." 

During the years, Juliette has developed a specialty and she commands double 
her usual fee of a hundred dollars for what she refers to as "special 
services." 

"I learned about it by accident. Something happened to me somewhere along 
the line that caused me to lose interest in sex. I don't mean I wasn't 
interested in using my body for the purpose of making money, but even though 
I make each man feel he's very capable and a wonderful lay who makes me 
excited, I never come at all except when I get myself off. I've been to 
psychiatrists and psychologists, because nobody wants to believe they're not 
normal. But you know, I've come to the conclusion that those mind doctors 
know a lot less than they pretend to, and most of them are just shooting in 
the dark. They said I was narcissistic. At first that upset me terribly, but 
after a while I decided maybe being in love with myself is normal for me. 

"But you asked about my specialty. Two years ago one of my regulars came to 
town, and called to set up an appointment at his hotel. He's an especially 
nice person. Married, of course, like most of my clients are. I met him 
originally at a florists' convention, and he's been coming back at least 
once a year since that first time. We always get together. Well, anyway, he 
said he had a meeting and might be late, so could he send over a key to his 
room. I said fine, and pretty soon the key was delivered by a cab driver. 

"Well, I arrived at his hotel room, and I don't know, once in a while 
something comes over me and I can't rest until I've made myself come. When I 
want sex I have to have it, and don't tell me I should have waited until my 
trick came, because I've found through experience that I'm not nearly as 
pleasing to my customers when I'm hot. They don't satisfy me, and I reach a 
point when I have to have release from some of the tension that builds up in 
me, so I take matters into my own hands, so to speak. 

"His name is Don, and as I said before, he's a very nice man. A year or more 
ago he developed a sexual problem of his own. I suggested, when he told me 
about it, that he visit one of the sex clinics because there he was, a man 
who just simply adored sex, and he couldn't get a hard-on. That's a very sad 
thing to happen to a man at any stage of his life, but at forty it's 
terribly depressing. Even though he didn't get the normal satisfaction out 
of being with me, he still wanted me, which I took as a compliment. Later he 
came back and said he'd spent a good deal of time and a lot of money at a 
sex clinic, but he still had his problem. Still, he loved to caress me and 
kiss me and hold me in his arms, and he's always been a man who loves to eat 
pussy, so I could see why he still wanted to spend some time with me. 

"All right, there I was, needing to get myself off in the worst possible 
way. I thought there was plenty of time in which to do it because Don had 
said he'd be late. So I took my time about it. I stripped down and walked 
around in the hotel room. Nothing turns me on more than to be all alone and 
utterly naked. All I have to do is walk around in the buff, and I get all 
excited. So I did that, then I went into the bathroom and took a long, 
luxurious bath. Then I stepped out of the tub and toweled myself off, all 
the time admiring myself in the full-length mirrors in the bathroom, which 
makes me even hotter. 

"After that, I walked into the room and sat down in a chair, where I could 
see myself in the mirror above the dresser. As you can see, my breasts are 
huge, and I adore lifting them to my mouth and sucking them. Oh, those 
psychiatrists really had a field day when I told them I liked to do that, 
but I honestly feel I'm a well-balanced woman. 

"So I was sitting there in the chair with one hand holding a breast up to my 
mouth, sucking away, the other one working around my clit, when Don walked 
in. I'll confess that I felt a little self-conscious at first, because I was 
wide open with my legs apart, knees draped over the arms of the chair. But I 
was damned if I was going to stop at the time, because I was almost to 
orgasm and felt too good to quit then. So I smiled at Don around the nipple 
of my left breast and kept right on massaging my clit and sucking my tit. 
One finger was inside my cunt and my thumb was whipping away at my clit. The 
whole scene was like something out of a magazine. 

"Wonder of wonders! Don took one look at me in all my naked, heated, 
sucking, finger-fucking glory and got an instant erection, his first in over 
two years. He just stood there in front of me with his pants down around his 
ankles and his prick sticking straight out there while I fingered myself 
frantically and kept right on sucking. I was pleased as punch. Needless to 
say, so was Don. 

"Well, after that, we balled. Right there in the chair. He just lifted me up 
and set me down on that mammoth cock of his and I sank down on it and he 
kept his erection all the way to orgasm. 

"At first we thought maybe what had happened was just a sometime thing. You 
know, something that happens once in a while, or once, period. But no matter 
what I did to him, sucking, licking, I stroked his balls and worked over his 
cock, nothing! But the very second he saw me sucking my own tit and playing 
with myself, he got as hard as a rock." 

Apparently Don went back home and told other men about the wonderful thing 
that had happened to him. "Right away, I began getting telephone calls from 
men who wanted to get turned on with my special kind of therapy. They all 
said the same thing-that Don had told them about me. I had no idea so many 
men were walking around unable to get a hard-on!" 

About two of Juliette's tricks a week consist of men who especially enjoy 
watching her perform her specialty. But most of her clients are those who 
attend the conventions. She said, "I'm going to attend a big political 
convention tomorrow. I think I can get you an invitation if you'd like. 
Would you?" 

I said yes, I'd be delighted. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

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. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Juliette was lying a little apart from the rest of the men and women. She 
was on the floor along with the rest of them, but she was content to do her 
own thing. Now and then one of the politicians would try to replace her hand 
with his own, but Juliette slapped it away. After a while she allowed a very 
handsome and very young man-who looked less than eighteen-to nurse the 
breast she wasn't sucking herself. He just sat there naked, with his cock as 
hard as a rock, and sucked and sucked. After a while Barbara came over and 
took his cock in her mouth. She sucked on it enthusiastically until the 
young man shot off. He never looked at her once, nor did he speak to her. 
Barbara moved on, crawling on all fours. 

The red-haired girl named Elaine apparently believed in sharing. She had a 
man on each breast, a cock in her mouth and one in her pussy, and to 
accomplish this four-way trick she was on her hands and knees. When the 
action between red-haired Elaine and her four admirers reached the most 
urgent point, another man joined in by licking her all up and down her slit, 
which caused her to hump harder and more furiously. 

Iris was occupied with a fat man who wore the entire top part of his attire 
right down to the necktie. He was on top of her, and his face was very 
serious as he went in and out of Iris. Above the hubbub and laughter and 
music and tinkle of ice, his voice was loud and clear. "Oh, you darling 
little whore, you! I love you! Love you, do you hear me?" 

Iris' voice answered, equally clear: "You silly bastard, you don't have to 
love me just because you're fucking me. Can't you screw just because you 
like to?" 

He shook his head and kept telling her he loved her. 

Serena sat between two youngish-looking men. She was giving them both hand 
jobs, and at the same time she was chatting animatedly with a good-looking 
type who had a studious air about him. He shook his head now and then, as if 
he disagreed with whatever it was she was saying. I couldn't hear what they 
were talking about, but I wished I could. 

Plump Rhoda, a vision of sexual beauty in the buff, was stretched out on the 
carpet with her legs wide apart while a tall, skinny man with a mustache 
lapped her dripping pussy. I couldn't believe what I saw. Rhoda was holding 
a magazine in one hand and her eyes moved back and forth across the page, as 
I assumed she was reading it. 

"Takes all kinds," said Dell and laughed as if he had said something 
original. He had one hand in his pocket and it suddenly dawned on me that he 
had a hole in that pocket. I had never been in exactly that situation 
before. Once, about two years ago, I stood on the deck of a ship waving to 
friends who had come to meet me. My traveling companion nudged me and 
gestured toward the youth, who stood close to my right. I had seen the boy 
around during the cruise, but hadn't met him or spoken to him. It was 
obvious he was whanging himself off, oblivious to everything, including the 
mass of people on the shore, and his nervous mother who kept tapping his 
shoulder and making strangling sounds. But knowing the boy was beating his 
meat and not knowing the boy was somewhat different from standing next to 
Dell and knowing he was doing the same. I mean, we'd known one another for 
several hours and had talked. 

Unabashed, he went into action that was pretty furious and gave me a happy 
grin as he humped forward and remained like that, with his hips thrust 
forward and a long, whistling sigh of pleasure coming from his nose. Then he 
said, "There's no two ways about it, and I'm not a freak, either. I can do 
it for myself a lot easier, and it feels better than when a woman does it 
for me." 

I said, "It takes all kinds," but I didn't laugh at my own joke. I was 
thinking about Juliette and doing a lot of wondering. 

Dell wasn't looking at Juliette, though. His eyes were glued on Barbara 
during that last surging roil that led to his gush. She was standing over in 
a corner in a half-apologetic attitude, her shoulders slumped and her face a 
study of sorrow. A couple of men were halfheartedly hitting her with whips. 

The rest of the room was a mixed bag of men, most of whom appeared to be 
waiting their turn. I wondered if they really were waiting for a chance to 
get one of the girls and have at it right then and there, or if some of them 
preferred the privacy of their own room. Dell might have read my mind. 

"Those girls are going to be busy all night long," he said as he slipped his 
dick out to take a long, pensive look at it before he wiped it clean with a 
tissue. "I hope none of the little chippies try to knock down the party. 
Lots of those guys don't want to participate in an orgy. They're too shy, 
maybe, or for all I know, they might be ashamed of the size of their dongs. 
But I've got my way of keeping tabs on those hookers, and I told every one 
of them they better not try to sneak in a quickie without keeping it on the 
tally." 

I asked if he meant what I thought he meant. 

He looked downright grim. "You're damn right, sweetheart. Here's the way it 
works for the girls: they get fifty dollars a throw. The party doesn't get a 
dime of their money. But every one of those men have to ante up that extra 
ten I told you about. The party needs the money. You've got to remember this 
is an election year. Lots of big shot politicians ride to office on sex, 
honey. I thought you knew that." 

I said I hadn't known. 

He wiped his right hand on another tissue, then held it out to me, palm up. 
"And that'll be a hundred from you, Ms. Evans." 

"For what?" 

"Why, for coming along and getting a chance to learn about this business. 
Didn't you ever hear that old saying about there being no free lunch?" 

I reminded him that I had paid for my dinner, which was not inexpensive, and 
that I had also paid for my share of the plane fare. I kept looking at the 
palm of his hand, which was still shiny and wet. So I told him to hold out 
his other hand. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Marcie is a blonde haired, delicate featured, petite, beautiful, intelligent 
young woman. Sitting across from her in the quiet restaurant, slowly sipping 
a pink lady, it was hard for me to believe she was a prostitute. 

"I make a lot better living in my line of business," she explained. "I came 
to South Carolina after my divorce, and immediately fell in love with this 
small resort town. It is wonderfully different than New York with all the 
hustle and bustle. And the people are friendly. However, it isn't easy to 
find work here. There are only two factories; and I can't stand the thought 
of working in a factory, anyway. Aside from that there's a small hospital 
and the hotel to provide employment. 

"And you chose the hotel." 

"Well, not exactly." She smiled and reached into her purse for a cigarette. 
"I had to wait a few weeks before they had an opening, and that was in the 
cocktail lounge." 

"You didn't like that line of work?" 

"No, it's not that. In fact, I still work there three nights a week, but 
it's hard work, harder than most people seem to realize, and I have to put 
up with more bullshit from my lounge customers than most of my other 
clients." She took a long drag from her cigarette. Her dark brown eyes 
laughed. "However, if it weren't for that lounge, I most likely wouldn't 
have acquired my sideline." 

"I found Ponce. Or I guess I should say, he found me." 

"Ponce?" 

Marcie laughed, then continued. "Yes. That's his nickname. Everybody knows 
about his extra little business. He's worked at the hotel as a waiter for 
over ten years, and has about fifteen girls working for him on the side. 
It's easy for him to make contacts, especially when one of the conventions 
is going on. That's how I got started. It was during a political convention. 
Ponce lived in England for a long time. His nickname is the British way of 
saying 'pimp'. 

"He approached me late one evening after I had been working in the lounge 
for around two months. Of course, by then I knew about his extra business 
activities. He told me he was short one girl to work the convention, and 
asked if I would be interested. 

"At first I refused, but after he explained how much money I would make and 
that he would protect my identity from the hotel manager, which would keep 
me from getting fired, I changed my mind. After all, in the two months I'd 
worked there, I had screwed three of my customers, scared to death that they 
or someone else would fink on me. I screwed them for nothing. I figured I 
might as well make a little money if I was going to fuck anyway, and I knew 
I would, because I like it so much." 

I smiled. "You mean you enjoy your business?" 

"Of course. I wouldn't do it if I didn't. Some of the girls do it strictly 
for the money, though. They're very cold individuals, to my way of thinking. 
Or just kidding themselves. 

"I've always liked to screw. I started when I was fourteen, and liked it the 
very first time. It was with a schoolmate. He was two years older than me, 
and very experienced for his age. He knew just exactly how-to play with my 
clit and kiss my titties until I'd be a wild, slobbering demon, begging for 
him. Then he'd stick his huge prick in me and in no time we'd both come. 
Boy, I hated it when he moved to California." She shook her head slowly back 
and forth, and took a small sip of her almost empty drink. 

"Would you like another drink?" I asked, interrupting her reverie. 

She smiled. "Yes, I think I would." 

I waved for the waitress as Marcie continued her story. 

"It wasn't hard to get started with the help of Ponce. The second night of 
the political convention he told me that he had a prospective customer for 
me. The man, Ponce went on to say, had seen me the night before and asked if 
I-you know. Ponce said I was available, though I was new at the job. That 
interested him even more, so Ponce made arrangements for me to meet him 
after work." 

"Where did you meet?" 

"Well, certainly not at the hotel!" Marcie laughed, her eyes twinkling 
teasingly. "I always meet my customers at Ponce's place. He has two 
apartments. One for his use and the other for any of his girls who need it. 
Most of the other girls take the guys to their places, but I eion't want to 
do that. The apartment is always clean, and it is extremely private. 

"My first client's name was Dave. A good-looking man. I probably would have 
screwed him anyway if I had the chance! He was blond, very clean, about five 
feet eleven, but married. He explained to me that he used the services of 
prostitutes when away from home because he didn't want to get involved with 
anyone. He loved his wife, he said solemnly, but he also loved to ball. We 
were a good pair. 

"After about two hours of fucking and sucking when we both were completely 
tired out and lay resting in each other's arms, he told me that I was the 
best piece of ass he had ever had, and he'd had plenty. He must have meant 
it, because since he was paying me, he didn't have to compliment my work. 

"He paid me and left. I felt a little guilty about taking his money since I 
had enjoyed myself so much, but since I have been at it for two years now, I 
figure that the fun jobs make up for the not-so-fun ones, and I don't mind 
taking the money at all any more." 

"What do you mean, not-so-fun jobs?" I asked. 

"Oh, you'd be surprised at some of the weirdos a prostitute comes across 
sometimes." 

"For instance?" 

Marcie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then she smiled. "Well, 
there was this guy with a foot fetish." 

"I've heard of such things, but please go on." 

