Laura Meets Jeffrey (5 page)

“When I met Jeffrey I had just realized what I wanted my life to be: I wanted to experience ultimate pleasure and joy, that really the whole pursuit in life—the ultimate focus and movement in life—was about joy and bliss. So I went directly from understanding this to meeting Jeffrey.

“Jeffrey was a great fuck,” Laura continues, “Oh God could Jeffrey satisfy me! Yes! OH YES! I felt this man's passion from both his hands—fucking him was as much as anyone could ask from sex! I didn't want to loose a single drop of this initial attraction. I am a junky for passion and this man was an opportunity I didn't want to miss.”

That afternoon as Sherry and I and our dogs drove to my cabin in the country for the weekend, I knew I had to break up with her.

That night I went through the motions with less energy than usual. I couldn't get Laura out of my mind. I kept thinking, “She's a whore, I can't get involved.” But I was.

Sherry knew something was up. She asked why I was so quiet. I told her I was tired. Instead of her nagging, bitchy selfishness, she was deferential. I didn't know how to end it with her but I knew one thing: with hostile bitches you have to get them to leave you.

If you leave them, they'll machine gun your life, fuck your reputation, annoy your friends, steal, break things, call you in the middle of the night, and cause endless trouble. They'll turn you in to the I.R.S.

But if you can manipulate them to leave you—you're safe. Their ego will be intact. They won't have rejection to fuel their anger. They'll feel sorry for you. They'll be comfortable with you being the victim. They'll feel they won. They won't call the I.R.S.

All next week in New York City I did whatever Sherry wanted. We listened to her country music every day. I let each snide remark pass unchallenged. I swallowed my words when she served my medium rare steak well done. Whatever ridiculous thing she was offended by I apologized for. Deprived of the combat she so dearly needed she focused on my lack of financial ambition and said, “Jeffrey, this isn't working anymore. You're too comfortable with too little. I think I need some space.” I needed a sharper resolution so I begged her not to leave me. I continued being obsequious. The next day she threw me and Necort out.

5

My heart gets flushed down the toilet of love

Early May 1980

Now that I wasn't with Sherry anymore I needed a place to live in New York. I hated commuting two hours each way from my cabin.

A country neighbor and friend, Susan came over to stay with Necort while I looked for a place. He adored her and I'd come home to a clean cabin, a happy dog and lots of delicious food waiting for me. And if either one of us needed sex, neither of us was shy about asking.

I had about $850 a month to spend and in the spring of 1980 that still got you a decent place, but there were not many vacancies and I was not having any luck.

Three weeks to the day after I met Laura, with every day a losing battle to not think about her, I was in a cab late one morning on the way to check out an apartment when we passed 54th and Madison. I told the cabby to stop. I had to see her.

I enter Eureka and ask if Laura is in. Liz is off but Theresa, her assistant, says Laura just went into a session and won't be available for fifty minutes. She asks if I would like to see another girl. I tell Theresa that I only want to see Laura and only want to talk to her a minute or two. I ask if it's OK to wait. Theresa smiles, “Sure, go in room five and I'll send her in as soon as she's out.”

I wait. Not scared, not frustrated. Empty of anxiety. There is nothing else I can do. I am as emotional, hot, driven as I have ever been, close to exploding, so I dig down deep into my pool of cool. If there ever is a moment outside of the boxing ring to overrule my emotions, this is it. I don't want to come off as a needy jerk or a desperate lunatic. I find the still place and jump in. I am Billy Jack, Hud and The Outlaw Josey Wales. I feel thinner. I stare in the mirror and instead of the chump I sometimes see, I see a face full of character.

Forty minutes later, Laura rushes in wearing only a towel. She is stoned. There is just a trace of lipstick left. “I heard you were here. I've got to finish up. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere!” She rushes out.

She looks beautiful, wild. She smells like fucking. I'm so excited, I'm no longer cool. Josey Wales and Billy Jack desert me.

After what seems like a week, she's back. Again her pheromones call to me. She smiles with her eyes and her mouth. I keep myself from ripping off her towel.

“I can't stop thinking of you,” I blurt.

“I can't stop thinking about you,” she answers, answering my prayers.

