Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

This was the first man I had been with since I first met my fiancé, and to tell you the truth, it was a dismal failure. We were both looking for something neither of us got. The baby-faced lawyer wanted a no-strings, uncomplicated roll in the feathers, and I wanted an escape from my misery. But instead of feeling elated with his loving, I burst into tears and sent him away.

Nevertheless, I decided my stolen self-esteem was in a bed somewhere in Manhattan, so for the next six months I cut a sexual swath a mile wide across the city.

After work each day I would go to the bars where the gray-flannel set hung out, like Ratazzi, P. J. Clarke’s, Ad Lib, Charley-O’s, or Maxwell’s Plum. Charley-O’s was downstairs in my building, and the junior-executive types would go there to get laid before the last train to Westport.

These men would all be full of promises about how they could introduce you to this job, or get you cut-rate travel or whatever it was they thought you might want. Meanwhile, you’d end up in bed with them, and when you’d call next day they were always out.

My roommate, Sonia, who knew me from the suffering days when I was living with Carl, took a genuine big-sisterly interest in me, but sometimes she would get angry enough to call me a nymphomaniac.

She was nine years older than me, unmarried, and disillusioned with life; her retreat from reality was the bottle, in the same way mine was sex. At night she would quietly drink herself into her happier world while I would screw myself into mine.

I would cruise the First Avenue singles bars where Brooklyn, Bronx, and Queens secretaries go looking for marriage and end up settling for a night in bed. My scene was to drag home any Tom, Harry, or Dick who had a pleasant face and a tolerable manner.

I went on that way until around August, when things got so depressingly repetitive and aimless I thought I would go around the bend. As providence had it, one of the junior execs actually came through with a round-trip ticket to Miami.

It was just the break I was waiting for, and although I knew nobody there, the change of scene would help my discontent.

The long weekend was spent swimming, sunbathing, and mixing in with a happy crowd of people from Miami. I even met a nice hillbilly who was the manager of an advertising agency. Vernon, from nearby Dinner Key, owned a luxurious yacht and he soon had me as a housemate on his boat. We took trips with some of his young friends and had orgies almost every day. It was fun to go topless and shock the passing captains with their families. By Sunday night I was a much calmer, happier girl than the one who had arrived there the previous Wednesday evening.

There was only one small moment of drama in the whole trip, and that was when I was leaving. Somehow the airline had mixed up the tickets, and for a while it was uncertain whether I would be able to have my scheduled seat.

For some reason the ticket clerk was giving me a hard time, and I guessed it was because the man who was double-booked was much more influential than I. He sure looked it; he was an expensively dressed, distinguished-looking Englishman.

For ten minutes I argued furiously that I had to be back in time for work the next day, and finally won a place. However, I was surprised to see the tall Englishman – when we got off the plane at La Guardia – walking purposefully toward me.

“Hi.” He smiled. “My name is Evelyn St. John; I am English and I live in Paris and I’m here in New York for a week.” A mouthful for openers.

“I am also ashamed of myself for hoping you would get bumped off the flight because I was after your seat,” he continued. “So by way of apology, would you let me take you out on the town tonight?”

I felt immediately attracted to him. He was charming, handsome, with prematurely gray hair, and I could also see he was Jewish, which I liked as well.

“It’s about midnight now,” I said, “so what can we do?”

“Let’s start off with a drink at my hotel and take it from there.”

In the taxi on the way to the Hilton Evelyn said, “Why not check in with me tonight? Are you married or single?”

“No, I’m not married, I live with a square roommate. I like you and have nothing to lose.” As has been established, I daresay, I was never very inhibited about sex.

That night I moved in with him, and he became the first man I felt anything for in the six months since Carl had left me. We made love all through the night, and in the morning I went straight from his bed to my office, without a wink of sleep.

Love can elate you in a way that a month of early nights never can, and I confess I thought I was in love.

Evelyn was what I could only describe as a truly elegant lover. Considerate, controlled, yet very passionate. You could tell he had penetrated the best beds of Europe in the arms of the most sophisticated women.

Not that he consciously let it be known. Quite the contrary. He had the most convincing way of breathing undying love when he was on that paradise stroke. He was that perfect combination men expect only in a woman. A lady in the living room and a nymphomaniac in bed.

Evelyn was witty, urbane, generous – everything Carl and the others were not.

For the next week I spent the days dreaming about the nights. After work each day I would float across the half-block between my office and the Hilton to meet my lover for romantic dinners, movies, Broadway shows, and passion. It was a fantastic relationship, sexual and cerebral, and no wonder I was in love – or thought I was – and showed it in every way.

But Evelyn had another way of demonstrating his feeling for me. A way I have since learned is typical of people of his breeding and background, and, to my horror, he exposed me to it toward the end of the week after a romantic dawn.

I remember vividly the setting for the conversation that was to change the entire course of my straight and simple life. He was leaning back against the pillow, and I was cradled in his arms.

“Xaviera,” he began in his slow, Oxford-accented English. “I can never tell you in words just how wonderful you have made this week in New York.”

I shuddered at the reminder that today was Friday and on Sunday he would leave. “To show you what you have meant, I have something for you,” he went on.

“What is it?” I asked dreamily. I was always on a cloud after we made love.

“Here,” he said, and handed me a hundred-dollar bill.

I froze. I was shocked, hurt, and speechless with anger. At least if this was not love on his part he had no right to make it seem like prostitution.

My mother had always told me not to accept money from any man except the man I marry. “If a man friend insists on giving you something, ask for flowers or chocolates,” was her advice.

“Evelyn,” I said when the numbness wore off, “you make me feel like a whore. I don’t want your hundred dollars; here it is, please take it back.”

He was genuinely surprised, but he still persisted. “Xaviera, I know you are supporting your parents, so take it and at least give it to them.” He took an envelope from the drawer, asked me to address it to their home in Holland, put the money inside, got dressed, and went out to mail it. That made me feel better, because I did not use the money myself.

Next day Evelyn took me to Saks and bought me $800 worth of dresses, shoes, and handbags and whatever I wanted. And, this, to me, was the really tremendous gesture of a gentleman, and he was the first man who ever bought me anything of value.

During my engagement to Carl I was the one who spent half my salary to give him a birthday or Christmas present, or, when I could not afford it, spent hours writing poems for him. He gave me nothing in return. Except his insincere promises.