"He was about fifty or so, I would guess, fat and ugly. I wouldn't have 
agreed to be with him at all, if I hadn't been up against it for some cash 
at the time. It had been a long time between conventions. Anyway, I did 
agree and met him at Ponce's as usual. He asked me to get undressed and he 
did the same, then he asked me to get on the bed, backwards, you know, with 
my feet on the pillow and my head at the foot. I did and he put his face 
close to my feet. After a second or two he started stroking them. It tickled 
and I started to squirm and giggle. 

"He insisted that I "remain perfectly still and quiet. He said he would 
report me if I didn't. Boy, it was hard to do, but I managed. 

"After he had stroked my feet for a while, he started to lick them. That was 
almost unbearable. It took all my willpower to lie still. He sucked on each 
toe and ran his tongue between them. I started thinking about some kind of 
torture I had read about that was similar to what he was doing to me. I 
could see how a person could lose his or her mind under the circumstances. 

"He didn't allow me to move until after he had rubbed his stubby, hard dick 
all over both of my feet and shot his hot sticky come on them." 

"God," I said, shaking my head. "That is weird." 

"He's the strangest man I've ever known," Marcie continued. "But he did pay 
me well, and didn't report me. 

"And then there was the lesbian. I'd never been to bed with a woman before, 
and was curious as to what it was like, although I had refused at first, but 
when Ponce told me she promised to pay me double what I usually make, I 
agreed. 

"Her name was Beth, and she was in town with an astrologers' convention. She 
treated me very tenderly. I have read that women know how to make love to 
other women better than men, and I'll admit I enjoyed the rushes of pleasure 
she gave me, but I don't think I'll ever go to bed with a woman again. It 
just felt too unnatural, kind of creepy." 

"I can understand that," I said. "I don't think I'd feel very comfortable 
either." 

"I'll tell you, though," Marcie went on. "When she stuck one finger in my 
ass and one in my pussy, and then started licking my clit, I forgot for a 
minute that she was a woman. She made me come three times, and didn't ask me 
to do anything to her." 

"That's rather unusual, isn't it?" 

"Yes, from what I hear, but she knew I'd never been with a woman before, and 
she wasn't pushy. I know she came when she was rubbing her body against 
mine. I could tell. But she didn't ask me to eat her or anything." 

"Do you or any of the other girls have trouble with the local authorities?" 
I inquired. 

"Well, prostitution is against the law here, but as far as the local police 
go, they leave us alone. I imagine they get a kickback. Prostitution is big 
business in most resort towns. There are other pimps and hookers besides the 
group I belong to. There was one time, though, when I got kind of 
scared...." 

"Why? What happened?" 

"Well, about a year ago the county prosecutor decided he was going to put a 
stop to all the gambling and prostitution in the entire county. He was newly 
elected, and I suppose he was trying to impress the higher-ups. Anyway, he 
hired private detectives and planted some of them in the hotel. He really 
had a fine plan, and it was kept completely secret. No one knew about it 
until several of the girls were caught. Me, too, almost." 

"I bet that was frightening," I said. 

"Right ... I mean, what I do doesn't hurt anyone. When you get down to it, 
the girls are the ones who take a chance on being hurt. You never know for 
sure what the guy is going to be like. 

"This particular night was busier than hell, a four-state group of Lions 
Club members were at the hotel. Ponce approached me in the usual manner to 
see if I would agree to meet someone later on, when I was through working 
the lounge. He pointed the man out to me, and I said I would. He was very 
attractive. Tall-at least six feet-and dressed stylishly. I was looking 
forward to my job that night. 

"As usual, I met him at Ponce's. He was sitting outside in a big shiny car, 
and when he saw me he very politely stepped out of his car and opened the 
door to the apartment stairs for me. 

"Once inside the bedroom, while I was sitting on the bed and had started to 
remove my dress, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. 
'You don't have to pay me yet,' I told him. I was laughing a little, because 
I truly thought that was what he intended to do. Then he opened his billfold 
and showed me his credentials. 'You're under arrest for prostitution,' he 
stated flatly, and proceeded to tell me my rights. 

"I'll tell you, I never was so frightened in my life. There I was, a 
twenty-five year old woman whom everybody back home thinks is an angel. I'd 
be put in jail. It would be in all the papers!" 

"What did you do?" I asked, genuinely feeling the girl's fear. 

"I begged and pleaded with him, and cried real tears. I told him I had only 
been to bed with someone for money once before, which was a lie, but he had 
no way of knowing. At least I hoped he didn't. I went on to say that I would 
never do such a thing again, if he would just let me go. 

"He didn't say anything for a few seconds. Just looked at me, but I could 
tell by the way his eyes shone that he wanted me. He looked sympathetic, 
too. He was ... very ... a very good lover. I ended up enjoying the night 
after all. 

"Two hours of sex with George left me deliriously happy and content, and I 
knew he felt the same way. We had made love tenderly, caressing each other's 
bodies with gentle strokes. He sucked my breasts as if he were a baby, 
taking every drop of pretended milk from each one. He had me panting for 
relief by the time he allowed his giant rock-hard cock to enter me. I had 
never been screwed in slow motion before, and enjoyed it more than I could 
tell him. It seemed like I could feel every inch of him throbbing throughout 
my entire body. 

"We came together. I still see him now and then, and he knows I didn't quit 
balling for money, as I told him I would, but he causes me no trouble. As a 
matter-of-fact, I like him. He likes me, too. If I had met him before I 
started hustling, I think I really could have fallen for him." 

"How long do you plan to continue with your present sideline?" 

Marcie gave me one of her beautiful smiles. "Oh, I'm not sure. Probably for 
another couple of years. I'll be twenty-eight then, and will probably move 
on to another town. I should have plenty of cash by then. And I guess I 
ought to plan on settling down before too long. Maybe find some nice guy, 
get married and have a baby. I've always wanted a baby." . 

"Just keep working and hoping you don't get caught, right?" 

She laughed. "You bet. But I don't think there's much chance of it, as long 
as I don't steal from anyone, and I've never done that. The whole business 
had to slow down during the time I was just telling you about, when I 
thought I'd had it. But it all blew over. In about two months everything was 
going strong again." 

"That quickly?" I was amazed. 

"Sure. The new prosecutor made his headlines, and that's all he actually 
wanted. The girls who were arrested were just fined a small amount, which 
their pimps paid for them if they were short of cash. None of the pimps were 
arrested. I imagine they paid somebody off." 

"What do you think about prostitution as a whole, Marcie?" 

"To tell the truth, I think it's a needed service. After all, men are going 
to screw, and it's better that they come to a prostitute when they feel the 
urge than to rape some innocent, unsuspecting woman or young girl. Besides, 
most prostitutes keep themselves cleaner than the average woman. We have to 
be, and we have regular checkups to make sure we carry no diseases." 

"Well, I guess that's one way of looking at it." I smiled, and she answered 
me with a smile of her own. 

"Well," she said, extending her hand, "it has been nice meeting and talking 
to you, but I had best be on my way. There's another convention in town 
tonight, and I am sure I will be kept quite busy, even though I don't have 
to work in the lounge. Ponce has two new guys and one old customer lined up 
for me. I've got to go home and rest a bit so I can be in tip-top shape." 

I shook her extended hand and thanked her for the conversation. "I am sure 
it will be an interesting addition to my book." 

"Any time," she said and turned to leave. 

I watched her walk out of the restaurant. Outside the glass door, she turned 
and waved. I acknowledged the wave, thinking how exceptionally pretty she 
was, and so fresh-looking. Not at all like the typical picture one gets in 
his head when he thinks of a prostitute. But these days, most all hookers 
have a new image. The blatant whore types have all but disappeared from the 
scene. 

The following morning a note was delivered to my hotel room. It was from 
Marcie, but she didn't sign her name. 

* * * 

It's strange how things work out. I was talking with Ponce last night about 
the book you're doing and said you were particularly interested in 
politicians and their special interests. He told me about a girl who calls 
herself Astrid. Even secondhand the story is amazing, but Ponce said she 
would love to talk to you, and I'm sure she'll be far more informative than 
I was. She's been in the business for years. 

The telephone number where I could reach As-trid followed. 

* * * 

Astrid appeared close to forty. Her hair was black and her eyes were blue. I 
suspected that she didn't come by the black hair without some help from a 
beauty shop, but her lush body was seductive, youthful, and graceful. She 
also had a marvelous sun tan. She winters in Florida, usually. Sometimes 
it's California or Arizona, though. She spends at least a month out of every 
year at a ski resort during the season. "That's when I take my vacation. I 
own the place, and that's where I'll go when I retire." 

The rest of the year, Astrid follows the conventions. She likes to travel 
and maintains only a tiny efficiency apartment in an Atlantic seaboard state 
for a home base. She lives there because it's close to New York City and she 
can make excellent connections on airlines to everywhere. She said the 
conventions were lucrative and once she proved herself to those who counted, 
they were free of hassles. She became hooked on traveling during World War 
Two, when she was married to a career soldier. Maybe she noticed the 
surprised reaction I had to her statement about being married to a soldier 
during World War Two, which made her much older than I had thought. She 
smiled, tossed her head, and said she was fifty-six. "People don't have to 
look old. I'm active, which keeps my body in good condition. I don't abuse 
myself by drinking too much or eating too much, either. And I feel good 
about myself, which probably accounts for the lack of wrinkles on my face, 
though I'm beginning to sag a bit around the chinline. So in a few years 
I'll have a face-lift. Even then, I won't want to look like a girl any more. 
I prefer to look like a mature woman, because that's what I am." 

She had a son by her husband, who was killed in action. The son manages the 
ski resort she owns. He's divorced from his wife and has custody of their 
child, but Astrid remains friendly with her former daughter-in-law. "She's 
an honest woman, which is a rare find. She didn't want the baby, but she was 
too far along to get an abortion when she found out she was pregnant. After 
my grandchild was born, she tried very hard to adjust, but she's never liked 
children, and was woman enough to admit it. My son is doing a marvelous job 
of bringing the darling up, and I simply adore my grandchild." 

Astrid believes in giving her clients what they want, and believes she is 
fulfilling a need. A great number of her tricks are masochistic. She said 
she has a solid reputation for being trustworthy. "Wild horses couldn't make 
me name names, but over the years I've seen a definite increase in a need 
for punishment among my customers. So many men simply can't get it up unless 
they can find someone to hurt them a little. I've worked out a system that 
makes the dudes feel properly chastised without really going the sadistic 
route." 

Politicians are Astrid's greatest source of income. "Of course, they're 
married men for the most part. That's part of the game. Voters like to think 
of their government representatives as decent family men, but I think the 
frankness of today is a healthy trend for everyone concerned. The 
homosexuals among us are beginning to come out of the closet. A few years 
ago divorce was unheard of among the top dogs in the political scene, but 
now it's pretty well accepted. But the American public still isn't ready to 
accept what they consider perverted sexual behavior in the people who run 
the country. I mean, who wants to think about a governor, for instance, who 
likes to have his clothes torn off, be handcuffed to a bed and worked over 
with a whip?" 

Astrid used every precaution to protect the identity of the men she told me 
about, including the use of fictitious names. 

Lou has been a regular of Astrid's for twenty years. "If I told you his 
name, and if you used it, he'd be ruined, and I would no doubt be dead. But 
even though his needs are a little strange, he's a great guy, and he's doing 
a marvelous job in his elected office." 

Lou has to feel like he's being raped. In order to get him aroused, Astrid 
tells him a story. They're all similar, and this is an example. 

* * * 

Once upon a time there was a very handsome man who dreamed of becoming a 
United States Senator. Sometimes this man even allowed himself to 
contemplate visions of himself living in the White House. 

One morning when this man-and we'll call him John-was in his hotel studying 
a government report on the mating habits of tree frogs, the maid knocked on 
the door. He called out for her to enter, and went back to reading his 
report. 

The maid went about the business of cleaning the room. John kept on studying 
the report and paid little attention to her. He'd not even noticed what she 
looked like, because he was so interested in what he was doing. 

Suddenly he felt something slip over his head and his head jerked back as he 
tried to struggle free of the rope that had lassoed him. But he was too 
late. The maid pulled the rope taut and he was unable to move his arms. But 
he could stand up, so he did so, and spoke quietly to the madwoman who had 
him tied, explaining that she must let him go. He took a step toward her, 
and she tripped him, which sent him sprawling on the floor. 

He was helpless because she sat on his legs, and his arms were firmly 
secured to his body. Looking up at her from his supine position, he saw that 
she was an attractive woman, though much older than John. She was also a 
very big woman. Her breasts were mammoth. As he looked at her and begged her 
to release him, she tore her blouse off and shoved one of those great big 
nipples into his mouth. 

With the hand that wasn't firmly holding the rope, the woman proceeded to 
claw all of poor John's clothes off. But she kept her tit in his mouth all 
the time so he could no longer speak to her, and beg her to stop doing the 
terrible, depraved things she was doing to him. 

Then she started massaging John's cock, which she brought to throbbing 
erection. As soon as it was hard enough to stand up straight, she positioned 
her great big ass above him and slid right down his pole, gobbling every 
inch right up inside her. 

Poor John. There he was, with his arms tied chose to his body and a big 
woman on top of him, grinding down against his pubic hair on the downbeat 
and screaming with pleasure on the back swing. She humped and humped and 
humped. Sometimes she pivoted her ass around in circles. Other times, she 
just kept pistoning her hips and riding him. 

John was totally helpless and certainly as innocent as a newborn lamb. Yet 
he was made of flesh and blood. Before long, he realized that he was not 
going to be able to help himself. Try as hard as he could, he couldn't keep 
from liking what she was doing to him. He closed his eyes and prayed for 
deliverance, hoped somebody would come into the hotel room and find him and 
realize what was going on before it was too late ... but nobody came. 
Nobody, that is, except poor John. 

* * * 

After that, Astrid said, the elected official was sufficiently into the 
story to allow her to do the same thing to him that the big maid did to the 
story character. "But he always has to pretend that he participates against 
his will," she said, with an understanding shake of her head. "The poor 
bastard. It makes you wonder what happened to him early on. And his poor 
wife. He told me once that they have no sex life. It's my guess that if his 
wife had to go through all that business with him every time she wanted to 
ball, she probably got tired of it. They have teenage children. I just hope 
his wife has some enjoyment in her life!" 

Another regular customer of Astrid's likes to have her bathe him the way a 
mother bathes a baby. She coos at him and talks baby-talk as she washes his 
body with a mild soap, rinses him, and powders him all over with baby 
powder. Then she takes him on her lap and lets him nurse for a long, long 
time. That's all he wants from her. He never gets an erection, never touches 
her anywhere but on the breasts and when he does that it's done in the same 
way a baby kneads his mother's breasts as it sucks. 

Joe brings along a curry comb. Before he can get a hard-on, Astrid must use 
the sharp-toothed metal comb on Joe's back, inner thighs and around his 
genital area. His skin turns bright red and the blood almost seeps through. 
But it's the only way he's able to get it on, so maybe he's thankful to the 
person who invented the curry comb. 

