The following day I ran into her in the hall. She looked right at me and then walked by like I wasn't even there. It bothered me until I saw her at rehearsal. I asked her if she wanted to go up to the booth again.
"The booth?" she said incredulously, as though she had never been there, "I wouldn't be caught dead with you in the booth or anywhere else."
"Why?" I asked, becoming altogether confused.
"Why? Why didn't you tell me you were just a punk seventh grader? I thought you were a ninth grader, like me."
"What difference does it make?"
"Difference? Already my girl friends are kidding me about going with a baby. If I'd known you were only in the seventh grade, I never even would've talked to you, much less what I let you do up there." She pointed, blushing.
"Let me do?" I shot back angrily. "I seem to remember you were the one doing almost everything."
Coloring even more, she turned quickly and walked away. But I didn't care. I relived those blissful moments in the light booth many times in my fantasies, embellishing them a little each time.
In 1947 the Bay Area was dismantling its many military installations with tremendous speed. One of the biggest was the Mare Island Naval Shipyard at Vallejo, across the Bay. Vallejo became a boom town in the war and was known not only for its shipyards, but also for its many fine whorehouses, built to service our weary sailors and construction workers.
Our trumpet player, Hank, had an older brother who had a car. The Vallejo cathouses, as we called them, were a prime topic of conversation in our group, and Hank's brother decided that he would take a bunch of us little kids over there to get laid.
The house, an old wooden structure of 1920s vintage and painted a neat white, stood on a quiet corner. We parked, and walked slowly to the front door, surprised that there was no red light in the window. The five of us stood on the old, railed porch, each waiting for the other to make the fateful move and push the doorbell. Finally Hank's brother growled roughly, "Ahhh, you bastards are all chickenshit." He pushed the bell hard, as the rest of us giggled nervously.
I expected some hard-faced old broad to open the door. Instead, a tall, very skinny bleached blonde came. "Yeah?" she said, showing little interest. None of us said anything. "Well, whaddayawant?" she persisted.
"Mac sent us," said Hank's brother, ever brave, and the only one of us who knew the password.
She scrutinized us closely. "You guys all twenty-one?"
"Oh, yeah!" we all assured her, assuming our deepest voices.
Inside, the hallway had been turned into a reception area, with an old wooden bench on one wall. The whole thing reminded me of my doctor's waiting room, except that the music of Tommy Dorsey came from a phonograph on a nearby table.
The tall blonde informed us that we would be taken in turn, as the girls became "free." We sat silently, examining the faded wallpaper, being careful not to look at one another.
"You guys got enough money?" the blonde asked.
"How much is it?" asked Hank's brother.
"Five for a straight, seven for a french, ten for around the world, and twenty for any real fancy stuff," she droned, still bored.
I had eleven dollars, out of which I had to split gas and bridge fare and maybe buy a little beer later. I would just make it, I figured.
Eddie was sitting next to Hank's brother. He leaned over and whispered, "Hey! What's a french?"
"A blow job," Hank's brother whispered back, just loud enough for us all to hear.
"Oh," said Eddie.
Silence for a minute. Then Eddie, again. "Hey!"
"Yeah?" said Hank's brother.
"What's around the world?"
"That's when they lick you all over."
"Oh."
More silence.
"Hey!"
"Yeah?" this time with some annoyance.
"What's a blow job?"
Hank's brother looked exasperated. "For Christ's sake, that's when they suck you off with their mouth."
"Oh."
Actually, I'm glad Eddie asked, because I didn't know what a french or around the world were, either, and I wasn't really sure I knew what a straight was. It was all so strange and unreal.
The drapes into the hall opened, and a plumpish redhead in her early twenties stepped through. She was wearing a diaphanous gown with bra and panties underneath, all in red.
The tall blonde said, "Okay, fellas. Who's first?"
Silence and a slight shuffling of feet.
"Well, come on, we ain't got all night, y'know."
Hank's brother got up off the bench.
"Whatcha want, honey?" the blonde asked.
"Uh, straight." His voice seemed a little hoarse.
"Okay. Five bucks. Pay me, then you go with Darlene, here."
Hank's brother paid, Darlene took his hand, and they disappeared through the drapes. I had the feeling I might never see him again. He wasn't much, but he was the only moral support the rest of us had.
Shortly another redhead, taller and thinner than the first, appeared and went off with Hank, now also minus his five dollars. That left three of us sitting there. It began to seem more like we were being taken for execution than to get laid. I couldn't take the tension any more. I made up my mind that the next time those drapes opened I would jump up.
Soon, the drapes moved and I leaped to my feet, only to be greeted by an elderly Negro man who proceeded to empty ashtrays into a pan and pick up a few papers from the dirty wooden floor.
Blushing violently, I sat down again. It seemed that Hank and his brother were taking a very long time.
Finally the drapes opened again and a short, dark-haired girl with Spanish features entered. She was wearing a blue bathrobe and matching mule slippers. I bounced up once more, and in my deepest voice said, "I'll take a straight," giving the blond madam the five-dollar bill I had been crumpling in my pocket. Damned if I was going to go for a french or any of that fancy stuff when I had never even been screwed the usual way.
"This is Lotta," the madam said as she stuffed my five bucks down the neck of her dress.
Lotta smiled, took my hand, and led me through the drapes. I had begun to suspect that on the other side of those drapes there was a pit filled with boa constrictors, but there was only a flight of stairs, which we climbed to the second floor.
"What's your name, honey?" Lotta asked.
"Uh, Dick," I replied, forgetting for the moment just what my name really was.
We went down a hallway and entered a small bedroom. There was a washbasin in the corner, a bureau, and a double bed, pushed against the wall in one corner. The floor was bare wood, except for a throw rug beside the bed. Now, inside the closed room, knowing for certain that I was going to- get laid, I was nearly breathless with a mixture of anticipation of the known and dread of the unknown.
Lotta opened the top drawer of her bureau and withdrew a small, white washcloth and a half-used bar of soap. "Here," she said, giving them to me. I went to the basin in the corner and began washing my hands, although not knowing why. "No, no," she said, as though talking to an infant. She came over and started undoing my belt and began unzipping my pants. I was almost crazy with embarrassment. She would take down my pants and underpants, and out it would flop, swollen and hard. And she would probably laugh at me.
Sure enough, the pants came down, and then the underpants. Lotta was very businesslike, but she didn't laugh. Instead, she soaped up the cloth and began washing my cock and balls, very thoroughly.
"How old are you?" she asked.