Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

The scene was to proceed with me going out of the bedroom while he arranged himself, naked, on the bed with his head toward the closed door.

Outside the door I had to bang with my fists, boom, boom, boom, and roar out in German: “Gestapo here! Open the door immediately!”

But there is no reply. So I kick the door open and burst in, to find him lying there with his penis in his hand. “Herr Cohen,” I demand in a menacing voice.

“No, no, I’m Mr. Smith,” he says meekly, pretending to tremble.

“Don’t lie to me, you’re a Jew – Verdammte Jude, schweinhund.” Bam, bam, I slam him on the face.

Little German George quivers all over, gets an erection, and is very excited. He starts waffling about the “bloody Jews” and how he hopes every last one of them gets what he deserves.

“Shut up, Jew,” I hiss, and to assure that he obeys, I sit on his face and force him to eat me. Then I get mad because he does it wrong, and take off my belt and spank him up until he is almost about to climax, but just then he calls a halt to activity.

“Let’s stop and do it all again,” he says. So we repeat the scene once again, and the third time, while I spank him hard, German George jerks off.

The poor man is happy and pleased to pay me, but this kind of thing also makes me sad, because I’m Jewish, too, and even though I was only a baby during World War II, I hate to be confronted with things like this.

Still another freak who got his hang-up in a war camp is the rabbi who can make it only with non-Jewish girls, and only after they paint him all over with swastikas.

Just as freaks each have their favorite scene, so they have their favorite atmosphere and conditions. For instance, full moons and gloomy or stormy weather is very big with the average freak. I often think they are as predictable as the little blue boy in those miniature European weather vanes. When the weather is lousy – out they come.

Perhaps people who dig suffering at any time consider it an added bonus when the weather is mean to them, too. Freaks are also very intrigued by umbrellas, which represent to them a potential weapon of chastisement.

Umbrellas are so important to many freaks that the biggest S-and-M supply store in Manhattan is a West Side umbrella shop where I purchased the contents of my “goodie bag.”

Every good master needs at the very minimum a good set of manacles, whips, rawhides, handcuffs, chains, paddles, and a dildo. Those who specialize exclusively in the scene have much more variety and perhaps more expensive, subtler instruments. I have one lovely slave who combs Europe searching for medieval leg irons and handcuffs that don’t leave any marks, and he always brings his own bondage accessories for his freak scenes.

Incidentally, this man recently visited my fellow countrywoman – a madam who ran a famous “torture house” in New Jersey until she was raided, and is now experimenting in Europe with a brand-new treat for masochists called “cell isolation.” In her house in The Hague, this woman has had a special cell built in which she locks her customers after she has clapped them in irons. Sometimes she strings their hands to the ceiling. I understand she is doing a roaring business.

A little slave customer of mine named Nicky took me to the umbrella store one gloomy freak day to equip myself for my slave scenes. Jonny Starr, the Negro manager of the store, who has since worked for me as a stud, slave, or master, showed me his collection of whips and paddles, all of which I tested out against my hand or Nicky’s ass. As I was making my choice I happened to glance at the store window, and standing there was a well-dressed man completely mesmerized.

Even through the glass I could recognize that familiar spaniel look they all have of “Beat me up, hit me, please,” like a faithful dog.

In order to tease him I gave Nicky another smack on his ass, and the whip made a swishing noise that made this window-shopper get all shook up.

Then I got the bright idea that if I was investing so much money in the new instruments of bondage and torture, I should assure myself of at least one customer, so I walked outside and stood alongside him pretending to study the umbrella display.

I happened to be dressed appropriately as a master that day, with black pants, black turtleneck sweater, and my hair in a severe upswept style, and the combination of me and the manacles drove him to speak to me.

“You handle that whip so beautifully,” he said in Hungarian-accented English. “I bet you could do a lot with it to make people happy.”

“If you think I could make you happy, please allow me to try,” I answered.

“That I would just love,” he glowed. “Where can I find you, and when will I come?”

“Come at six P.M. sharp,” I ordered, because with slaves there is never an approximate time. They are always punctual because of the need to be obedient. I handed him my card, and he nodded and walked away.

As expected, the window-shopper arrived on the stroke of six, all sad-eyed and full of expectancy. That night I tried out everything in my new goodie bag, which he loved so much he became a regular slave until he moved away from New York a year and a half later.

A freak, no matter how he was first acquired, usually becomes a faithful one-master slave. I have even kept obscene phone-callers on the line, freaked them out, and turned them into regular and profitable clients.

My ability to spot a freak is uncanny. I can recognize a freak in any environment, and often before he knows it himself, because I can read eyes the way palmists read hands.

This happened on the beach in Puerto Rico with a famous New York city disc jockey I’ll call William H. Robinson, who definitely had a masochistic tendency, but had never acknowledged it, probably out of fear that the reality might either disgust or addict him.

Robinson was wearing dark glasses when we were introduced, and as we stood talking at the water’s edge, I could feel those freaky vibrations, so I asked him to take the shades off.

“I want to see your eyes, because in the eyes of a human being lies his soul,” I told him.

He unsuspectingly took the glasses off, and straight away I said, “I bet you’re a masochist.”

The disc jockey’s reaction was startling. I had really hit a nerve. His whole casual attitude changed, and at once he became afraid of me.

To win back his confidence I told him the truth about myself, and he was shocked all over again, but it made him confess something he had never told anyone in his life, including, and especially, his nice Jewish wife.

For years he has had a recurring dream, and he starts the story this way. “As I get off the air, I see myself dialing the telephone number of a woman in black, whose face I can’t see, but she has a mane of black hair.

“She wants me to come to her at a certain hour, but I never seem able to complete the phone call, because my fingers keep slipping out of the dial.

“All the while I know she will be furious with me because I am unpunctual, and when I finally reach her house, an hour late, I deserve punishment and humiliation.”

The woman in black, he continues, orders him to come to her on his knees, but suddenly he is on one of those amusement-park crazy roads where you take two steps back to every step forward.

Somehow in the illogic of the dream he is in bondage, his knees hurt badly, and when he finally reaches the woman, who is sitting on a tall stool in a room shaped like a bowling alley, she is talking sexy on the phone to other people, but she yells obscenities and laughs and spits at him.

“On your feet, slave,” she orders, and ties him firmly in bondage and beats him, at which point he wakes up sweating beside his little wife, who accuses him of talking to his mistress in his sleep.