Mel is a big, healthy, deeply tanned man who appears very masculine. He is 
also a well known political figure and lives the good life. When Mel is with 
Astrid he does something he's compelled to do often, but can't because of 
his public image and position. Mel puts on Astrid's clothes. They aren't 
from her own personal wardrobe because, even though she's not a small woman, 
Mel is much taller and broader. Whenever she goes to a convention she takes 
along her "specia!" clothes, because if she doesn't encounter Mel, she's 
sure to need the sexy women's clothes for another man who likes that sort of 
thing. 

She said she felt sorry for the Mels of this world and other men who need 
what the majority of people would think of as kinky, weird, or even crazy 
and perverted. "Mel isn't a homosexual. I suppose if I had to put a label on 
him, I'd say he's a trans-vestite, but only on occasion. I know another girl 
who takes care of Mel when he's at home. I don't know whether his wife can't 
or won't. Anyway, this girl who lives in the capital agrees with me, and I 
say he's a marvelous lay, and he comes to see her at least once a week. And 
I don't know why he doesn't want to wear this other girl's clothes. Maybe he 
doesn't trust her as much as he does me. Hell, I don't know. All I know is, 
he puts on pantyhose, a bra, and a pair of bikinis. Then he steps into a 
dress and I zip it up for him. After that comes the shoes and they're open 
at the toe with three-inch heels. He isn't interested in cosmetics and he 
doesn't want a wig. As soon as he's paraded around in the clothes for a 
while, he's ready to ball." 

I asked if he had sex passively. "Does he prefer to be on the bottom?" 

"Nope. Not usually. He loves it all ways and any way. He fucks like a man. A 
good man." 

PART THREE Funeral Directors' Conventions 

 CHAPTER TEN 

When she was three years old, Brenda won a blue ribbon and several prizes at 
the county fair, when she was crowned Most Beautiful Baby of the year. At 
five, she started taking dancing lessons and when she entered the first 
grade her mother saw to it that she took baton and piano. By the time she 
was in the eighth grade, Brenda had appeared on every talent show the 
television stations around the area offered. She won several more beauty 
contests and walked away with first prize in every competition around. She 
was an accomplished pianist, had an excellent voice, danced like a dream, 
made good grades in school, and her ambitious mother dreamed of bigger 
things. If her father had anything to say, it was within the confines of the 
home. 

Brenda's senior year in high school was a blaze of glory. She was the 
Sweetheart Queen, most admired cheerleader, editor of the yearbook, 
valedictorian of her class, and on top of that, she'd been on two national 
television shows. She showed off her glorious voice on one and delivered a 
well-written speech against drug addiction on another. Her mother's plans 
for the following year included entering Brenda in the Miss America contest. 
After that, the mother was sure her daughter would automatically become a 
Hollywood star. "After all," she repeated over and over to anyone and 
everyone, "Brenda has everything it takes to become rich and famous. Look at 
that naturally blonde hair. Look at that gorgeous figure. And those eyes. 
Absolutely perfect. We've spent a small fortune on her teeth, but with a 
million-dollar smile like that it was certainly worth it. She even has 
dimples. But she's just as talented and smart as she's beautiful. And she's 
wholesome. Nobody can top my daughter in anything." 

Brenda was still a virgin when she graduated from high school. No doubt her 
mother had seen to that, too. So there she was, all set to go all the way to 
the top, with her mother right behind her, pushing hard. 

The year she was eighteen, Brenda made it easily through all the elimination 
contests from Kaliocaski County to the state level. Back home the local 
papers and television stations followed her every move, and at the end of 
each blazing victory they reminded everyone that Brenda had everything going 
for her to become Miss America. She would put the small town on the map. 

Something happened. Another girl walked off with the state crown. Brenda 
took it with good grace but her mother didn't. That dear lady's protests 
included accusations of bribery among the judges and harlotry within the 
ranks of contestants. Brenda kept saying, "Mother, please...." 

But the mother was not to be stopped. Maybe hell has no fury like a woman 
scorned, but anybody who was the victim of her wrath will swear there's no 
fury like a mother whose ambitions for her child have been thwarted. 

Embarrassed almost to the point of tears, Brenda turned to her father for 
support. "Daddy, the contest was fair. Mother is making a fool of herself, 
and me too. Can't you do something to stop her?" 

The father committed suicide. He blew his brains out a couple of nights 
after Brenda asked him to do something about her mother's scurrilous tongue. 
Her mother had to be hauled off to a mental hospital before the hapless man 
was buried. Brenda saw to her father's funeral arrangements and quietly took 
a job in the local bank, a has-been at eighteen. 

There were tremendous financial obligations Brenda hadn't known about. To 
make matters worse, her father's insurance company refused to pay off 
because of his suicide. Brenda sold the house in order to pay off the 
tremendous bills her mother had run up to showcase her talented daughter. 
Every time Brenda went to the hospital to see her mother, she left in a 
state of depression. The older woman had to be restrained all the time, but 
she could still talk, and talk she did. She babbled on and on about the 
future in spite of the heavy sedation she was under. She said things like, 
"Just wait until you walk off with the crown, honey. After you've won at the 
state level, mother is sure you'll be Miss America." 

Because she didn't know any better, Brenda tried in the beginning to talk 
reasonably with her mother by reminding her as gently as she could that the 
state beauty contest had already been held, and she'd lost. But her mother 
wasn't going to have it that way. She turned against her daughter 
completely, believing Brenda was a spy for one of the other contestants. 
From then on, the poor woman didn't recognize her own child. 

Wearily, Brenda continued to work at the bank, where she smiled nicely at 
the people who came to her window. Finally she met a nice young electronics 
engineer who asked her to be his wife. She accepted and they lived together 
happily for two years. Then the engineer fell in love with another woman and 
asked Brenda to go to get a nice, quiet, civilized divorce, preferably in 
Reno or Las Vegas. She did as he requested, then came right back home where 
she went back to work in the bank. 

In time, she began dating a handsome stranger, a government engineer who 
came to town to work on a big new man-made lake that was touted by the town 
chamber of commerce as a future boon to the community. Before long, Brenda 
was sleeping with the handsome engineer, which she enjoyed tremendously. She 
loved him and deep within her traditionally-oriented soul, she expected him 
to ask her to marry him. 

They made a striking couple. Brad had dark hair and eyes which contrasted 
nicely with Brenda's blonde beauty. He was divorced and had no children. She 
dated him for a year and slept with him almost every night, but she was 
careful about not being seen when she went over to his apartment, because 
she was very conscious of her reputation. 

About a month after she began her relationship with Brad, Brenda's mother 
died, following a violent session with a therapist who was trying to bring 
her back to reality. She thrashed around against her restraints and had a 
stroke. 

One snowy January afternoon, Brad called Brenda at the bank and asked her to 
drive over to the city. It was forty miles away, but they went there often, 
like most of the people who lived in the area, when they wanted something 
more than the few entertainment spots the town had to offer. She said she'd 
meet him at Holly's, a bar where they'd met before. He said to wear 
something glittery. They were going to a place that required evening dress. 
She agreed and came dressed in a gorgeous blue gown that showed off every 
luscious line of her body. The dress was new. She splurged and paid two 
hundred dollars for it. The wrap was old, but she'd only worn it once 
before, the night she had lost the state crown. It was a full-length mink 
cape, one of the many items Brenda's mother had obtained on the unlimited 
credit that had become immediately limited after Brenda lost the contest. 

Brad said they were going to a dinner party at an expensive hotel, and she 
was going to meet some influential friends of his. Brenda was delighted. 

She sparkled, showed her dimples as she dazzled everyone with her perfect 
smile and charmed all of Brad's good friends with her wit. There were six 
couples, and one elderly man at the dinner party. Her brilliant smile went 
off when Brad told her what he expected of her and why. "Al is more than 
just a friend of mine, Brenda." At the time, they were dancing cheek to 
cheek. Then Brad went on to tell her that Al could be instrumental in 
getting him where he wanted to go, which was to leave the government and 
step into private enterprise. His salary would be three times as much as he 
was making. And so on and so on. Finally, he said, "So I hope you'll 
understand why I'm asking you to go to his hotel suite with him tonight. I 
knew you'd appeal to him. Even with all his money, he can't expect to find a 
girl as lovely as you are." 

Brenda felt the room whirling around her. Everything turned black for a 
second or two while she reeled back and forth. But Brad had a firm grip on 
her so she didn't fall to the floor, and she didn't faint all the way, 
either. She turned icy cold, but her voice sounded almost normal when she 
said, "So you want me to do you this favor. You want me to make love to 
him." 

"Right." 

Brenda lifted her chin. She looked Brad square in the eyes and managed a 
shadow of her dazzling smiles "I'll be happy to, Brad." 

.Brad was offered the position with the company old Al owned the very next 
day. He told Brenda he wanted to take her out that night. "We'll celebrate." 

"Sure," she said. "That'll be wonderful." 

So they went out that night and went to bed later. Afterwards, when Brad was 
having his usual after-sex cigarette, Brenda sat up in bed and put her hand 
out. "That'll be a hundred dollars, Brad." 

He told her not to say things like that. "Christ, honey, you sounded 
serious!" 

"I am serious, Brad. Just count your blessings. I could ask for retroactive 
pay, you know." 

He didn't want to, but Brad paid Brenda the hundred. 

She said she would always consider Brad her second customer. Al was her 
first, although she didn't receive any pay for balling the elderly man. 

After that, she went into part-time hooking. Before the episode with Al, 
she'd been offered other deals, usually jokingly, sometimes frankly. She'd 
pretended she didn't understand, and nothing had ever come of any of those 
previous offers, thinly veiled or otherwise. 

A jolting experience with a delegation of local ladies came a year later. 
Brenda left town the following day. Included in the group of do-gooders were 
the wives of the mayor, the banker, two doctors, a dentist, the baker and 
the major stockholder and president of a sprawling furniture company, the 
area's main industry. There were other women, most of whom pretended that 
their husbands had not been entertained by the ravishing blonde. They said, 
as they gnashed their teeth and made clawing motions with their hands, that 
they came along because they wanted to help keep their fair city clean of 
trash like Brenda. 

It was no trouble for the fantastically beautiful girl to feather a new nest 
for herself, and the city she chose was a big one, the nest a far cry from 
the modest little apartment she'd maintained since she sold her family home. 

Brenda remains loyal to her early upbringing. She seldom swears, uses no 
four-letter words, and drinks only an occasional cocktail before dinner. 
She's an asset at a dinner party, and often acts as hostess to important men 
when they entertain business associates. Even though she seldom goes to bed 
with the business executives for whom she arranges lavish dinners and 
coordinates everything so tastefully, her fee is the same as if she had five 
hundred dollars. 

She is now thirty-five years old and even more beautiful than she was at 
seventeen, when she thought, because she'd been brought up to think it, that 
the world would soon be hers. She owns a lavish town house, a few 
condominiums, a downtown office building, and other real estate. Her 
diamonds, emeralds and amethyst necklace with matching earrings are usually 
kept in a safe deposit box along with other, less expensive jewelry. She 
dresses well, but not ostentatiously, and drives a Volkswagen sometimes, 
although she owns a Lincoln. 

At the time of her mother's death, Brenda hadn't accumulated the wealth and 
comforts she has today. Once again she was faced with the expense of a 
funeral, and there was no insurance to cover it. Brenda will never forget 
the genuine help of a funeral director some twenty miles from her home. 

"I have a soft spot in my heart for these people. Oh, sure, some of them are 
totally mercenary individuals who lie to people. They use the natural shock 
and sorrow of having to put a loved one away for all it's worth. But there 
are unethical, unscrupulous individuals in every profession. When my father 
died I was very young. The funeral director in my home town was both 
sympathetic and helpful. He was an old man himself at the time, and not too 
long after my father's suicide, he died. Even though he let me have 
everything at cost, I still owed him two hundred dollars when he passed 
away. And do you know, that dear, kind old man wrote that debt off just 
three days before he went to the hospital for his final illness. I learned 
that I wasn't the only person in town who owed him money at the time of his 
death, but that all those debts were canceled. 

"Then I had to cope with the same thing when my mother died. Again, I had a 
heartwarming experience. That's why I do what I can to make funeral 
directors happy." 

The April convention of funeral directors was arranged by Brenda. The rooms 
were both comfortable and quiet. Those whose wives came to the convention 
were housed in a separate section of the hotel, far away from the girls 
Brenda imported from a well-known brothel. The men who were expected to 
require the services of the girls were in another section of the hotel, 
which Brenda explained would cut down on confusion as well as 
misunderstanding. 

"These men are, for the most part, an orderly group. They don't like 
trouble. As I said, there are exceptions to all rules, but I've learned that 
even the most rowdy kind of man tends to calm down and behave himself when 
he's in the company of other men who tend to be conservative." 

The convention food was the solid steak, baked potato and salad type, 
exquisitely prepared under Brenda's expert supervision. Everything went off 
without a ripple during the three days of the convention. The fact that 
Brenda cleared more than fifteen thousand dollars for her many services only 
proves, she said with simple dignity, that she was worth every penny of it. 

After that statement, I said, "Yes, but aren't most Funeral Directors' 
Conventions pretty quiet anyway?" I was thinking about the few men in the 
profession I know on a personal basis. 

Brenda smiled. "Not really. It's part of their image, which is why I am 
invaluable when it comes to planning and coordinating conventions. You see, 
people like to think of undertakers as sober, dignified people. Not just 
because they don't want to turn the funeral of a relative into a carnival, 
but because everybody knows that death is something they have to face for 
themselves some day. It isn't fitting for a funeral director to run around 
town wearing bermuda shorts, riding a motorbike, or visiting houses of 
prostitution. If they get too folksy, people tend to back off. I think this 
is because of the built-in knowledge that we're all going to die some day, 
and nobody likes the idea of the person in charge of things running around 
acting like a clown." 

"But you said funeral directors aren't any different from other men. They 
need to let off steam now and then. Yet you've put together a convention 
that doesn't allow them to." 

"Oh, they let off plenty of steam all right. It's just that my method and 
arrangements are safe. The wing of the hotel where the girls were was 
jumping." 

I said I would have appreciated seeing some of that action. Brenda told me 
my presence would have put a damper on things. "But I've arranged for you to 
talk with some of the girls." 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

For the most part, the conventioning funeral directors behaved pretty much 
the same way as other men who get away from home and look around for a 
change from the sexual scene on the home front. 

Debbie's John was different, though. She said, "I usually get the kinky 
ones. Maybe I have a natural talent for taking care of men who need 
something different." She grew pensive. "And you know, I think I'm beginning 
to believe in the ability of men to know I have unusual talents. I hardly 
ever get a trick who just wants to plain old fuck or suck. I wonder how they 
can tell just by looking at me, maybe having a drink with me, that I'm 
willing to do the things they want? I mean, hardly any guy comes right out 
and says he wants weird things until we're safely behind a closed door. And 
I certainly can't tell by looking at them that they're kooks." 

