Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

Eventually the clothes are ready, and I drape the invisible finery around him and assure him he is a vision of sartorial splendor. He settles up his massive account, thanks me profusely, and, goes merrily on his way. Andersen’s non-clothes have cost him dearly, but he is thrilled to pay, and always eager for more tall tales. However, that man has often exhausted my imagination.

Occasionally I have to tell him: “Hey, H. Christian, I’m running out of stories. Are you sure you don’t want to get laid?” I really would like to see him get more value for his money, but he prefers to be taken for a ride.

In fact, one time he wanted me to take him for a weird ride, literally. He wanted me to kidnap him!

What’s more, he offered such a big ransom fee for his kidnapping that I could not refuse. Together with a limousine driver I know, I planned to pick Andersen up outside a Fourteenth Street subway station, where he agreed to wait for us with a flower in his buttonhole and a rolled-up newspaper in his hand at twelve noon.

But, seeing he likes to suffer, I kept him waiting till two-thirty P.M., when I pulled up in the black limousine, lured him into the back seat, and stuffed a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag over his head.

We drove him to an upstate motel, where the limo driver kept guard over him for two days, refusing him anything but an occasional paper-cupful of water. On the third day we released him, and he was so delighted with his kidnapping that he paid us a tip on top of the generous ransom money.

The sickie syndrome, like the M and S, often involves the use of props; but rarely, unlike the latter, are they instruments of bondage or torture.

It is more often something relatively harmless like some surgical tubing knotted around the private parts, cigarette smoke, or expensive silk scarves.

One weirdo pays me to tie a nautical slipknot around his penis and balls, lead him around the room like a puppy, manipulate it while he sits on the floor and I sit on the bed, and when I want him to climax, I give it a sudden jerk, the knot comes away, and he pops his cookies.

Another sickie simply wants me to sit in a chair while he sits naked facing me in another chair, and puff on a cigarette and blow the smoke in his face while he plays with himself.

Expensive silk scarves are the hang-up of the president of one of Europe’s largest automobile manufacturing companies, whom I will identify as Mr. Bigwheel.

I acquired Mr. Bigwheel as a customer from Madeleine, who used to make lots of money selling him cocaine at highly inflated prices, which he then used in his nocturnal charades.

Mr. Bigwheel’s pet scene is having hookers come to his Waldorf Towers suite – always in pairs – to do nothing but stand motionless in front of a wraparound mirror while he dances around draping them in Hermes scarves.

When this man is in town, I usually do the first shift myself because I know that before the night is over he will request a whole gaggle of girls, and one previous time I couldn’t find enough.

When we arrive at his suite he greets us wearing a pair of chic silk pajamas and does not attempt to disrobe or expose his body at all during the next two hours, which is how long it generally lasts. However, the hired girls have to undress and put on a pair of his heavy woolen socks, get back into their own high-heeled shoes, and stand motionless while he does his decorating.

Then he dips cocaine on our breasts and pussycats and eats or sniffs it off and starts going berserk, babbling away in an incoherent mixture of French and his own language.

It becomes very tiring for the girls, because, except for the five minutes when we are allowed to lie down while he admires his handiwork, we are on our feet all the time, and those thick woolen socks really make our shoes pinch.

After two uncomfortable but entirely platonic hours he pays us $200 each, and we dress and leave.

Mr. Bigwheel always keeps me awake throughout the night finding sets of two prostitutes to send over to him, and about nine in the morning, when you would think he would be exhausted from all the cocaine and cavorting, he calls up, wants me to come over to straight screw him, boom, boom, twenty minutes and out. Then he goes off to a business conference, and that night he freaks out in the same fashion all over again.

Another thing that is very big with sickies who want to do anything but screw is wrestling. The “Referee,” a New York literary critic, has this activity down to a fine art.

The Referee comes to my house carrying a little black suitcase from which he pulls out an old-fashioned flowered garterbelt-corset type garment that he wants me to undress and get into. Either it’s too tight or I’m putting on weight, because I really have to squeeze to get it on.

Then I have to put on fishnet stockings and high heels and lie down on my bed. The Referee undresses too, and gets on the bed beside me with his little black bag.

He opens the treasured bag again and pulls out a neat folder, which I first thought would be the same old pictures of men sucking women and women sucking men, but no, instead it’s a whole collection of women wrestlers, which he spreads around the bed.

The pictures are ancient, and the paper is yellow, and even though he has looked at them hundreds of times, he still gets juiced up showing them to me. “Look how this one’s tits stick up, and look how this one’s got her cunt in the air!”

He gets very carried away as we discuss the wrestling postures of the funny-looking women with their old-fashioned hair styles.

After awhile he puts them all neatly away and takes out another folder full of pictures of movie stars like Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot, as well as beautiful models in ads, and the women all have one thing in common, they are all wearing some kind of foundation garment, like corsets, garters, or stockings.

Then the Referee wants me to match them together as wrestling partners. “Who do you think could really give it to the other one?” he asks lasciviously. Apparently I do an expert job of pairing them, because he gets so excited he starts jumping around on the bed, and asks me have I ever wrestled with a woman.

With freaks and weirdos, psychology is one of the most important attributes, so I tell him, “I love to wrestle, and I always win, because I am very aggressive.” I make up a vivid story about having a fight on the beach in Puerto Rico with a stuck-up English girl with red hair and freckles, whom I couldn’t stand on account of some boyfriend.

“I grabbed her head and pulled her hair and kicked her left and right, and we flew all over the place, and I even tore a clump of hair from her pussy.”

The story really freaks him out, and all the time I am talking, I am jerking his cock. “And finally I beat her black and blue and practically senseless, and I was the winner,” I conclude. And so does the Referee, who climaxes, thanks me, dresses, and goes.

I’m a big hit with the wrestling weirdos because I am strongly built and sometimes can look slightly butch. I also have, as one of them told me, perfect balance. And that’s my problem, because this fatiguing freak Gorgeous George will wrestle with nobody but me.

I met Gorgeous George before I was a busy madam and could devote the time it took to tumble around the floor with him, but these days his hang-up is far too time-consuming – and painful – for me.

Gorgeous George is skinny and kind of ugly, but a genius mentally, a brilliant pianist-composer, a financial wizard, and an accomplished tennis player.

He is also the father of a young son, which amazed me when I found out, because all he ever does for his $150 is roll around the floor and wrestle. He never screws, and he never even jerks off. How, I wondered for a long time, did this man make a baby when he never even climaxes? Then I accidentally found out at a social Christmas party, and it was Mrs. Gorgeous George herself who told me!