Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

The combinations and appetites were inexhaustible, and it was almost morning before the bewildered Texan, not quite believing what had happened, dressed and left. After Marvin and Lisa departed, I slept, utterly fulfilled.

And that was the beginning of a swinging period for me, even though I was going steady with Paul and was still very much in love with him.

However, the syndrome was disconcertingly similar to the Carl affair. As with Carl, I confessed the episode with Lisa and Marvin to Paul, more or less hoping he would realize what he was driving me to. But instead of commiserating, his first words were: “When can we all get together?”

Paul had never been in a swing, and I should have made sure it stayed that way. I had had enough bitter experience to know that converting straights into swingers usually pushes them past the point of no return.

But in order to please Paul, I organized a dinner date with the couple, after which we all went back to his apartment. I had to orchestrate the scene and even though I didn’t want the swing, I did not want to be regarded as the wet blanket.

We pulled Paul’s bed out into the middle of the room and all piled on naked and started doing our thing. I began by kissing my man’s nipples, intending gradually to work my way down to his penis, but when I got there, Lisa the shrinking violet had already arrived.

She was sucking his cock and all over his body, and she obviously dug him. And I could see it was mutual. They were completely engrossed in each other, while I was going crazy with jealousy.

If I have no emotions for the man I am with, then I can swing, but if I am in love I can’t stand the fact that he is enjoying himself with another woman, even if that other woman had been my own lover for one night.

That night I couldn’t face the reality of my man enjoying himself with Lisa; fucking, sucking and eating her delicious pussy. I got so upset I walked from the room with a long face and phoned my answering service, just to keep myself occupied.

Marvin, whom I liked talking to but for whom I had no physical desire, came out and started eating and kissing me all over, but his mouth was too wet and slobbery, and I was in no mood to have his saliva drip all over me.

Finally I was too uptight to take it any longer, so I suggested everyone go home and leave Paul and me alone to sleep together. This didn’t appeal to my lover very much, and he was surly the rest of the night.

More and more on our few precious nights together he would ask me: “Why don’t you call up a girl friend and invite her around?”

As I really loved him so much, I would go out of my way to turn girls from straights into swingers, even if they didn’t turn me on. It would occasionally be fun for half an hour, then Paul or the girl would get possessive and act as though I did not exist. One girl actually cried when I pointed out she was the one that should go home.

The rot was really setting into our relationship. Now I did all the giving and Paul the taking.

My life was hectic at that time, as it always is in winter, when men are hornier for some reason or other. And the combination of the strain on the love affair and my professional life started to exhaust me.

Our meetings became more infrequent and fleeting, and eventually reached the point where I lost all physical desire for Paul. I even started introducing him to my girl friends without feeling any jealousy whatsoever.

However, Paul and I did share a mutual telephone hang-up, and we still spent many hours on the phone talking and joking. You may call it telephonitis. Or perhaps it was merely an extension of our Continental sense of humor. In any case, we continued to relate to each other on the phone.

I love to groove on voices, and I sometimes think I can almost tell the way a person looks by talking to him on the phone for a while.

I am often absolutely right – and occasionally disastrously wrong, as in the case of Nestor, the hot-line caller from Detroit.

Nestor was given my name by a client of mine who came from Nestor’s own hometown. He took to making lengthy, expensive phone calls every day for weeks. He really sounded divine.

From the sound of his voice I imagined him to be six-foot-three, built like a pro football player, and devastatingly handsome.

He was a little arrogant, but in a nice way. He was rich, but not braggy. And he told me about his magnificent townhouse in a nice, unassuming way. His calls made me feel good while I was working, and I looked forward to hearing from him each afternoon.

Eventually Nestor extended an invitation for me to spend a weekend with him in Detroit, and even hinted it could lead to more serious things. I accepted with alacrity.

For the few days before our scheduled weekend together I was floating on air and telling everybody, “I think this is it, I think I’ve found the man I’m going to marry.”

On the Friday when I was packing to leave, he called me and suggested I pack some dirty movies, just for laughs.

“My projector broke down,” I lied to him. I didn’t want to convert this straight, masculine-sounding man into anything freaky. I wanted to start out on the right footing and remain there. “Never mind the projector,” he said. “I have a good one.”

“Why are you stressing the point about those lousy movies?” I asked. “I’m getting away from that scene, and I don’t want to be faced with them on my weekend.”

“Well, darling, just bring them along for the hell of it,” he urged.

“Okay,” I agreed. “But please don’t expect me to watch them.” Then I left for the airport. All the way to Detroit I fantasized about the weekend to come with this multimillionaire who, my friend had told me, had the reputation of also being very good in bed.

Nestor was at the airport to meet me – all skinny five-foot-five of him. In rapid succession my dreams began to crumble. Not only had my hero feet of clay, but legs of matchwood and the face of a midget mustachioed magician. The nice arrogance that came through on the phone was in reality an almost insufferable snottiness.

The only thing that was true to the image was his wealth. Nestor brought me to his magnificent townhouse, which had exquisitely decorated rooms and old masters on the walls.

But apart from that, he had all the charm of a turtle and was as amusing as a traffic accident.

The house was very quiet, and all I could hear was this cross-eyed Siamese cat with no claws meowing around the place.

So Nestor played with the cat, fed it, turned the television on, and we watched all these people from the Apollo walking around on the moon.

Around midnight I was starving hungry, so he finally put a brisket of beef in the oven, which was great. I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a year, because I was just running out for a quick bite to eat in between working.

You would think I would love this kind of country atmosphere, but in honesty, I was bored stiff.

All this man did was fuck me, one, two, three times, turn on ten different vibrators and dildos, then start putting on all the movies, broke two of mine and promised to splice them in the morning, which he never did.

Then at three-thirty A.M. we sat down to dinner, and at five A.M. we finally went to sleep.

At nine A.M. I was up and peppy, and I wanted to make a few phone calls to New York. But Nestor was snoring away, and he got mad at me. “Why don’t you go to sleep till about three this afternoon?” he asked.

“Sleep until three in the afternoon? In New York I am up and out at nine A.M. – always. I never sleep more than four hours,” I replied.

So he got up irritably, and all he did was change the sheets and put the old ones in the Laundromat, wash the dishes, and give the cross-eyed cat some food.