She looked somewhere around twenty-five and had a pretty, friendly face with 
brown eyes and-auburn hair. Probably five feet two, she weighed around a 
hundred and sixty. Debbie came from a big family. "There were nine of us 
kids, and my dad was a real idiot. He drank a lot, and didn't have much 
ambition. Most of us left school as soon as we were old enough to get away 
with it, and went to work in restaurants or something. I was going to be 
sixteen in May when I left home. Didn't even finish out the school term. My 
mother just took things as they came. She tried to get us to stick around 
and finish school, to make something of ourselves, but that little town we 
lived in didn't offer much in the line of part time work and I was just like 
all the rest of my brothers and sisters. I hated going to school in hand me 
downs, never having any spending money. Couldn't even go with the rest of 
the kids after school to get a soda. I think the thing that grabbed me the 
hardest was knowing my folks got welfare. All the rest of the kids around 
school knew which ones got their school lunches free. They knew we got money 
from the welfare people for groceries, too." 

Debbie had seen an ad in a newspaper asking for go-go dancers. "Not our 
town, of course. We didn't have anything like that, because it was a very 
small town, and most of the people are pretty hard-nosed against that kind 
of thing. But I kept looking at that ad in the newspaper and wondering if I 
would stand a chance of getting a job as a go-go dancer. I thought I could 
do it as well as anybody else, even if I was fat." 

She said she'd always been fat, even as a baby. She kept looking at that ad, 
so one day she just stole the money from her mother's purse to pay for bus 
fare to the city where the ad was running. She was hired, and before long 
started dancing topless. 

"The go-go craze began to dwindle, and I started sleeping with different 
men, and they'd pay me." She gravitated to the brothel where she's been for 
the past three years. "Oh, it's all right. They treat you pretty good there 
and I don't have to take much shit from the customers." 

Debbie's mother thinks she is working in a factory. She sends her mother 
money once a month. She said another sister is a hooker in Chicago. "She 
never gets any Johns that want the things they ask me for. Take Clarence, 
for instance." 

Clarence has a five-parlor edifice in a southwestern state. He showed Debbie 
a picture of his place during their initial meeting, and she said he was 
very proud of it. The establishment has been in the family for four 
generations, but it was only after Clarence took over that the original 
building where his great-grandfather first started out was refurbished and 
the addition put on. Until then, the memorial home had only one small parlor 
and one large one. He also told her his son is going to come in with him and 
help him run the business as soon as he graduates from undertaking school 
and gets his license. 

According to Debbie, Clarence hinted around about his sexual preference 
before they went to her room. Brenda had one room of the section of the 
hotel where the hookers were set up for a bar, which is where the men could 
look the girls over and take their choice. Clarence gravitated to Debbie and 
started talking. He told her he didn't like the usual run of the mill kind 
of sex. He could get all he wanted of that at home. She said she'd try to 
please him. He said she might not be so agreeable when she found out what he 
really wanted. 

She laughed. "Like I told you, I get all the freaks and weirdos. But I never 
had a guy tell me he couldn't do it in a bed before, not even with his wife. 
They do it on the living room sofa, and not very often." 

Clarence said, after they were inside her room, "We've got to go out." 

She asked why. 

He said, "I can't get any good out of it inside a room. I got to be where 
there are people." 

So he took her to a restaurant and ordered coffee and dessert. "I sat across 
from him in a booth. There were people all around. It was a real busy time 
of night. And that old bastard said that was the place, can you imagine 
that? I said, shit, I couldn't lay down across this table and fuck. He said 
he didn't want that, and if I'd just keep my mouth shut he'd explain. He 
told me to sit real still and spread my legs apart. I told him I didn't see 
how he could do any good there. Not unless his cock was three feet long. I 
was wearing pantyhose and all, too. But he said for me just to do like he 
told me, so I did, and pretty soon he put his hand under the table and I 
felt something make a zzzzzzz kind of noise down at the crotch of my 
pantyhose. I kept looking all around to see if anybody was noticing, but 
apparently nobody was looking. He had a knife. Cut out the crotch of my 
pantyhose clean as a whistle. 

"Okay, so then he takes his hand and starts pulling on my pussy hair. I told 
him to stop that. It hurt. He said he wouldn't do it for very long and for a 
hundred dollars he guessed he had a right to pull a little pussy hair. And 
honest, he didn't do it very long. When he stopped pulling hair, he 
finger-fucked me, only I just thought he was finger-fucking me, because all 
of a sudden I knew he wasn't using his finger. See, he had both his hands on 
the table and he was eating strawberry shortcake as nice as you please. So I 
figured I was getting a toe-fuck. 

"After a while, but before either one of us had finished the stuff he 
ordered, he told me to slip out of my shoes and start playing with his cock 
with my feet. I thought, boy, this is just what I need, but I went ahead and 
did it, because in my business more than most, the customer is always right. 
Well it wasn't too bad. Clarence wasn't an old man. He just looked that way. 
And he had a cock on him, I'll say that for him. Pretty good-sized and hard. 
He wanted me to use both feet and jerk him off. 

"I thought it would take a while, but you know, he shot off about two 
minutes after I started using the soles of my feet on him. Shot right off 
onto my feet. Funny thing, too. I could feel it when it spasmed. Like, I 
knew when he was getting ready to come. Just then the waitress came over and 
filled up our coffee cups, when Clarence was in the middle of shooting off. 
He groaned a little and the waitress asked if he was all right. He said he 
was fine-just having a little trouble with his gout. 

"Before we left the restaurant, he took a paper napkin and wiped off the 
soles of my feet and his cock. Then he shoved a hundred-dollar bill across 
the table and tole me I was a good girl. And that was that." 

This gave Debbie plenty of time to do another trick. Back at the hotel room 
where the bar was set up, she became involved with a sandy-haired man from 
one of the prairie states who came right out and asked her if she would 
perform a little something special for him. "Asked while we were having a 
drink together. I said I supposed I would. He said he wanted to come between 
my tits. I said hell, that wasn't anything unusual. I used to think these 
big jugs of mine would be a problem. Not that I'd want a pair of little 
titties that look like they belong on a boy, but I used to be ashamed of how 
big mine were. Nearly wore myself out taking exercises to make them shrink 
down some. But a lot of guys take one look at my tits and want fuck in 
between them. So I told this guy okay, and we went on up to my room. 

"He told me to sit in a chair after I took off my clothes. He took his off, 
too. He went at it just about the same way all the men do who want to do a 
little titty-fucking, but he never went off. He stood up, you know. Stood up 
with his body pressed close to mine while I stayed in the chair. He shoved 
his cock in and out of the crease in between my tits. I usually get hold of 
them by the sides and press them together to make it a tight fit for the 
tricks, but this guy wanted to do it for himself. But he still didn't come, 
and I was beginning to get galled with that big whang of his sawing in and 
out and not doing anything. I told him he was going to have to let me use 
some baby oil or something. He said no, he didn't want that. I said, then he 
ought to let me suck him off. 

"He said no, he never could come that way either. So I asked him what would 
make him come, figuring just ordinary fucking surely wouldn't do the trick, 
or he'd have said so by then. He got onto his knees and whanged off right on 
the floor, just like he'd been holding his gush back all that time." 

By then, Debbie was tired and went to bed for the night. At ten that morning 
her telephone rang. It was Brenda, asking if she felt like doing a morning 
trick. She said she felt fine, and before long a man who said his name was 
Harley stood there with a big grin all over his face when she opened the 
door to his knock. 

She let him in. He had very thoughtfully brought her a glass of orange 
juice, two cups of coffee and some sweet rolls he'd had warmed and swimming 
in butter. While she ate, he told her he just adored big women. "He was a 
tall, skinny guy. Looked like a good strong wind would blow him away. But he 
sure could fuck. You know, I liked that guy. He didn't want anything far 
out, all he wanted to do was fuck and he did it on top and he kept both 
hands on my tits all the time he was hunching away. Took him about ten 
minutes and I enjoyed every minute of it. I came too, and he could tell I 
wasn't faking it." 

Debbie said he learned afterwards, while they were talking and drinking 
coffee, that the cathouse where she works is only two hundred miles from the 
city where Harley has his funeral parlor. "So he can get up to see me once 
in a while." Her pretty face was flushed with delight. She looked forward to 
Harley's visits. "It sure was nice to have an ordinary man for a change. You 
want me to tell you about some of the guys that ask for me special when I'm 
at the house? I'm talking about the ones who ask for something different, 
because word got around that I'll do almost anything." 

I said I'd love to hear whatever she wanted to tell me. She launched into a 
description of a man I'll call Herman. "He's just about the best looking man 
I ever saw in my life. Looks a little like pictures I've seen of Tyrone 
Power, but of course he died before my time. Well, Herman has a little 
gadget he brings along. It's his own invention and anybody can see that he's 
put a lot of thought on it. He took these ball bearings, see? New ones that 
were still real shiny, right from the factory. Then he punched holes in them 
all the way through like putting a hole through a bead. Then he strung a 
nylon cord through them. There are twelve all strung together, but each one 
has a knot in the nylon in between it and the next one. They're about a 
half-inch apart. And they're about as big around as-oh, say about the size 
of a marble like kids play with. Maybe not that big. 

"What Herman wants is to take off his pants and underpants, nothing else. He 
leaves on his shirt and suit coat, even his necktie. And shoes and socks, 
too. Never did find out why he wants to keep most of his clothes on. He 
comes to see me about once a week, always carrying along this string of ball 
bearings. Has them right there in his pocket and almost as soon as he's 
inside the room he starts taking them out of his pocket and getting an 
erection I can see right through his pants, because it sticks right out 
there. 

"It's always the same for Herman. As soon as he's got his pants and 
underpants off, he gets on his knees at the side of my bed and falls face 
down across it. He raises his rear end up and I know what to do. I take this 
jelly and grease up his ass. Then I take some more and grease up the ball 
bearings. Herman doesn't say a word and neither do I. I just start with the 
first ball bearing and put it in there. They slide real easy with that stuff 
on them. Herman never moves a muscle, but sometimes he sort of sighs a 
little like it feels good. 

"One by one, I put every one of those ball bearings in. Then Herman begins 
to count out loud. One hundred and one. That's the first thing he says, so I 
yank out the last ball bearing I put in. There's plenty of string left over. 
Then he says one hundred and two. So I yank out the second one. And I keep 
on doing it until we get down to the very last one, and when he says one 
hundred and twelve, I yank it out and jump astraddle of his back. As soon as 
I'm on his back, he starts bucking like a wild horse and I know he's 
shooting his wad. I have to hang on pretty hard because he's strong and big 
and when he's coming he really ramrods, only he doesn't ramrod into 
anything. He won't even let the bed touch his cock. Has to shoot off into 
the air, but it takes all those things done, and in perfect order, for him 
to shoot off at all. He doesn't want me to put my hand on his cock, either. 
He told me so right from the beginning. Said if I did, it'd spoil 
everything. 

"After a while he stands up, and that's my signal to slide off his back. He 
looks down at the blob of come on the floor by the bed and kind of shakes 
his head a little, like maybe he's not too pleased with it. Then he gives me 
my fee and leaves as soon as he can get into his pants. Never says another 
word." 

Another girl Debbie knows told her that Herman is a mathematical genius 
who's spent some time in a mental institution. "Corrine is real smart. She 
reads all the time and knows a lot of things most people don't know a thing 
about. She said she bet Herman would probably have to go back to the mental 
hospital if he didn't have somebody to go to like me-somebody he can trust, 
you know? Corrine told me his mental problem started a few years earlier 
when he got so he couldn't walk up a flight of steps without counting them 
as he climbed. Had to count all the buttons on his own clothes, then before 
long he got so he had to count the buttons on other people's clothes. Then 
he had to count cars on the streets, stars in the sky ... Jesus! A person 
don't know how lucky they are. But I'm glad it helps Herman keep his head on 
straight to come to the place and get his nuts off ... if that's what helps 
him." 

Compared with what Debbie had to say, the other girls who had attended the 
April Funeral Directors Convention had experienced nothing out of the 
ordinary. Francine's description is typical: 

"My john was a middle-aged man, and not interesting. He wanted me to get on 
top and said his wife wouldn't ball that way. She wants to have sex once a 
week, every Saturday night. He said she always comes, but she doesn't want 
it any oftener than that. He also said she doesn't take her clothes off in 
front of him, sleeps with a nightgown on, and won't let him touch her pussy. 
I bet she doesn't come. I bet she just tells him she does, puts on a show 
for him, and he doesn't know the difference. Except for his wife and a young 
girl he had before he was married, he's never been around except for an 
occasional hooker, so how the hell does he know the difference when a woman 
comes or not? He even thought I did!" 

Polly: "I turned two tricks last night. The first one wanted a blow job and 
the other one went to sleep on me. I didn't care because I was tired and had 
had too much to drink anyway. This morning he woke me up and stuck his cock 
in. No foreplay, nothing. I didn't even have a chance to use any jelly 
because I was sound asleep and the last thing I wanted was sex. I pulled 
away from him and said I had to go to the bathroom. He seemed put out about 
that, but that wasn't any lie. I did have to go to the bathroom. While I was 
in there, I squirted some K.Y. jelly up inside my cunt because I've got a 
tight one and it hurts like hell whenever I get screwed dry. He was just an 
ordinary fuck, not good and not bad. Just your run-of-the-mill dude who goes 
to a convention and feels like he deserves to have some strange tail." 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

The August Convention of Funeral Directors was bigger than the one held in 
April. Maybe the fact that the majority came from a different part of the 
country had something to do with the difference in attitude. To me, there's 
always been a freewheeling quality about southern men. They're easier for me 
to talk with, and I can relate to them far better than most men from other 
parts of the country. I suspect this is because of my own southern heritage. 
I know these men better than I do others. I understand them. But even so, I 
think Brenda's decision to keep everything dignified might have a dampening 
effect on the men enjoying themselves with hookers during conventions, maybe 
especially the Funeral Directors. 

Lonesome Lou is a long-time friend. He has an extensive collection of books, 
including every one I've ever written. His pornography collection is the 
envy of other collectors. 

Lou has been a widower for almost thirty years. He enjoys introducing me, 
"This is Ellen Evans. She writes dirty books." He never says a word about 
all the mysteries and gothics and science fiction stuff I've written, but I 
don't mind. I think he introduces me in that manner in order to shock 
people. He does a lot of other things that some would consider eccentric, 
even disgraceful. For instance, he keeps a lady friend in a lavish apartment 
about twenty miles from the sleepy little southern town where he's the most 
successful mortician in the county. She's an attractive woman with a great 
personality, and adores Lou, but he gets angry when his friends tell him he 
ought to marry her. He answers that he's already been married and didn't 
much care for it, so he sees no sense in going that route again. At the time 
of his wife's death, they were separated. 

Lonesome Lou isn't the least bit lonesome. People started calling him that 
long before the accident that took his estranged wife. Long before they were 
married, in fact. I think he used to imitate a radio character back in the 
thirties who had that name, but I'm not really sure. At any rate, he still 
does imitations of famous personalities, and if he hadn't been satisfied 
with becoming an undertaker he might have gone into the entertainment field 
and been quite successful. 

Lou invited me to the convention. "You can go as my secretary. That way you 
won't put the crimps on anybody. Lenore will go too, so you don't have to 
worry about your reputation." (Said with a twinkle in his eyes, because he 
knows I'm never hampered from doing anything I want to out of fear of what 
people will think.) 