“I've got to see you soon,” I say as we fondle each other's arms.

She stuns me with, “I need you to fuck me right now.”

“I don't have enough money.” I only had about $30 on me. I'd planned to go to my bank just before I checked out the apartment.

“I've got money. I'll pay,” she says, blowing me away with her urgency.

She runs out and sixty seconds later she rushes back. “I took my last two tips and gave $35 of it to Theresa for your session. I'm glad you came back. I think about you every day.”

She rattles off, “I love the way you hold my head when you fuck me. I have to have more of that in my life. I need you to fuck me. Fuck me, please.”

Her body is wet from the last fuck and her pussy is lubricated with another man's come and I love it all. We are groping animals acting out preordained genetic code. First me on top, then intoxicating, wet, together, slippery sixty-nine; I taste her previous client. I don't care. Next, pounding doggie style, then elegant missionary with her long legs wrapped around me. We change positions frequently, flipping through the
Kama Sutra
.

Now standing up on the floor, with her bent over holding her ankles.

Now her legs spread and her hands up against the wall in cop/frisk position.

Back in bed, her on top facing me. Laura is not on her knees but on the soles of her feet, touching me only where the fuck meets, slow milking, sucking me with her pussy.

Now she leans over with her hands on my shoulders so we can kiss. Then rolling over in perfect unison with me on top responding to her barely audible, “harder,” belting into her, jet-propelled bursts, an offensive guard lunging at the snap, harder and harder until we're crunched up against the headboard and I'm holding her head in my hands, her back curving slightly, and we come in the shuddering frenzy of divine spasm.

Even now, nearly thirty years later, I can still feel my shooting—creamy soft blasts in her belly again and again and again, giant throbs convulsing inside me so many times I fear I might run out of jism and pump blood.

My spasms stop. My dick slithers out and I fall to the bed. We lie there staring into each other's eyes. No one moves. Then with a knock at the door—reality seeps in through the cracks. My vision expands beyond Laura to include the rest of the world. “I'll be back,” she purrs.

Five minutes later Laura walks back into the room with determination. Something is wrong. “How much of a tip are you going to owe me?” She demands. “When are you going to pay me back for the session and drop off my tip?”

“What? What?” You could drive a nail into my skull and I wouldn't blink. “What are you talking about?” I bumble.

She softly repeats her demands—an accounts receivable manager coolly dunning an overdue bill from a good customer.

“I'll, um, repay you this afternoon and drop off your tip.” I get dressed feeling ashamed of my nakedness. I avoid her eyes and split.

I walk the streets punch drunk. The quizzical mantra of “What?” is the sole noise in my head. Then, finally, “What the fuck is going on? How could I travel through ecstasy to the toilet?”

I felt betrayal, not only by Laura but also by my own self-defenses. How could I have misread her? Was she a conniving hustler the whole time? Was I just another trick? I was so out of balance that if I'd broken out with pimples, boils and festering sores right there on the street it wouldn't have been a surprise.

Later that afternoon I went back with $85 in an envelope and dropped it off at the receptionist's desk. I didn't ask to see Laura.

6

Shake it off. Get back in the game.

Twenty minutes later to three weeks later

I got my car and drove back to my cabin. Sometimes Susan left when I returned and sometimes she stayed. I called and asked her to stay because I did not want to be alone. I got home and I cried in her arms. It was one of the very few times in my life I couldn't get it up to fuck. She made me herb tea, I took a couple sleeping pills and she rubbed me to sleep. I never heard her leave.

The next morning I recovered enough to want to know what the story was. I called Eureka three times until I got Laura. I had no pride.

“What's going on? You tell me you miss me and you need me to fuck you right away and you'll pay for it and then you leave and come back in the room like I'm a regular john. I don't get it.”

“Look,” she said, “I have a husband and a mortgage and a huge debt to pay back. As long as I'm in debt my focus is to get out of it and I can't just go off and have a good time. If we're together again I'm sure it will be magical but I need to get money.”

“Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. I thought something else was going on. I must have misled myself. If you change your mind you can reach me through Response answering service. They're listed and you know my name.” I said goodbye and hung up.

