Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

Something, I knew, was very weird in that bed. But before I could find out, he rolled me onto my back, made quick love, climaxed in minutes, and vanished into the bathroom.

If I had not felt myself warm and wet when I reached down under the sheets, I would have suspected the man was wearing an artificial penis. It didn’t make sense.

Five minutes later when he returned from the bath room with his hands still covering his front I had made no attempt to get up and get dressed, because I wanted to get to the bottom of this, so to speak.

The Japanese cabinet minister slid back under the sheets and started talking with me in polite, labored “Engrish,” and as he did I gently pushed his hand away and found, to my amazement, a penis not even as big as my little finger.

I believe if he had been a Caucasian and the lights had been on I would have seen that man blush crimson at that moment.

“How come you were shaped so well five minutes ago?” I asked him. “Did you wear something over your penis?”

“Never mind, never mind,” he said. “Everything okay now.”

“Tell me the truth,” I coaxed. “I will understand, honestly.”

There was no point in pretending, so he admitted to me he had indeed worn an artificial penis, which, I have since found out, is quite commonplace in Japan. It is such an ingenious little device that it can be controlled to emulate orgasm at the same time as the wearer, and squirt out a semenlike liquid.

“Listen,” I said to him. “There is no need to be ashamed of your real penis. And to prove it, I will suck it again for you.” This time he let me do it, and I believe he really enjoyed it.

After I dressed and was ready to leave, I asked him would he give me his false penis as a souvenir.

“Never happen, never happen.” He shook his head. “Have several more cities to visit, and only one artificial penis.”

“Well, rots of ruck,” I wished him as I walked out of the door.

Just as different ethnic groups have their peculiarities, so do different age groups, and I have observed a consistent pattern with my customers in their specific age brackets.

The youngest customer I have ever had was seventeen, and the oldest was seventy-two. However, both these extremes are very rare.

In the old-style brothels of the 1930’s and 1940’s I believe there was such a thing as “cherry-popping” – an occasion when a father would send his adolescent son along to an understanding prostitute for an introduction to sex.

These days, the few youths who visit an establishment like mine come up under their own steam. Nevertheless, these kids are usually very nervous and very quick, and climax almost immediately. They have the strength to climax two or three times, and depending on whether they can afford it or if the prostitute really likes them, they may go again a second, and maybe a third time, in the same half-hour.

When the men reach their early twenties, they usually come up to my house in groups. At this age they are still a little self-conscious and give each other Dutch courage by the glassful. They are relatively easy to handle and last a little longer than the adolescents.

When men reach their late twenties they have also reached the height of their sexual strength, but far from being desirable as lovers, they are considered by professional girls to be a nuisance. The late twenties are the ones the girls like the least, because they demand every different position for their money, and their snotty attitude is: “I’m young, I’m attractive, I really don’t need to use a prostitute, but since I’m here, I will get my money’s worth.”

By contrast, men in their thirties and forties are the ones the girls like best.

These are the men who know what it’s all about. They usually go twice in half an hour, and as far as the girls are concerned, it is a pleasure to make love to them. They usually are the kind who look after their bodies, work out in a gym, play tennis, wear nice-smelling colognes and after-shaves. They really appreciate a woman, and are not too demanding. The men in their thirties and forties are not too choosy about whether a girl is twenty or thirty, as long as she is attractive and has a nice personality.

Men between forty and fifty are similar in their attitude to the previous group except they usually request a blow-job instead of a screw. They are from the generation whose wives are not so liberal about going down on them, so they come to a brothel for what they cannot get at home.

In my experience and opinion, a man has certainly peaked sexually and begun to decline in his late forties.

Men in their fifties start asking for very young girls, preferably little Lolita or “daughter” types. These customers are usually wealthy semiretired businessmen who winter in Miami and fly between there, Puerto Rico, and New York for their pleasure-seeking. They usually have a nice suntan, are always very gentlemanly, arriving often with a bottle of Scotch or perfume for the madam. Men over fifty start to feel that what they lack in performance they make up for in generosity. They always seek more privacy than the younger men, are gentle lovers, and can make it only once per hour, if at all.

Anyone over sixty is, with very rare exceptions, content to give or receive a blow-job. If the girl eats them, they come in three strokes, and if they eat the girl, they can go on contentedly forever.

However, you are never entirely certain which they will prefer, as I found out one night when I had a social appointment with a famous, elderly banker from Philadelphia. The man was very charming and, very sweet, and during the evening I learned to like him so much that on the way home in the taxi I told myself, “Poor man, he is so nice, why shouldn’t he be entitled to his pleasure the same as everybody else?” And I decided I would give him a beautiful blow-job.

But when we got into my apartment he lured me onto the sofa, removed my panties, and, fully clothed himself, ate me for half an hour as though I were caviar.

One of the rare cases of men over sixty still being strong enough to screw is an American movie magnate, and I know this because he has made love to me several times.

This famous man always specifically requests me and another of my girls to come to his suite in the Plaza Hotel, where he waits for us dressed in an expensive silk morning gown.

There is very little conversation when we arrive, and we usually have time to admire his beautiful original Dali and Picasso canvases before his imported girl friend saunters in with the air of someone just passing by, then undresses and lies on the bed.

For some strange reason the movie man never makes love to his young girl friend, although he keeps her in high style and has bought her a co-op in a luxury East Side building.

The two hired girls undress as well and begin to make love to the foreign girl while he sits there, his gown falling open, of course, in a splendid Louis XV chair. And I must say for an antique himself, this movie man has got a beautiful big cock.

After the three girls on the bed have been making it for about fifteen minutes – with one girl kissing the foreigner’s breasts while I give it to her with my vibrating tongue – she curls around and whispers in my ear: “All right, I’m going to fake it now.” And she pretends to have an orgasm to please her movie-magnate lover.

Her trouble is, she has been using a vibrator since she was about seventeen, and she is now nineteen and cannot have an orgasm without it, because nothing can match up to the action of one of these machines – which, of course, is why I advise my girls not to use them very much.

After she pretends to climax, the tycoon takes off his robe and screws one of the hired girls, usually me. And I must say he is pretty strong and fantastic for over sixty – as long as you close your eyes.