Lenore always goes to the conventions with Lou. He never sees other women 
because he's perfectly satisfied with his lady-love. She's sixty. Lou is 
sixty-five. 

We arrived at the convention center during a cloudburst. Before the rain, 
the heat had been overbearing but the storm brought in a cold front. All the 
women were shivering inside the beautifully decorated banquet hall, so the 
management turned off the air conditioning. 

We sat at a table with five other prosperous looking morticians. They were 
all beyond middle age except for Steve, who was the son of Bert. Steve had 
recently graduated from mortician school, but he'd attended conventions 
before. He sat on my left and scowled a lot during dinner, which I took as a 
sign that he wasn't pleased at the idea of attending another convention. 
After a while he loosened up considerably, probably because of the 
incredible number of drinks he consumed. Turning to me, he said, "Look at 
that old bastard." 

"Which one?" 

"My father, the fool." Bert had left the table a few seconds earlier. He was 
heading toward a table full of gorgeous young girls, none of whom looked as 
if they prepared the dead for their final resting place. 

"My stepmother is one of the most wonderful women in the world, but that old 
bastard doesn't appreciate her. She had to go up north to Ohio. Her mother 
has to have an operation, so she couldn't come along with Dad and keep him 
in line. I hate these conventions. All Dad ever does is whore around and get 
slobbery drunk. One of these days I'm going to tell the old creep he can't 
go to anymore conventions." 

I made a sympathetic sound, and Steve gave me his life story. 

His mother died when he was four, of complications following childbirth. His 
sister survived and married a funeral director. They live in Cincinnati. Old 
Bert married a sixteen-year-old girl three months after his wife died. "She 
took Dad for a ride," said his son. "He had to practically hock the business 
to keep her in cars and jewelry. One afternoon he caught her making out with 
a guy who used to drive the ambulance. They were going at it hot and heavy 
in the back, you know, where the stretcher is kept. It was hotter than hell 
that day and that was what caught the old man's attention, the noise of 
their bodies slapping up against each other. He booted her out, but she got 
another hunk of what little was left when she sued for divorce. Then Dad 
married Nancy June a few years later. She's a good looking woman, too good 
for him. Just as kind and considerate as can be, and she's been a fine 
mother to me and my sister. I was eleven when they got married. 

"Nancy June had money of her own but Dad didn't know it when he fell in love 
with her. He knew her folks used to be pretty well off, but she'd been 
working as a nurse in a doctor's office for seven or eight years, so he 
figured she needed money. She got a divorce from her first husband. They 
weren't married very long. Don't know what happened between them, and she 
never did say. Anyway, Nancy June invested her money in the business, and 
helped the old man get back on his feet after he made such an ass of himself 
over that little bitch. A good woman like that and does he appreciate her? 
Just look at that old bastard. Can you believe a man of his age would mess 
around with hookers that way?" 

Bert was in the process of selecting his girl before anybody else could get 
around to it. He put a proprietary hand on the shoulder of a cute little 
blonde. Steve informed me that the girl looked a lot like his first 
stepmother. 

On my left, Lonesome Lou whispered into my ear. "By God, you met that boy 
less than twenty minutes ago, and already he's laid enough material on you 
so you could write a book about him and his family. You never said a single 
word." He bent forward so he could look at Steve. "Did you know this lady 
here who agreed to come to the convention as my secretary? Seein' as how I'm 
the incoming president of this organization, I figured I'd need a secretary. 
Mrs. Evans is an authoress." 

I said, "Lou, don't use that word. Do you call a woman undertaker an 
undertakeress? Or a morticianess?" 

He paid no attention, and my tart words didn't have the effect I'd hoped 
for, because he nodded his head sagely and said, "Yes sir. This little lady 
writes dirty books." 

Steve's mouth opened slightly. Then he shut it and said, "Uh-well. Uh-that's 
very interesting." He got up and moved to another table. 

Lenore's gentle voice brought Lou's hearty laughter to an abrupt end. "Now 
why on earth did you have to go and tell Steve that?" 

Looking abashed, Lou defended himself. "Never did like that little idiot. 
You know, he wanted to be a preacher. Maybe he still does, but he doesn't 
want his old man's funeral home to get away from him, either. He's as tight 
as the skin on a potato, that boy. But just you wait till he gets wound up. 
You'll see that holier-than-thou attitude meltin' away like a June frost. 
Only he won't pay a hooker to take him to bed, you can bet on that. 

No, he'll go out and get him a little high school girl from right here in 
town. Take her out and buy her a malted milk and screw her. His old man is 
twice the man that kid will ever be." 

After the dinner, the incoming officers were duly installed and Lonesome Lou 
took his place on the platform. They took care of the business, then Lou 
spoke frankly, almost angrily. He said he was sorry to see so many books and 
articles being written about unethical practice among funeral directors. His 
big voice boomed out over the mike as he raised it and his face showed his 
distaste for the subject. Then he changed his expression and spoke solemnly, 
careful to choose just the right words. 

"The hell of it is, men, a lot of undertakers are just plain greedy. So, in 
some cases, the charges against some of the people in our fine profession 
are justified." 

Across from me, one of the morticians turned to another one and said in what 
he probably intended to be a whisper, "I got to get me a woman. That Lou 
acts like he's gettin' ready to stand up there all night long talkin' his 
head off. I never came to no damned convention to hear a lecture. I got me a 
hard-on." 

Lou kept on talking. "Now, you take the matter of vaults. Over in my county 
there's a fella, not to mention any names, he tells folks it's a state law 
that you have to buy a vault when you get ready to bury your loved ones. 
Men, you know very well that's a damn lie." 

Lenore sighed and said she wished Lou wouldn't get so folksy after he'd had 
a few drinks. "Listen to him get downright briar-patch as he goes along with 
his speech and keeps drinking." 

"Now," Lou continued, "don't get me wrong. I'm not against a man makin' an 
honest livin'. And people that has the money and wants vaults, ought to have 
'em. Concrete or metal, cheap or high-priced, it don't matter. And of course 
everybody knows they's some cemeteries around the country that demands a 
vault. We all know a grave will sink a lot deeper without a vault, but 
that's another thing. It just plain isn't right to tell folks a grave won't 
sink at all with one." 

Behind me, a deep male voice spoke angrily. "Hell, Lou, most folks want a 
vault for their loved ones, especially here where just about everybody is a 
Baptist. You know goddamn good and well that almost everybody that goes to 
church believes when Judgement Day comes the angel is a-goin' to blow that 
horn and they're a-goin' to stand up and meet their Maker. How the hell they 
gonna do that if they ain't been properly protected from ground water and 
things like that? You take a casket with a good seal, why, even it won't 
withstand what goes on down there in the ground for more'n a couple hundred 
years-if that. So if that's me you was inferrin' has been makin' people 
believe they got to have a vault, why, I only done it out of Christian 
charity." 

Lou put his two hands on the edge of the speaker's podium and gripped it 
hard. "Moss, if you got anything to say, you better do it with proper 
parliamentary procedure. You don't just speak out at a business meetin' this 
way. Anyway, you ain't got a Christian bone in your whole body. That's a 
hell of a thing for people to believe, anyway. When it comes right down to 
it, how the hell they gonna get out of a concrete or steel vault when they 
raise up from the dead? Did you ever consider that?" 

"Now just a goddam minute," said the man named Moss. I turned around to see 
what he looked like. He had a red face and a fat body. "While we're callin' 
people liars and talkin' about unethical practices, how about a couple 
months ago when your ambulance drove up in front of my establishment and you 
come inside as big as you please and took a body that was rightfully mine? I 
got it fair and square, Lou, and you know it. Them three women and their 
brother come to my place a year ago and chose my place over your'n. That was 
when their daddy first took sick and told his young'uns to shop around for 
his funeral. He knowed he wasn't long for this world and he wanted 
ever'thang just so. Now, ever'thang was all arranged. I already embalmed 
that man and had him alyin' there on the table, gettin' ready to dress him 
up and put his teeth in when you come and snatch him right out from under my 
nose." 

"Well, you old bone-picker!" Lou downed another triple rye and came down 
from the podium, bellowing at the top of his lungs. "I told you I had orders 
to come and get that old man, and I sure did, too!" He advanced on the fat 
man, trembling with rage. All the people in the huge banquet room were quiet 
as Lou came closer to the other mortician, until he was inches away from the 
other man's face, still yelling at the top of his lungs. 

"You and your ilk are just exactly what I was a-talkin' about up there. What 
you done to those poor grievin' people that asked you kindly to lay out 
their father was typical. You went and told 'em that they had to have that 
high-priced steel vault if they was bound to bury him at Hickory Grove 
Cemetery, and they knowed better. And you went and told 'em that the casket 
they looked at a year ago had gone up two hundred dollars. All that, Moss, 
and they'd of taken it layin' down. But was you satisfied? Hell, no, you 
wasn't satisfied. You went and told them three women and their brother that 
the state law demanded they lay their father out in a new suit, and you 
gouged them folks another three hundred dollars for a suit of clothes you 
went over to Mobile and paid five lousy dollars for at the Salvation Army 
Store! Now that was too much, Moss. They'd of never knowed the difference if 
a neighbor lady hadn't been in the Salvation Army store when you bought that 
suit-" 

Somebody said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen." Someone else came between Lonesome 
Lou and his irate adversary. After things calmed down a little, Lou went 
back to the speaker's platform and told everyone he was sorry, that he 
guessed he didn't want to be the president of the organization after all. 
Most of the people present tried to get him to change his mind, but he was 
embarrassed. 

Confusion reigned for a while until someone had the presence of mind to 
suggest that the past president act as the Acting President until things 
simmered down some, but there were no' more speeches. Even so, nobody seemed 
interested in leaving. I circulated around and listened to people telling 
one another that they'd certainly never seen anything like this before. Most 
of the conventioneers took Lou's side, but a few felt he'd gone too far. 

At one table a discussion was in full sway about something that had to do 
with casket lids. A thin man with a shock of white hair said he'd like to 
see all casket lids interchangeable. "You know, they ought to make the lids 
fit every casket that is manufactured. That way, we can take 'em off and use 
'em over and over again. Who the hell is goin' to know the difference once 
the corpse is buried?" 

That idea took me a few seconds of thought. Finally, I realized that the 
mortician was saying if all caskets were manufactured with universal lids, 
the bereaved would only think their departed were buried with a lid on the 
casket. Before the lowering into the earth procedure, the funeral director 
could remove the lid and use it again and again. Mourners don't usually 
stick around to see the casket interred. The funeral directors lead them 
away while a bulldozer stands by-waiting until family and friends have left 
the cemetary. 

I moved on, determined to hang around the grave and make sure both halves of 
any casket I had anything to do with remained intact. 

A table full of delegates from a state that had recently had a gravediggers' 
strike sympathized with three solemn-faced men from a town where a new 
crematorium had just opened for business. "And me with all that money sunk 
into mausoleums," said one man. "And there them crematorium people are, 
spendin' money like it was water advertisin' over the T.V. about crematin' 
folks instead of puttin' them in the ground like the Lord intended. It's 
them bastard ecologists that got people all hopped up about burnin' people 
up when they die instead of buryin' them. Scare tactics, that's what it is. 
Why, we still got plenty of room to put folks in the ground decent-like." 

Over at a corner table a group of quiet men kept putting their heads 
together for long periods of time, then breaking it up with uproarious 
laughter. Lenore tapped me on the shoulder. "They're telling jokes. Let's 
join them. Lou is getting as drunk as a skunk in an attempt to drown his 
shame." 

The speaker was a smallish man with grey sideburns and what looked like a 
very expensive dark grey wig. If it hadn't been for a nervous habit he had 
of pushing it back so far that it almost fell off, nobody would have known 
it wasn't real. He said, "Well, did any of you men hear the one about this 
house of prostitution?" 

Exuberantly, the rest of the men told the speaker to go ahead. Nobody had 
heard it. 

"Well, this place, it was kind of different. Up at the top, on the third 
floor, they had these hundred-dollar call girls." 

A very drunk undertaker at the next table kept muttering, "Bring on the 
girls, dammit. Bring on the girls." 

"So this man that came into this house of prostitution said to the madam 
that he couldn't hack that kind of money, and didn't they have something a 
little cheaper. So she said she had some fifty-dollar girls on the second 
floor. Would one of them suit his pocketbook? But he said no. He didn't have 
that kind of money either." 

Bert, the father of young Steve, created a commotion across the room when he 
stuck his hands down the front of a good-looking brunette's dress. She was 
the wife of a funeral director from Chattanooga, and her husband was not 
pleased. Bert made matters worse by yelling drunkenly, "Sorry, old buddy. I 
thought she was one of them hustlers." 

"Well, finally," said the man who was holding forth at the joke table, "the 
madam found out this guy only had five bucks. So she said she had something 
real nice for him down in the basement. But she said to not expect any 
conversation. Well, so he went on down there like the madam said and found 
this woman layin' there without a stitch on and he gets on and-well, he got 
right busy. Never said nothin' to her and she never said noth-in' to him. He 
got done and by then his eyes had adjusted to the little old stingy light 
that hung down from the middle of the basement ceiling. Must have been a ten 
watt bulb. And he saw this white stuff comin' from the girl's mouth and he 
thinks she's havin' some kind of fit. So he runs upstairs and gets ahold of 
the madam and tells her the girl in the basement is frothin' at the mouth. 

"So the madam, she hollers over to this big, burly man that was hangin 
around the place, 'Hey, Alfie, call the morgue and tell 'em to send over 
another girl. The one in the basement is full!" 

Lenore gagged. She said, "When men get drunk, they'll laugh at anything." 

The atmosphere was charged with excitement. Men whose wives were along 
glanced wistfully toward the tables where the hookers were seated. Their 
wives all wore the same expression; a kind of smiling determination as they 
propelled their men firmly toward the exits. 

The vast room echoed with the laughter and high-spirited conversation of the 
rest of the conventioning undertakers. They gravitated toward the pretty 
girls with smiles as they clapped one another on the back. A little bitty 
dried up looking old man kept saying in a high-pitched voice, "I got to get 
me some of that pussy." His voice rang out over all the rest. He chose a 
tall, willowy blonde who wore her hair parted down the middle and pinned in 
a severe bun at the nape of the neck. He listed to one side as he held his 
girl's hand, giggling and strutting his way to the door. The girl looked 
down at the little old man from a good foot higher. As they went through the 
doorway she patted him on the top of his thinning head and winked at the 
couple in back of her. 

I continued to move around the room where I overheard bits of conversations. 

* * * 

"Sugar, you got the finest pair of tits I ever seen in my life. How'd you 
like to spend a little time with me, huh?" 

"Sure, honey. I'd just love to." 

"I got the biggest prick this side of heaven. And I just love to fuck. I bet 
you never seen anything like what I got, sugah. You think you could see your 
way clear to kindly-uh, cut your price a little, seein' as how you're goin' 
to get somethin' you nevah had before in all your born days?" 

"Baby, I couldn't do that. It isn't up to me, you know. I just work here." 

