Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

Evidently it was no secret that he was spending his money with me to get his weirdo gratification. His wife knew about it and entirely approved.

“So you’re Xaviera?” she said when she was introduced to me by him at the party. “Please let me thank you for all the wonderful things you have done for my husband. You have improved our sex life enormously.”

Mrs. Gorgeous George explained that after his sessions at my house her husband was able to get aroused to the point that when he came home, he would lock her in a wrestling hold, put his penis in her, and ejaculate. Otherwise, she admitted to me, they never had any kind of sex.

I asked how he acquired his crazy hang-up, and she said when he was a scrawny little twelve-year-old in school, a fat girl whom he had a kind of crush on picked him up in the gym one day, held him over her head for a minute, then dropped him to the floor and laughed her insides out.

Her husband, she said, felt very humiliated, but at the same time experienced a kind of sexual exhilaration, and when he reached manhood he started looking around for fat or hefty women.

She claimed, and it could be true, that he even hung around circus sideshows having fantasies about the fat freak ladies.

However, until he met me he never found anyone who combined attractive looks with strength and who would cooperate with him, for a fee, of course.

At the time I met his wife I had already stopped seeing Gorgeous George, because I could not afford the time he took and did not enjoy walking around for the next two days after each session with stiff joints and a bruised body.

She implored me to start taking care of him again, and even suggested I come to their big house, where there would be more space to wrestle. “If it would make you feel easier, I could always go out to my music lessons when you are there,” she said.

I had to refuse, but to this day she still calls and says: “Xaviera, it’s George, he’s in terrible shape again today, won’t you please come over and help him?”

Apart from the uncomfortable side effects, Gorgeous George’s wrestling scene is a breeze compared with some of the group freak scenes that have to be organized.

To begin with, you often have to find and pay “extras” to participate, and that can sometimes border on disaster if you don’t get the right one.

This happened in a group freak scene with a shy businessman named Lionel, who visited New York weekly.

Lionel was a peek freak who loved to watch movies of men making it together, or, better still, observe them at close quarters through a two-way mirror. He was a married man, but I could easily see that he was a potential-homosexual, and it would only be a matter of time before he plucked up the nerve to participate himself.

It happened one Sunday afternoon. “Xaviera, do you think it would be possible to arrange a nice, discreet young man for me to experiment with?” he asked sheepishly.

It was a very simple matter to phone up the stud service of Pim Anderson, who is also described as a madam, and ask him to send me over someone attractive who is shaped huge.

And that’s where you can get into difficulties using studs.

With a girl you can see how she is built just by looking at her, but if a stud says he has a big one, you have to take his word for it. You can’t say, “Okay, let it all hang out.”

This Sunday afternoon Pim sends me over a beautiful-looking kid named Raymond who, just as the scene is about to begin, cannot get it up in the worst way.

I call him outside and ask him: “What’s the problem, why can’t you get it up?” And he says, “I already screwed five times today, and I also jerked off when I woke up this morning, because it felt so nice.”

I can’t use a tired stud, so I had to fire him. “If you want to be a stud on Sundays, don’t jerk off, nut,” I told him.

Meanwhile, poor Lionel has paid me $200, for which he doesn’t get a refund, but I promise him a fantastic four-way scene the next day. But this time I get hold of Jonny Starr, the Negro from the umbrella store, who is in no way homosexual but whose cock is gigantic. Jonny will participate free of charge in almost anything as long as he gets the girl in the end.

Next afternoon, on my king-size bed are Lionel, Jonny, my roommate, Corinne, and I, and we’re all waiting to go into the scene when Jonny stalls. Trouble again.

“I’m not going the Hershey Bar road without a rubber,” he insists, and wants to delay the scene while I find one.

There are none available, so I say, “Listen, you’re brown already, so what do you care?” And everybody cracks up, and he agrees to go ahead anyway.

This time Lionel gets a really good scene. While he lies on his side, Corinne is in front of him giving him a blow-job and Jonny is behind him with his big cock going in and out while Lionel is screaming ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, because the first time it always hurts a lot. All the time I am behind Jonny, fingering his asshole and thinking a hard man is good to find.

In the end Lionel is sore but ecstatic, and Jonny screwed both me and Corinne free of charge, and everybody got their money’s worth. However, two days later Lionel called up to tell me that his square country wife is demanding to know why he has to eat his dinner off the mantelpiece.

If a weirdo has a hang-up for group scenes, he will sometimes go to all lengths to pursue them, and can even end up in a very dangerous situation, which is what happened to “Nijinski,” the sickie who digs watching naked girls do ballet.

When I first met Nijinski I was a loner about to go into the madam business, and he was only slightly sick sexually, going with one girl at a time and wanting her to cavort around in front of the mirror before they made love.

By a coincidence I found out he lived in the same building I opened my first house in, and he became a regular customer, getting gradually kinkier. He used to put me through hoops finding non-Caucasian girls, Orientals or Negroes, or anything but straight-up Anglo-Saxon types. Then he started insisting I give him a reduction in the fee because he was a regular customer.

In a way I liked him; he was a brilliant graphic designer who worked with a leading advertising agency, but he would sometimes get on my nerves with his demands.

One Friday night when I had already gone to bed there was a persistent ringing on the doorbell, and I went out and opened it to find Nijinski in the company of two vicious-looking black street whores, and he wanted me to ask them in. “Hey, I want you to get to know my two new girl friends,” he said drunkenly. “They’re very good ballet dancers.”

“If they’re ballet dancers, I’m an astronaut,” I told him. “Good night, I am going back to sleep.”

That night I had sent one of my girls, Elaine, out on a date for the whole night, and expected her back at eight the next morning with the check. I am the one who is always responsible for the check, and I pay the girl whether it bounces or not, but in this case I did not anticipate any difficulty because the client was the respected dean of a big university.

At eight the doorbell rang, and I opened it to find a trembling, semihysterical Elaine standing there white as a sheet.

“There are police and photographers all over the lobby,” she said. “And the elevator is covered in blood.”

I brought her in and gave her a coffee and put on glasses and a wig and went downstairs to investigate. From the doorman I learned it was Nijinski, who was in critical condition in Bellevue Hospital.

On the way back to my apartment I noticed blood smeared all over the walls of the hall, and to this day those marks are still visible.

Some days later, when he was off the Critical List, I decided to visit my friend in the hospital to see how he was and what had happened. He told me that when they got home, he’d asked the girls to disrobe and do some ballet steps for him. But they refused and demanded quick money instead.