Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

“I’ll be quite honest and admit that I didn’t give you first offer, but after a couple of failures to keep the house operating, I have realized you are the only person in New York who can run it.

“I’ve watched how you built yourself up from a little secretary who used to do scenes in her lunch hour to become one of the best madams in town in less than a year, and I admire you for it. I think you are ready to take over my business, and the only question now is, do you want it?”

Madeleine’s was known to be the biggest business in town. So by acquiring it I would become New York’s reigning madam.

However, I was not interested in Felipe, whom I never trusted, or the five-story brownstone. I much preferred the relaxed atmosphere of walking from room to room to supervise, instead of climbing all those flights of stairs.

“How much do you want for your black book and your telephone lines?” I asked.

Madeleine wanted a down payment of $5,000 and the balance to be paid when the phone lines were installed in my house. Hers was an incoming business, which is why they are known as call girls.

Having taken over Madeleine’s business, the first thing I had to do was reorganize her black book to conform with my own listing system. Her book had hundreds of listings of clients, their price, credit rating, erotic preferences or aberrations, and sometimes even their dimensions. Most of the men, naturally, had aliases or were given them by Madeleine.

Some men were listed by their preference in liquor, such as Red Label, Mr. Cutty, or Mr. Sark. Some invented their own aliases, like Marco Polo, Plato, Aristotle, Caesar, and the more ordinary Mr. White, Mr. Black, Mr. Brown, Mr. Green.

Some of the names these aliases disguised were very famous indeed. The book was such a celebrity-packed register it could make the society columns look like a truck driver’s time sheet.

While I had come to be regarded as madam to the Jewish community, Madeleine was more or less known as madam to the WASP, so when I took over her business I became a force for religious brotherhood.

Her book was basically made up of “live ones” – which meant men who still actively patronized a brothel, and not some old fuddy-duddies who could no longer get it up. There were exceptions, however, as I found when I called up to advise her clients of the change of management, and I had one or two embarrassing moments.

One man, Mr. Isaacson, did not answer his phone, but the creaky old voice that did said: “This is Mrs. Isaacson speaking, Mr. Isaacson has been dead for four years.”

A Mr. Morriss said: “You should have called me up ten years ago. I’m almost seventy-five now, and I can’t get it up anymore.”

Another man didn’t have an age problem, but didn’t thank me for calling. “My dear madam,” Mr. Purgavie icily informed me, “that number dates back to the days when I was a wild bachelor around town. These days I, am a respectable and happily married man, so don’t ever call me at my home again… but here’s my office number.”

To those who were receptive to my call I would speak as follows: “Hi, I’m Xaviera Hollander, I’m from Holland, I’m twenty-five years of age [I’d lie a couple of years], I live in a beautiful three-bedroom apartment in midtown, and I have taken over the management of Madeleine’s’ business because she has retired to have a baby.

“Why don’t you drop over for coffee and a chat with us and see if you like the atmosphere, and if you do, we would be glad to have you as a guest occasionally.”

With Madeleine’s names and my enterprise, I made back my original investment in two months.

The book was such a little gold mine that it should have been locked in Fort Knox, but because it was required by the phone at all times to check out a customer’s credentials, I could not give it the protection it deserved.

As an indication of how important it is to take care of a book like this, I had a bad experience shortly after I acquired it – because I hired a girl who was managed by a black pimp.

The reason I acted against my better judgment was basically because Roberta was a college graduate, which I found was an interesting attribute for a hooker; she was also clean, pleasant, and attractive in a “Miss Cornfed U.S.A.” way.

A week after Roberta started working for me I had the opportunity to go out for a leisurely dinner, which is a rare luxury when you become a madam. However, this was a Friday night in the summer, and business was relatively quiet. In charge I left my trustworthy roommate, a working girl named Corinne.

I was gone no more than a couple of hours, but when I returned to the house it was an agitated Corinne who greeted me.

“Come into your room,” she whispered: “I have something important to tell you.”

She was worried about the honesty of Roberta. “I needed the black book to check out a caller, and discovered it and Roberta were both missing. Your bathroom door was locked for about an hour, and when Roberta reappeared, so did the book,” she told me.

I called Roberta in and accused her point-blank of copying names from my book, which she hastily denied.

“Then how did the book get in the bathroom; did it grow legs and walk?”

Roberta gave me some unsatisfactory explanation. “I cannot tolerate disloyalty to the house or to the madam,” I said, “so I will have to ask you to leave.”

Four times the next day her black pimp, Henri, phoned up begging me to take her back. He also sent me two bunches of yellow roses. He realized my house was the best in town, and nowhere else would she make a certain $150-$200 a night.

Again, against my better judgment; I agreed to give her another chance on the condition that she tighten up her game and not try any further deceit.

A few days later, as I was sitting in my bedroom going over accounts, I could hear the extension phone in the living room being repeatedly used. Normally I would never snoop on my girls, but Roberta was around, and I was no longer sure of her. Besides, it was my business phone she was tying up. As I lifted the receiver I heard her talking with another girl.

“Mr. Brennan doesn’t seem to know you, Roberta, and he wants more detail,” the other girl, evidently a little hooker, was saying. To which Roberta replied, “Just tell him you have been referred by Madam Xaviera.”

Not only was it my phone, in my house, but it was also one of my most regular customers. They were obviously approaching one of the names she had copied from my black book. I hit the ceiling.

I was so angry I was shaking, and Corinne had to restrain me from going out and throwing her bodily into the street.

“Get dressed, get out, and don’t bother to have Henri send me any yellow roses or make any attempt to contact me ever again!” was my farewell to Roberta.

Thankfully that kind of dishonesty is unusual, and generally speaking, my girls are very loyal to me. Because of our closeness in ages, we are more like girl friends than the traditional madam-prostitute relationship.

Whenever I can, I give the girls advice and assistance in both their professional and private lives.

It is known that most madams are bisexual, and I am no exception. Whenever a new girl joins me, I usually take her to bed and teach her some basic tricks of the trade, like how to eat, and simple hygiene.

Like most madams, I have my favorites and might tend to give her the pick of the customers or the best work, but each girl is dear to me, and I try always to be fair. I can also say I hardly ever cheat on my girls like some madams who tell them a customer was a $50 date, when in reality he paid $100 and she kept $75 and gave the girl only $25,

As much as I give them guidance in their professional life, if they require it personally I am there to help, too. Sometimes, if I think it is justified, I offer advice uninvited, as in the case of Sarah, a former employee of Madeleine’s and for a while a roommate of mine.