* * * 

"Listen, honey, you got to understand somethin' right off the bat. Ah'm not 
the type of individual that diddles a gal and pays. Somethin' like 
that-well, to be puffeckly frank, it's agin' mah principles. But still and 
all, you'all sho' do somethin' fo' me. Just lookin' at you makes the old 
juices stir aroun' inside a me. Reckon we could come to a little agreement 
of some kind? Tell you what, honey. A person cain't start thinkin' about how 
they want to be put away too soon. Now, ah know a purty woman like you, with 
youah good health and all, don't want to think about that time we all got to 
face sooner or later. But jus' the same, it's only common sense to think of 
the future. Ah was thin-kin' about maybe you comin' over to mah funeral 
parlor one of these days real soon and pickin' you out the finest casket ah 
got on the place. Ah was thinkin' maybe we could sort of-" 

"No dice, buster. It's cash on the line, or nothing." 

"Baby, you crush me. Have you got any idea what one of mah finest caskets, 
all hermetically sealed, costs?" 

"Fuck off, Mac. Anyway I'm gonna be cremated." 

"How about your mother, then? Surely you'll want to put away yore pore old 
mama in a nice-" 

"You cheap old fart, you, I ain't gonna do no trick with you in exchange for 
no casket. Get out of my face." 

Two men, talking earnestly together, the girls they'd chosen yawning behind 
their hands. "So I said, Lou, you're carryin' this ethics bit too damned 
far. I don't think there's anything wrong with a funeral director telling a 
grieving widow that if she thought anything of her husband she'll lay him 
away nice. I tell you. The trouble with Lou is, he's already made his pile. 
Now he's getting all full of the milk of human kindness. Anyway, you take a 
widow and you let her go ahead and buy a cheap little old casket with a 
fabric-covered wooden box, you aren't doing her any favor. Pretty soon 
she'll get to stewing and fretting about it. She'll get ashamed of herself, 
because she'll know everybody in town had something to say about the cheap 
funeral she had for her old man. It'll affect her whole future, because 
there's gonna come a time when that little widow is going to want to-well, 
you know-start seeing other men. And she won't feel right about thinking 
about getting married to someone else when she knows she didn't do her first 
husband right. Besides, how's the second husband gonna feel about her since 
most women outlive their men folks anyway? I tell you, we've got to think of 
the psychology of this thing." 

Drunkenly, "Yessir, ole buddy, you're dead right. Dead right, yessiree! Got 
to think of the psychology. An' we got to come up with a new gimmick, ain't 
no two ways about it. Personally, I never did think Lonesome Lou ought to be 
president of this here organization, cause just like you said, he already 
made a pot full of money." 

A rotund man of around sixty who wore a wilting red rose in his lapel 
climbed on a chair. From there he stepped up onto one of the long, 
cloth-covered tables. With a cherubic smile, he looked all around at the 
girls who had not been approached. Then, at the top of his lungs, he yelled, 
"I got to have me some scunch, right now, and I'll pay double to the girl 
that'll do it right here on the table." 

Someone said it was a good thing all the respectable women were out of the 
banquet hall, and someone else tried to shush the man up. The Acting 
President strode quickly over to the table where the happy man kept making 
his offer and said, "Bob, get your ass down from there. Who you think you're 
kiddin', anyway? You couldn't do it right here, out in the open like this, 
in front of everybody. You couldn't even get it up." 

The rotund man unzipped his fly, reached in and took out his bulging cock, 
which he aimed at the Acting President. "Don't you bend over, or you got 
yourself a rim job." 

A small brunette separated herself from two or three men who had been coming 
on to her and climbed up on the table where she stood at the man's side and 
faced him. "I'll take you up on that, honey." 

"Now there's a woman with guts," he said, and dropped his pants to expose 
himself in all his glory. The brunette asked him how he wanted it. Lou came 
over and hustled Lenore and me out of the room. I looked back. Lou asked me 
if I wanted to be turned into a pillar of salt. 

Over and over, he kept saying, "Goddam. Goddam. Goddam." Finally, when we 
were outside, he said, "And I thought I made a fool of myself!" 

Lenore, who apparently knew the man on the table, said, "What Fergie is 
doing is a grave undertaking." 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Before I left the area I met two more girls. 

Mary Alice was a broad-shouldered girl with long auburn hair, green eyes, 
and a lot of freckles. She had a nice pair of breasts, a slender waistline 
and pretty legs. At sixteen, Mary Alice decided she didn't want to stick 
around home and listen to her parents argue any more. She left, and 
disappeared from the face of the earth as far as her mother and father were 
concerned. "If they tried to find me, I doubt if they expended much effort, 
because from my earliest years I remember Mother telling me I was the cause 
of all her problems. She got knocked up and had to marry my dad, which I had 
nothing to do with. My dad was seldom pleasant to me, but he didn't blame 
all his troubles on me ... at least not to my face." 

From working as a waitress in a greasy spoon, Mary Alice gravitated to doing 
some skin flicks. "The pay was good, but the people making the movies 
expected too much. I faced it head on. Decided if I was going to fuck for 
money, I might as well become an honest whore instead of a dishonest one. 
Balling in front of the camera for pay is whoring ... maybe marriage is, 
too, in a way." 

Mary Alice seldom works anything but conventions and she belongs to a 
traveling group run by a man named Cicero. "Cicero has twelve or fifteen 
regular girls in his stable. We go where the conventions are, where the 
money is." 

I asked her if she had a favorite group of men who come to the conventions. 
Her lilting laughter rang out and her green eyes sparkled. When she stopped 
laughing, she said, "This'll grab you. I think I like undertakers best. Want 
me to tell you a story about my favorite John?" 

I said I did, and she launched into one of the most deliciously humorous 
episodes I ever heard. 

"He was a nice, kind of elderly man. I'll call him Derek. Funeral parlors, 
or at least the people who run them, are a little like doctors and lawyers. 
Most often you'll find the business has been in the family for a long, long 
time. Derek was the third generation in his particular family to own the 
mortuary, and he was proud to be part of the tradition. 

"One night when I was with him for the night, he said he was tired and 
didn't want to fuck. All he wanted to do was talk. I said that was okay with 
me and I knew there wouldn't be any question about Derek paying the fee 
because he was kind and generous. He said he wanted to talk to me about 
something he'd never been able to tell another soul ... and when he opened 
his mouth and began on the subject, I could sort of see why he didn't. I 
mean, the town where he lived wasn't all that big and he'd married a high 
society lady who brought up the children to believe they were a notch or two 
above the common folk. Anyway, here's what he said: 

"I'm going to start it with the first thing I remember. I must have been 
about three years old. My old man was driving a Model T Ford. He thought he 
was big shit on a stick. And I thought I was little shit on a stick sitting 
there beside him. I don't know where we went, but I can remember what the 
place looked like. There were trees, lots of them, and chickens running 
around in the back yard. My dad went inside the house and there were a 
couple of girls on the porch where he left me. I was on a swing, one of 
those porch swings that's hung on chains and squeaks and creaks when you 
swing back and forth on it. 

"To me, those girls were big girls. In their teens, I think, and they had me 
in the middle between them, swinging on the back porch. Every now and then 
I'd hear this sort of high-pitched wailing coming from inside the house. The 
girls swung and giggled fit to kill whenever the keening started up inside. 
One of them said my dad sure must be in good fucking shape, and the other 
one said she guessed he was just the same as always, and it wasn't until a 
long time after that when I got to talking to the old men around town that I 
found out my dad had a regular route of women he serviced. Widows and 
schoolteachers and the librarian, married women who had husbands who 
couldn't take care of them, the grocery owner's wife and the guy's wife that 
owned the hardware store. He took care of them all. 

"Daddy used to tell me that ass was the only thing there was. 'What an ass,' 
he'd say when a pretty woman swung by. Only my dad wasn't saying it in 
admiration, or speculating on how it would be to have it. He was saying it 
with knowledge most of the time. 

"At any rate, there I was, with those girls, and me only about three years 
old. Maybe four. One of them took my pants off. I was wearing a little 
sailor suit. The girl that took my pants off sort of came down on my little 
cock and kissed it. I tell you, it made me feel good! I got sort of scared 
and a little sick at the same time. I thought I would surely die if she 
didn't stop, and then I got to thinking I would surely die if she did stop. 
She started sucking on it, and damned if it didn't get hard. I can remember 
how absolutely delightful that felt. I don't know if I shot off or not, but 
the next thing I remember is the other one doing it to me. They took turns 
back and forth until they heard my dad coming out of the house. 

"After that I tried to get that good feeling to come back to my little cock, 
but it was no use. I went around beating my meat for the next few years, 
watching the white stuff come spurting out the end. But I never found 
anything that made me feel as good as those girls did. 

"One Sunday afternoon when I was about twelve, my mother took me out to a 
farm where some people had been burnt out. While the men were all working on 
the new house and the women were busy sewing and cooking, I was making out 
behind the barn with the farmer's daughter. After that I knew what I wanted 
more than anything else out of life-ass, plenty of ass. When my mother asked 
me what I wanted for Christmas that year, I forgot and told her the truth. 
'Someone to screw,' I said, and she nearly had a stroke right on the spot. 
My dad laughed like hell." 

"Hello, Mary Alice," came a husky voice from behind me. 

"Oh, hi, Helena. Meet Ms. Evans. She's writing a book, all about convention 
girls. I'm going to be in it!" 

"Really? Do you think I could be in it, too, Mr.-?" 

"Evans," I repeated. "Sure ... join us. I'll be glad to hear anything you 
have to say." 

Helena's hair was so black that it was almost blue. It reminded me of the 
old Wonder Woman comic books my daughter used to read when she was small. 
She wore very little makeup, and her nearly violet eyes shone from behind 
long dark lashes. She was tall and trim, not too busty, but perfectly in 
proportion. She wore a pair of tight-fitting bell-bottomed levis and a 
midriff blouse that tied beneath her obviously braless breasts. 

"I had absolutely no intention of ever getting into this business," she 
began, resting her chin on folded hands. In fact, four years ago I 
considered myself happily married and planned to start a family. However, 
that happy marriage lasted only six months. It was then that I discovered my 
husband was living with another woman whenever he was out of town on 
business. He is an electrical supplies salesman and does a lot of traveling. 

"I tell you, I came awfully close to having a nervous breakdown. I mean, 
there was absolutely no clue that Bill had another woman, especially so 
early in our marriage. She didn't know about me, either. She thought Bill 
was single. I guess she nearly cracked up too. She was planning on marrying 
him, I'm sure. The rotten bastard. 

"Anyway, when I finally got over being so terribly hurt, I started to miss 
the sex Bill and I had. That part of our marriage was good, almost too good. 
I decided one dismal evening that the only thing to do was go out and find 
myself someone. I chose a little bar in the center of town for my hunting 
ground." 

He had told her his name was John Jones. Since she had told him hers was 
Jane Smith, she didn't believe him. Neither did she enjoy the sex. He was 
brutal with her. The minute he closed the hotel room door, he started using 
abusive language. Before she'd even had a chance to take off her clothes, 
he'd thrown her across the bed and raised up her dress, slapping her across 
the cheeks of the buttocks as soon as he got her panties down. He'd objected 
to the pantyhose, saying, "A man can't get at a pussy through those things, 
girl." His big paw held her down while he ripped the pantyhose off with his 
fingernails. She could hear them tearing and feel the runs like bugs 
crawling down her legs. She protested about his rough treatment, and he'd 
laughed. "Listen, baby, all women like to get shoved around. Don't tell me. 
Besides, you take all kinds of chances when you start whoring around." 

"But I'm not...." 

"Shit, baby, don't hand me that crap about not being one of the regulars who 
work that bar. I suppose the next thing you'll tell me is that you've never 
done anything like this before in your life, or you got an old granny, and 
the only reason you're out in the street hustling your ass is because you 
have to buy her medicine." 

He proceeded to tear off her hose and abuse her verbally, and followed this 
by slapping her ass, and now and then her face. She felt like crying, but 
managed not to, partly because she was too angry to cry. He talked all the 
time. She didn't have a chance to get a word in edgewise. He told her about 
the way his father had treated his mother. Rough. And said that was the 
reason the old lady stuck around. When Helena tried to answer him, he lifted 
her off the bed and threw her to the floor. She tried to struggle, to 
scream, anything to get away from him. By then she was sure she had run up 
against a crazy man. And he was so big, taller and heavier than average, so 
strong, she could do little to protect herself. She was beginning to fear 
for her life. 

Certainly Helena had heard of anal sex, but she had never been interested in 
doing it that way. The idea was frightening to her as well as repugnant. But 
there was no way she could get away from the huge man who pinned her down on 
the floor and took her from the rear. She thought at first that she would 
faint from pain. The man had been so eager to get at her that she'd not even 
seen his cock. He'd moved fast, but from the feel of it, she knew it was 
very big. 

"Oh, don't!" The cry was choked from her lips as he slapped her across the 
side of the head. "Please ... please!" 

"Listen, baby, you take a tore-out, beat-up whore like you, you think I 
could even feel it if I shot my wad in your cunt?" 

By then she was sobbing and trembling from head to foot, aware of nothing 
but the consuming pain that ripped through her like a searing flame. He 
ground his huge cock into her. She was helplessly impaled. When she 
remembered that the hotel was advertised as being completely soundproof, she 
knew it would do her no good to scream. Further, if she did, he would hit 
her again. He rammed deeper inside her and she could feel her sphincter ring 
bursting open again. She had felt it start to rip when he first entered her, 
and then there had been a slight lessening of the pain. She'd been in the 
process of drawing a shaky breath when he'd made another lunge into her. She 
could feel the ripping sensation in her tight anus. 

For long stretches of time she seemed to hover in a semiconscious state, 
awakening to vicious stabs of incredible torture. It went on and on and on. 
Sometimes she was more aware of the pain than other times. Once or twice she 
began to get the hang of it, because she felt a slight answering response. 
But then he would give it a stirring sensation, moving his huge cock around 
and around inside her, and again the burning gashes of pain racked her. She 
panted and whimpered, praying it would soon be over. 

Finally, just when she thought she surely would die if he didn't hurry and 
get it over with, she felt an increase in his speed, heard his breath make a 
kind of whistling sound. It would soon be over, she told herself. It was all 
she could do to keep from biting her lips and drawing blood. With one final 
lunge that she felt would surely kill her, he speared deeply inside her and 
she felt his hot semen squirting into her rectum. He was holding her by the 
hip bones, drawing deeply agonizing breaths as he half-leaned over her 
buttocks and back. It was only after he withdrew that she felt a new and 
dizzying place where she'd been hurt. Her knees had been ground into the 
rough carpet so hard that all the skin was rubbed off. 

The man who had called himself John Jones was suddenly drawing her to her 
feet. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it, baby?" He sneered, looking at her 
tear-streaked face. "That's what I always like about whores. They can sure 
put on one hell of an act. But you liked it, I could tell. You must have 
come all over the place. Takes a real man to make a woman come with his 
prick shoved up her ass ... especially when she's a whore. You want to clean 
it up for me, baby?" 

"Go to hell." 