I felt stupid. I fell for a whore. What an asshole. I told my friends the story, making it funnier each time, purging Laura from my guts with each telling. Self-denigration is the soul of Jewish humor. In a week and a half the incident was dim headlights in my rear view mirror.

“I'm an excitement junky,” Laura explains, “I love extreme orgasms. I love orgasms that never stop. I love being adored beyond limits. I love taking everything to its limits. I couldn't pass up this experience with Jeffrey—but I had huge financial troubles and I still had to pay back Sandy's ten thousand dollar gambling debt. I don't think Jeffrey understood…”

I went about my life. I had fun with Susan and Necort. I got my sex drive back. I hung out with my buddy and long-time occasional fuck, Erika, a foxy, six-foot tall self-styled “Cum Junkie” whose Friday night hobby was to gang-suck entire barrooms of men. I'd watch her get drunk, sit in a men's room stall and give a rousing suck-off to a quickly moving line of maybe a dozen or more guys. Sometimes she'd get a little too drunk, and I'd walk her home and hold her over her toilet as she vomited a most unique collection of sperm and imported and domestic beers. Knowing what she was about to do in the evening, I'd have sex with her before we left for the bar. Even I had some limits.

Until I could find my own place in New York, I made a deal with a client to pay part of his rent on a slickly furnished expensive flat. Lots of light woods and glass, lots of mirrors, good for both business and for impressing New York pussy. The only problem was it was a no-pets building so I couldn't take Necort.

A few days later I started having an affair with Becky, an extremely attractive, WASP stock analyst I meet in the elevator. (My rent money was already paying off!) She was a Virginia Tidewater Aristocrat, one of the kinky, trust fund, Protestant old-money rich.

Becky was very tall, nearly as tall as me, and a lot taller than me when she wore high heels, which I encouraged. Some men hate being with taller women. At just under six feet and comfortable with my height, I love when the woman I'm with towers over me. It says, “I'm the guy who caught the big fish.”

She was also slim, a Wharton grad, a middle-level manager at a very big brokerage company, a lady “suit” and my first real adult, with a hairdo, golf clubs, money market fund, a condo in Florida, a refined appreciation of art and theater, a closet full of Perry Ellis and Albert Nippon, a Mercedes, nouvelle-French cooking skills, and to top it off, as many handcuffs as the Sixth Precinct.

She loved smoking pot, being handcuffed to her huge four-poster bed and being fucked while struggling against her bonds. I got the feeling she was consciously slumming with me, which made it sexier for both of us. I was Stanley from
Streetcar.

She liked it when I talked like a street punk and acted tough. Sadly, she was also one of those people born without a sense of humor. Worse than not being funny herself, she didn't get my jokes.

But Becky did have compensations: skin that felt the way expensive wine tastes, a pussy so delicious that it must have taken several generations of refinement to breed, and long, long legs. What a fuckin' set of wheels!

And could she ever suck dick! She was the girl who literalized the proverbial remark about orally removing the chrome from a '55 Buick Roadmaster. I made myself think of that every time one of my witty bon mots went flat.

She also did something that I have only heard of once before and that was in the movie Deep Throat. She came when she sucked cock. I don't mean small mini-swells of pleasure; I mean thrashing, screaming, major-league, exploding climaxes. Quite impressive.

The second time I visited her I tried fucking her ass but it she would have none of that. Until she said, “If you want that you'll have to take it!” I understood. She wanted fake rape. Not at all my trip, but I'd known other women who loved anal sex but considered it a perversion and needed to be pushed over some psychic wall in order to allay their guilt.

I handcuffed her wrists and ankles to her four-poster and Vaselined the entrance. I readied the target by working in one, then two, then three fingers. I was gentle enough not to hurt her and hard enough for her to feel she was being forced. I slid in slow. Then faster. Then jack hammer. I came in her and she came again and again.

Then she begged to clean off my dick with her mouth, a request that separated the moderately kinky from the truly perverted. She relished the humiliation and moaned drunkenly as she did the deed. “Got to lick my shit off the dirty Jew's dick,” she chanted like a hammer-swinging member of a chain gang. It was the only pleasant anti-Semitic experience of my life.