He grinned at her. "Spunky bitch, aren't you?" He seized her breasts, 
twisting the nipples so brutally that she was forced to the floor. Her raw 
knees burned as they touched the carpet. She knew she would die before she 
would put that thing of his in her mouth after it had been in her rectum; 
but she realized that was what he meant when he said to clean it. When she 
saw him getting to his knees, she thought she might have to die, at that, 
because he was offering her his limp cock as though it were a banquet. Well, 
he had called her a spunky bitch. Either she had guts, or she didn't. If she 
did, she had at least to try to keep that flaccid, wormy-looking cock out of 
her mouth. 

She was glad she still had her dress on. Her shoes and purse could stay 
where they were for all she cared. Using her head, she started sweet-talking 
him. He beamed, saying something sickening, like he knew she'd come around 
sooner or later, and if there was anything he liked it was a girl who showed 
some spunk, as long as they didn't carry it too far. 

She grabbed his prick in one hand and his balls in the other, twisting them 
the way he had twisted her nipples. She thought about the way her anus had 
felt while he was bludgeoning in and out of it, and gave his cock the 
benefit of her fingernails, wrenching his balls as hard as she could. While 
she had the advantage, she jumped up from the floor, turning loose of his 
appendages. He had not turned the latch on the door nor put the night chain 
in place. She was thankful for that, because he was no more than a foot 
behind her when she let herself out the door and ran down the hall. She 
figured he would be a little too sensitive to run down the hall after her 
without his pants, but just in case he jumped into them in a hurry and came 
after her, she didn't bother waiting for the elevator. There were six 
flights of stairs, but Helena was running so fast she didn't notice. 

Afraid to stop in the lobby for fear the man had some connection with the 
hotel, Helena ran four blocks down the street to a restaurant where she was 
known. 

Helena looked at me, bringing herself back to the present. She shrugged her 
shoulders. "So, you see, after that experience I just decided to go ahead 
and be a prostitute. I didn't think anyone could degrade me any more than I 
had been at the hands of that awful man. I actually think I get out to get 
even with him, and with my ex. I was going to show every man I could find 
that he couldn't get the best of me. And besides that, they'd have to pay 
me. 

"I'm not quite so bitter now, though. In fact, I like most of my tricks, 
especially the undertakers. They're all so clean and mannerly. The only one 
I won't take to bed any more is a guy I'll call Max. He was one of my first 
customers after I started working with Cicero. He likes to be whipped ... 
with a regular bullwhip. In the frame of mind that I started this business, 
he was a perfect customer. I enjoyed every minute of whipping him, but I 
don't like to do that any more. I guess I'm getting mellow in my old age." 

I smiled, and turned off my tape recorder. "And that can't be any more than, 
say, twenty-four, right?" 

"Exactly, and I figure I'm good for at least another four years. By that 
time I should have quite a nest egg built up for myself." She looked at her 
watch. "Gotta run. I have an afternoon undertaker today." 

I couldn't help laughing. "Well, thank you both," I said. 

 PART FOUR 

Bits & Pieces 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

They were at a table in a hotel coffee shop, a couple of attractive women 
who might have stopped in for an evening meal together because their 
husbands were out of town-not much sense in cooking a meal for one. 

Nothing about either one of the women was outstanding. Not the way they 
dressed or wore their hair; not even their mannerisms set them apart from 
the other women at the surrounding tables. 

The doctor had told me the hotel was preparing for a convention. He felt 
proud of his role of convention chairman and especially pleased that the 
doctors had agreed to come to the small, out-of-the-way resort town where 
the hotel and the tourist trade was the main source of revenue. 

A G.P., this doctor is not unhappy about going to faraway, exotic places. 
Twice each year he takes his wife to South America, Puerto Rico, France, 
sometimes Las Vegas. Wherever the A.M.A. has its convention, he is always 
very much in evidence. But his pleasure over being responsible for a 
thousand doctors converging on the city was twofold. When the big, sprawling 
hotel was in financial difficulties about twelve years ago, he and five 
friends purchased it. They've had an uphill battle all the way, and until 
just two years ago the six stockholders often considered giving what 
appeared to be a white elephant away to a charitable organization. 

"It was a rundown old place, and every time we turned around, something else 
needed extensive repair or had to be replaced. Eighteen hundred rooms. Just 
think of the linen bill alone! Strangely enough, the house was overflowing 
with guests ten years before my friends and I bought it. Where we made our 
mistake was not knowing exactly what we were getting into. Of course that's 
where most people go wrong when they're getting ready to invest in something 
that appeals to them for romantic reasons ... and that's why I became 
interested in the hotel. My grandmother and grandfather stayed here on their 
honeymoon. When my father married, that's where he took my mother. I guess 
you might say I'm a traditionalist because I did the same thing when I was 
married. It's such a picturesque old building, and the surrounding area is 
beautiful. The food was excellent, the service good ... but we were told 
that mismanagement caused the previous owners to lose their shirts. 

"It wasn't mismanagement. It was the townspeople. But of course it took us a 
long time to find out the real reason why the hotel went broke. Here's what 
happened. Back in the fifties, the town voted in a minister to act as City 
Manager. I suppose they were on a morality kick. The new City Manager kicked 
out all the prostitutes. Ran them out of the hotel and out of town, even out 
of the county. So the conventions were no longer interested in coming here." 

For the past two years, the doctor and his five friends have seen a healthy 
return on their investment. He said, "If you go to the coffee shop at about 
four or five o'clock, you'll see a couple of the girls. They came early 
because they happened to be in the vicinity. The rest won't arrive until 
some time tomorrow." 

I asked where they came from. 

He shrugged. "All over." 

I asked how he went about getting the girls back. He said it took some time. 
"It's a little like walking up to a dealer, if you happen to be into pot, 
and asking him for a lid. You don't go about it the same way you'd ask for 
directions. Prostitution is still illegal, but the officials look the other 
way. I think they finally realized which side of their bread the butter is 
on. The town was dying on the vine when we took over the hotel. Unofficial 
figures had over half the citizens on welfare because with the hotel closed 
down-or at least practically closed down-there just wasn't any employment. 
Well, we put people to work, but if it hadn't been for getting the girls to 
come back we would soon have been forced to close the doors. Even then, I 
couldn't get any of the old timers to level with me for a long time. The 
people who live here are clannish. They'd made up their minds to run the 
hookers out of town, and a lot of them figured that even if they starved to 
death, they still wanted things that way. I finally talked with a policeman 
who told me the score. He put me on to a man named Ike who was the mainstay 
of the hotel back in the days of prostitution. I told Dee what I wanted and 
booked in a convention of steel-workers. Three hundred girls arrived in time 
to show the steelworkers a good time. After that the hotel started making 
money." 

I took a small table in a corner where I could see almost everyone in the 
room. A blue-haired grandmotherly type sat across from the two girls I 
noticed when I first came in. She was with three little girls, so she was 
out of the hooker picture, but not because of her age, not because of the 
blue hair. Recent headlines in a midwestern newspaper referred to a 
seventy-five year old prostitute who stated that she didn't intend to stop 
till she was ninety. 

The three couples were of no interest to me because the doctor said 
emphatically that the hookers didn't make their own arrangements and they'd 
just arrived that afternoon anyway, so there hadn't been time. Two girls who 
looked about sixteen sat at the counter drinking cokes, and to my 
inexperienced eye they appeared to be both too young and too innocent. It 
was my opinion that they were local residents, possibly employees of the 
hotel. They wore faded blue jeans, sandals and homespun shirts. Their hair 
hung down their backs, long, clean and shiny-smooth. One was a blonde, the 
other a light brunette. So I concentrated on the two who had caught my eye 
when I first came in and used a technique for eavesdropping that I learned 
when a relative lost her hearing. I read their lips. They both had dark 
hair, and either green or hazel eyes. Because of the lighting I couldn't 
tell for sure. And they were both nice-looking. One wore a cream colored 
pants suit, and I didn't learn her name because the other girl, who was 
dressed in a coral colored mid-calf dress, didn't speak it. The one in the 
cream-colored pants suit started most of her sentences with, "Coleen." She 
also did most of the talking, and she had nervous little mannerisms that 
weren't manifested by her friend. 

"Coleen," she said as she looked around the coffee shop in the manner of a 
thief, "if Hank ever finds out about this he'll kill me." 

The girl in the coral dress shrugged. "So who is there to tell him? I won't 
and certainly you aren't going to." 

"Coleen, I'm not sure I want to go through with it. Are you sure they're all 
doctors?" 

Coleen nodded her head. "Every one." She leaned across the table and 
appeared to speak urgently. "And you know as well as I do that doctors are 
loaded." 

"I read where a lot of them are almost broke on account of the insurance 
rates. You know, malpractice." 

"They're still loaded. They wouldn't come to a convention broke, would they? 
Damn it, stop looking so scared. You remind me of a spy in an old-fashioned 
movie the way you keep looking around like you expect somebody to come along 
and arrest you. We haven't even done anything yet. We've just come into the 
hotel to eat an early dinner. Stop fiddling with your necklace!" 

"Coleen, I don't know what was the matter with me when I agreed to come with 
you. I should have known I couldn't really do it when it came down to it. 
Coleen, you won't be mad at me if I just sort of-go back to the car and stay 
there while you-" 

"No." The girl in coral looked very angry in spite of the word that formed 
on her lips. "Of course I won't be angry. I'll just think you're the biggest 
fool who ever walked, that's all. Here we drive all the way over here from 
Coldsprings and Hank isn't ever going to know, because we've covered every 
angle. You've got yourself a chance to pick up a hundred dollars and you get 
cold feet. Well, I'm not afraid. Look." Her head turned toward the door, 
where a group of well-dressed men were waiting for the hostess to seat them. 
Then she turned back to the other girl. "The thing about doctors that makes 
it so safe is you know they're clean. And it isn't like they'd hurt you. I 
just don't understand you!" 

The girl in the cream-colored suit looked crushed. "You're divorced, Coleen. 
I'm not, and I don't want to be." 

Coleen smiled. "If Hank finds out you put that fur coat on your Master 
Charge you'll probably be divorced. Christ almighty. You could probably pay 
for that coat on three conventions." 

So the girls I had thought were hookers were from a town close by. One a 
housewife, the other divorced. They planned to work the doctors' convention. 
At least one of them did. The other one still looked undecided when I turned 
my attention to the door as two more girls walked in. 

Both were stunning, but they were as different in appearance as two girls 
can get who have the same general coloring. They were both blondes, both 
creamy-complexioned, both endowed with beautiful figures. One was about five 
feet tall, the other over six feet. The tiny one wore her hair in curls all 
over her head, quite short. The tall one's hair fell to her shoulders in 
soft, loose waves. 

The hostess seated them close to my table, so I could hear everything they 
said. It's possible almost everyone else in the coffee shop could hear them 
too. The smaller of the two girls had two spots of bright red color in her 
cheeks that wasn't put there from a blusher kit, and her eyes burned with 
fury. "If that bastard thinks he's going to get away with taking my kids 
away from me, he's got another think coming. I'll hang his ass so high he'll 
get his dork cut off by an airplane propeller." 

Apparently the taller woman was an attorney and a divorce was in the works. 
She spoke quietly, but her voice had a carrying quality. "Calm down. I 
didn't say he would get the children. I said he filed for custody. There's a 
difference between those two-" 

"That asshole!" The small one spat the word out. "He didn't care a fucking 
thing about those kids when we were living together. Never even hardly 
noticed them. Now he wants to take them away from me and he's only doing it 
for spite, well, fuck him! I'll kill that little son of a bitch!" She was 
screaming at the top of her lungs. 

The cashier left her perch long enough to help the hostess come over and 
shush the tiny blonde. Although the conversation was interesting, I had 
struck out again, and it appeared nobody was going to come to my rescue and 
make an introduction to the two hookers who had just entered. I was sure 
they were the ones the doc had referred to, though. 

One had red hair, the other one brown. They went to the counter where the 
young girls I had thought might work at the hotel were still drinking cokes. 
Again, my lip-reading ability came to my rescue. I made notes of the 
following conversation: 

Sixteen year old ... (or at least she looked it): "Hi, Kerry. Hi, Adelle. 
Good to see you again." 

The other teenager smiled a greeting. 

Kerry was the red haired girl, who looked about thirty. "Hi, kids." 

First sixteen year old...."What a drag. Doctors are so chintzy. I told Mike, 
I said we better do better at this convention than we did the last time we 
worked a doctor deal." 

Second teenager...."Yeah." 

Older girl, with brown hair. She looked about twenty-five...."Dentists are 
better, but not much. Mike said we got to stick around in rooms. No 
circulating. He said People in town are kind of-you know...." 

Redhead...."You see those two cunts over there at that table? One has on a 
light colored pants-suit, the other a pinkish dress. I bet they live right 
here in town and they're looking for some action." 

First teenager...."Mike won't put up with any of that shit. He spots them 
trying to make a mark, he'll get rid of them." 

The two older women ordered coffee. The redhead scowled. "That's the trouble 
with this business. Goddamn townies horning in on the action." 

The brown-haired girl agreed. "And worst than that, the little tramps who 
give it away." All four of the girls looked glum. 

Later, I saw the two young girls in the lobby. They were dressed in 
fashionable long dresses and wore cosmetics, but not much. A tall black 
bellman walked up to them and frowned as he said something. Over the rest of 
the conversation going on in the lobby, I could hear the one girl protesting 
that she wasn't cruising, she was on her way to the drug store for some 
aspirin. 

The hotel has a setup for the hookers that is used by a number of places 
where girls are available for a price. Except for a few regular town girls 
who are smuggled in by bellmen and waiters (strictly against hotel policy) 
the girls are imported from other cities. Each girl is assigned a room and 
told to stay in it. During the rush hours, which is the time a girl is 
likely to be working, she can't even call down to the dining room or coffee 
shop to order food. If she gets to the point of near starvation, she can 
always bribe a bellman to bring her something, but since the bellman has 
strict orders to not mess around with the girls, either in bed or out of it, 
she has to pay a high price for a sandwich. She can read or watch television 
or even sleep between tricks, but management (in this case Ike, the chief 
procurer and importer) keeps telling them to not come to the door without a 
big welcoming smile, so if she sleeps between tricks she'd better wake up in 
a hurry. 

Four or five of the bellmen and a few waiters are Ike's underlings. These 
men escort a John to a girl's room and make sure he has actually gone 
inside. At that time, the gentleman is expected to shell out the slickels to 
whoever brought him. At this hotel, no arrangements are made over the 
telephone, but in many hotels the telephone is used more than any other 
method of getting the trick to the room. 

A girl might turn as many as twenty tricks a night. Then again, she might 
only do one or two. The hotel employees who bring the gentlemen to the room 
have a bookkeeping system that doesn't fail and doesn't give away secrets. 
Ike spends most of his time acting as a genial host. He goes from the bar to 
the coffee shop to the main dining room to the lobby, always willing to do a 
free-wheeling conventioneer a favor by turning him on to a "fella who just 
might know where you might find a girl, doctor." 

When morning comes, Ike has a tally of each girl's tricks. He pays off the 
underlings, gives the hotel a cut, takes his percentage, and the balance 
goes to the girls, always in a plain white envelope. The rates vary for 
special services. 

A straight lay is forty dollars, but a tip is expected. Still, some girls 
might be persuaded to go for thirty or even twenty-five if business is slow. 
When this happens, they let Ike know by slipping a note to the next bellman 
who comes knocking at the door with another customer. 

Fellatio is slightly higher, definitely higher if the John expects to be 
brought to orgasm, but most of the girls will give a little foreplay with 
their mouth, especially if the John doesn't come in with an erection. 

Many of the girls bring along porno films, which they purchase on their own 
and don't often charge their customer for the privilege of watching. Dee 
frowns on quickies, but just as performing oral sex often brings a man to 
orgasm more quickly than without it, the porno films sometimes serve the 
same purpose. If a man would enjoy two or more girls, he must pay the full 
price for each. As far as I was able to learn, none of the hookers bring 
along exotic equipment like chains and whips, but I wasn't able to get on a 
one-to-one basis with any of the girls, either, except for Anne. Regulations 
are strict and strictly adhered to there. Girls are simply not allowed to 
talk with anybody except their tricks. Anne was a pudgy little girl of about 
twenty, and I talked to her after the convention. 

She had a black eye and a missing tooth. She'd been crying and looked very 
forlorn as she waited for a taxi to take her to the airport. I didn't know 
she'd worked the doctors' convention when I offered to share my cab. I 
thought she was a maid, maybe kitchen help. Her tears fell again after we 
were on our way. I said something reassuring, to the effect that no man was 
worth crying about. Then I asked where she wanted to be dropped off, never 
dreaming she was going to the airport too. She said she had to catch the 
next flight to Baltimore, but mostly she had to get out of the hotel. 
"Because I did a terrible thing and I might get killed because of it." 

Anne lived in Baltimore, but before she moved there with her second husband, 
she lived in Nevada, where she'd been a working girl at a cathouse. She said 
she went straight after she married the second time, but when that marriage 
broke up, she went back to hooking. 

"Only I'm not a very good prostitute," she sobbed. "I thought I could do 
anything a man asked for, but last night-" A fresh torrent of tears brought 
a halt to her story, but before we arrived at the airport I had it all down 
inside my head. 

Anne's first trick was what she referred to as a real sweet man. He gave her 
a big tip and showered her with compliments. Then came the second. 

"I never would have thought a doctor would be crazy," she said. "Isn't there 
some kind of law that makes them have to go to a psychiatrist to be checked 
out, to make sure their head isn't all screwed up? If there isn't, there 
sure ought to be." I said I didn't know. 

"Well, he looked all right. I mean, he didn't look nuts. He was kind of old, 
maybe fifty-five or sixty. And he wasn't very big, just a little guy about 
five feet two. Probably only weighed a hundred and twenty pounds. Acted 
normal when he first got in. I mean, he asked me to tell him my name and all 
like that. 

"Well, pretty soon he started flailing around with his hands and yelling at 
me to get the glass from the wash basin for him. I thought, boy, he's really 
a weirdo, I bet he's going to expect me to drink his come. But I got the 
glass and started to hold it under his prick, but he wouldn't let me. Said 
he wanted to do it for himself. I think he said something about making sure 
it was sterile, but I'm not sure. He wasn't talking very clearly at the 
time. 

"Anyway, he shot off into the glass. Then he paid me and went into the other 
room where he put on his clothes and left. At the door, he told me to keep 
that glass just as it was, he couldn't take it right then because he didn't 
want anybody to see him with it if they happened to be outside in the hall. 

"I said I would take care of it, and he said for me to not touch it. I 
promised I wouldn't, and he went ahead and left. 

"After he was gone, I happened to notice that he'd covered the glass up with 
the plastic it was wrapped in. I didn't think he'd come back for it because, 
well ... men tell me the strangest things. Besides, he'd been drinking a 
lot. But he did come back for it. I didn't throw the damned glass out, the 
maid did. He was crazy mad, and he was stone sober, too. I tried to reason 
with him, but he was insane. 

"He looked at me with his eyes all bugged out and his mouth all turned down 
and told me he had planned to use that come. He was going to dry it and put 
it through some process or another that I couldn't understand and make pills 
out of it that he'd store up for his old age, for when the time came when he 
got so he couldn't come any more. Then he started belting me for being so 
careless." 

Dee gave Anne the money for plane fare home. She told me she guessed she 
just wasn't cut out for the life of a working girl. She was going back to 
Baltimore and try to find a waitress job after her eye cleared up and after 
she'd replaced her missing tooth. 

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

Marvin is tall, slender and black, but he dislikes being referred to as 
black. Sometimes he passes for Mexican, but when he's spending his time with 
a white lady friend (his term, not mine) he often tells her he's colored. He 
says, "I'm as liberated as the next person and I don't have any hangups. 
It's expedient for me to say I'm colored to some women. Also lucrative." 

Life started out for Marvin in a ghetto. He was the oldest of seven 
children, two of whom died in infancy. He liked school and became an avid 
reader at a very early age, and liked history in nonfiction and writers like 
Hemingway, Steinbeck and Lance Horner when it came to fiction. 

Early on, Marvin decided he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in 
the ghetto, but he didn't set out to get what he wanted by being a stud. "I 
was planning to go to law school. When I became entangled with a dear, sweet 
lady who had money. She taught me that there are other ways to make it in 
this world. That woman dearly loved to fuck, and she gave me some very nice 
things, including cash. When she died, my heart was broken. I considered 
going into a monastery for several months after her death. Then I met 
another dear, sweet lady." 

For the past several years, Marvin has been making it a practice to meet 
dear, sweet ladies. Conventions are a marvelous place to find them, he 
confided. But he's no one-shot stud. Instead, he makes the acquaintance of 
well-heeled women and takes them to bed. After that he learns their marital 
status. "Not that married women aren't enjoyable, it's just that I prefer 
widows. Spinsters are all right, too, if they're wealthy." 

After the convention is over, Marvin accepts the invitation his lady friend 
has offered. If she lives close by, he'll drive to her town in his Jag. If 
she lives miles and miles away, he flies and has the car driven out at a 
later date. He might spend a month or a year with his lady friend, but never 
more than a year. Marvin has what he refers to as "The Good Life." 

* * * 

Luke was born in Arizona and brought up in Nevada. When he was eleven years 
old, he was accosted by an old man in a Reno theater. "All the old dude did 
was play with my peter, but he gave-me a five-dollar bill." 

A year later, Luke was riding his bike out in the mountains when he saw a 
couple of girls walking along the road. He stopped and talked to them and 
they told him they'd like to take a ride on his bike. He took them both 
about a mile down the road to a sheltered spot that he knew about, because 
he'd camped there with a bunch of boys. "I fucked them both, taking turns. 
They said I had to pay them something, so I gave them a quarter apiece. That 
was all I had with me at the time. 

The girls weren't much older than I was." 

He said, "After that, I got to thinking about life and fucking and money and 
things. That old man gave me five dollars, but I had to give those two girls 
money. I didn't understand it." 

Unlike Marvin, Luke wasn't enraptured with school. The few books he read 
were westerns, and he seldom finished them. As he grew older, girls began 
paying a lot of attention to him, and by the time he was sixteen, he thought 
he had the mystery of why he'd had to pay girls but a man paid him for sex. 
His blond good looks attracted other men, and most of them paid him for sex. 
"But the girls didn't. I understood it was some kind of misunderstanding, 
that money thing. But I liked being with girls more than I liked being with 
men, so I kept on fucking every girl I could, and paid for the expense of 
taking them out on dates with money I made from the men." 

Luke's luck changed when a friend of his mother's came to visit for a week. 
"She was about forty, not very pretty and too fat for my taste, so I didn't 
hang around the house much that first day or so. She was thinking about 
suing her husband for divorce and she kept talking about it and talking 
about it but never going to a lawyer and doing something about it. 

"One afternoon when my mother went to the hospital to help out-she was a 
volunteer worker in the mental hospital-I happened to think of something I 
wanted in Maggie's room. I thought she was out on the patio, but she was in 
there with a banana rammed up her cunt, frothing at the mouth as she rolled 
around on the bed. I damn near fainted. Like I said, she wasn't much to look 
at, but I was sixteen years old and horny all the time. So I told Maggie I 
had something that'd give her a lot more satisfaction than any banana." 

Maggie gave Luke ten dollars. He decided that was something more like. After 
that, he looked around for older women and developed an instinct for 
sniffing the ones out who were what he called "on the prod." They paid him 
well, but not well enough. Shortly after he was graduated from high school, 
he took a job as a busboy in one of the big hotel casinos. 

"A lot of man-hungry older women were always hanging around, so I took care 
of them and saw to it that they bought me nice things." 

Before long, Luke realized that a lot of the conventions were almost one 
hundred percent women. "Church groups, secretaries, organizations that are 
into the occult, like astrologists, nurses ... I even made it with an old 
doll who came to a Women's Temperance Union meeting." Some conventions are 
more evenly divided between the sexes, but a great number of widows come to 
the ones they formerly attended with their husbands. 

Luke isn't as affluent as Marvin, but he makes ends meet, he says in his 
laconic western drawl. Once in a while he spends a few weeks with a woman he 
meets at a convention, but if he does, he usually wishes he hadn't. "They 
get possessive. I don't want to be a puppet on a string. So I generally end 
up riding after a week or two." 

At this writing, Luke is involved with the widow of a Texas millionaire. She 
wants to get married. He doesn't. She is fifty and he's now twenty-seven. 
"But of course, there's always the possibility of a divorce with a healthy 
settlement. Seems like that old business that used to worry me is getting 
sort of straightened out. A few years ago a man could never hope for 
alimony." 

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

I dedicated this book to the memory of Millie. Our paths crossed thirty 
years ago on several different occasions, but always at the same place. 

I was working for a newspaper in a city of about half a million people and 
one of my prime assets was punctuality. Deadlines are very important to the 
people who get out the news and reporters who don't make it to work on time 
usually find a pink slip in their pay envelope after a few warnings. 

A friend who worked in the art department was about to get the axe because 
she couldn't got to work on time. Since I was usually a good fifteen minutes 
early, I took it upon myself to go to her downtown apartment to make sure 
she was awake and dressed. Usually I brought along a cup of coffee. 

As I started up the steps to her apartment, I often met a dark-haired, 
attractive woman in the entryway. For several weeks we exchanged smiles and 
progressed to "Good morning, fine day, isn't it?" I assumed she worked the 
night shift somewhere. One day I asked my friend where the girl worked, the 
one I saw two or three times a week who often came up the stairs with me. 

She said, "Oh, she's a whore." 

At my tender age I was both shocked and distressed. "But she seems like such 
a nice person," I said. 

"Oh, she is a nice person," the girl assured me. "She's just as nice as she 
can be. Her name is Millie. She has two adorable children, but they don't 
live with her. She keeps them with a family over in the suburbs. But she 
gets them on weekends and holidays." 

One morning as I was coming into the building, Millie was coming down the 
steps. Her face was white as snow and her eyes were spilling over with 
tears. I asked if I could help her. She said no, nobody could help her. Then 
she sat down on the stairs and cried the way children cry while I awkwardly 
tried to comfort her. 

"I just couldn't stay up there in my apartment another second," she said 
between sobs. "I just see it over again, everywhere I look, but I know it 
isn't there. It didn't even happen at my place. I never take anybody there, 
you know." 

At that point, it seemed necessary to get Millie off the steps so I 
suggested we go to my friends. Once inside the door of the apartment, I gave 
Millie the cup of coffee I'd brought and watched her sip it like a child 
being comforted by its mother. She held the paper cup with both hands and 
looked at me with big, sad eyes over the rim. For a change, my friend was 
up, dressed and ready to go to work, and it was fifteen minutes until time 
to be there. 

After Millie drank all the coffee, she agreed with us that she'd probably 
feel better if she got what was worrying her off her chest. 

She had been to a convention. A United Grape-Growers' convention. "Only I 
don't grow grapes," she said with a shadowy, haunted smile. Then all the 
rest of it came running out along with more tears. 

"I don't drink, but I guess I couldn't tell the difference between grape 
juice and-oh, I'm sure there was grape juice in the drink this man gave me, 
so I feel pretty sure he spiked it with something. Vodka, probably, because 
honestly, I couldn't taste a thing, and I had three glasses. It was real 
good. 

"The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance, only I didn't know it was an 
ambulance. See, I never tell anybody why I don't drink. I just let 'em go 
ahead and think it's because I don't like the taste of whiskey or whatever 
else they want to think, because it sounds silly when I say I get sick 
enough to die. But it's true. Just one drink knocked me out for twenty-four 
hours once. The next time I tried it was four years later, and after two 
drinks I fell down on the floor and everybody thought I was dead. So I said 
never again. 

"They were drinking a lot at that grape growers' convention and I was 
getting tired anyway, so I just decided to have a drink of grape juice 
before I came home. Maybe it was their idea of a joke to put something in 
the grape juice, but I don't think it was funny. 

"They must have sobered up a little when I fell down on the floor, but they 
probably weren't sober enough to listen for my heartbeat or see if I was 
breathing or anything like that. What they did was call an ambulance. I 
could hear the siren and realized where I was and what was going on, but I 
thought I was going to a hospital, so I didn't say anything to the driver. 
He probably couldn't have heard me anyway, come to think of it. 

"But he didn't take me to a hospital. Young punk. He just didn't know 
anything, but he should have stopped to consider that those men were all 
drunk and wouldn't know a dead woman from a live one. He took me to the 
morgue, that's where. When I realized where I was, I tried to tell him, 
look, I'm not dead! But you know, my throat was paralyzed. I couldn't utter 
a sound. He just left me there and I couldn't even move my head." 

My friend and I were both ten minutes late to work that day. We convinced 
Millie that she'd feel better in the apartment, where she was sleeping 
soundly when we went back at noon. After quitting time, we returned and 
Millie was up and around, apparently recovered from her harrowing 
experience. But she said she'd never go to a grape growers' convention 
again. 

"After this, I'm going to stick to men I know better like the American 
Legion gentlemen. Oh, they like a lot of bathroom jokes and think pissing 
into a paper bag and throwing it out the window from the fifteenth floor is 
great fun. But I don't think any Legionnaire would ever spike a girl's 
drink." 

* * * 

Millie passed away a few years ago. Her death was sudden and painless, but 
she knew her time was short. About a month before she died, my friend 
received a letter. They'd kept in touch all those years and I have kept in 
touch with my friend. In her letter, Millie referred to the time she'd been 
carted off to the morgue for dead. She said she'd never told her husband 
about that period of her life, but he'd been good to her and she loved him. 
Her postscript was typically Millie. 

"But you know, sometimes I've been awfully bored. Now that I'm leaving, and 
looking back on twenty-two years with the same man, I wonder about a lot of 
things but sometimes I look at what tomorrow holds in the strangest way. I 
get to wondering if maybe I'm going to some great big convention in the 
sky." 


THE END
