I went inside and was assigned to Carter Miles, a banker who is famous for his big penis that none of the other girls’ pussycats could take. They call him “the long mile,” for obvious reasons.
I remember Carter pounding away at me. He took forever to climax, as he was very drunk. His friends were all finished and getting dressed.
Meantime, I heard Georgette accept a phone booking for another two guys who were coming by, and she asked me to stay on for them. So everybody was dressed now except me, because I am an exhibitionist, and even in my own house I love to walk around in the nude or with a very short nightie.
I was just sitting, relaxing, one customer’s head in my lap, when the doorbell buzzed. “Let me greet them in the nude,” I jokingly said to Georgette. “What a wonderful reception that will be;” one of the bankers mumbled.
I stood beside her as she undid a hundred locks. She opened the door, and two guys were there. Both very large men, one was bald and kind of vicious-looking, but I suppose they can’t help being born ugly and their money is as good as everybody else’s. So I jumped forward and greeted them. “Hello, darling,” I said to the big, bald one. “Come on in, let me take your jacket; make yourself at home.” But whom did I notice behind them but the little Asian-looking guy in the dark glasses, whom they’d obviously grabbed on the way out, and the weasel was wetting his pants, he was so frightened.
The men flashed their badges and said, “Vice Squad, you’re all under arrest.” Then everything happened at once, eight uniformed cops burst through the door, and chaos broke loose.
The girls were screaming, the customers were having several fits, and only Marianna, Georgette’s maid, kept her cool and hid the books. Even Georgette, the madam herself, was yelling stupid threats at the cops. This for me was a very scary moment, and I didn’t know what was going to happen next.
Meanwhile, my little black book with my clients all listed was in the next room with my clothes, and I was standing there naked. The first thing I instinctively did was run into the bedroom, rip out the pages with the addresses on them, and hide them underneath Georgette’s laundry while the uniformed cops were turning the place over for drugs.
One came to the bathroom just as I finished hiding the pages and ordered me to get dressed to go with everyone to the station. But in all the disturbance I couldn’t find my bikini underpants, my panty hose, or my bra (which people were wearing in those days), so I had to go out into the freezing night with nothing under my coat but a light minidress.
The neighbors were lined up in the halls watching as they herded us out like geese into the squad cars, and off to the precinct.
It’ seemed we were bumping and circling around the city for hours, and meanwhile the Irish cop beside me grabbed my hand and put it on his huge hard-on. The wagon is dark, my laugh is cynical.
“What is this nonsense?” I said at the top of my voice. “You arrest us for selling it, and now you want a freebie blow-job in the car!” This seemed such an inappropriate thing to do that I cracked up. “What the hell, we’re going to prison, we might as well give it away,” I said jokingly.
The other girls were mortified. “Take it easy, Xaviera,” they said; “this is a serious matter.”
But to me this was the breaking point. We were being pushed around like common whores, we were upset, and my ass was literally freezing off without my underpants, and this cop wanted to get a freebie. Embarrassed, he shifted uneasily away from me, his ardor considerably cooled.
It, was around one A.M. when we arrived at the precinct house, and we were again herded up a flight of filthy stairs and into a dirty office, where Lieutenant Greenleaf, the big, bald ape who arrested me, took off his coat and sat down to his desk.
We could make a couple of phone calls if we were quick about it, they told us, but the trouble was that I didn’t have anyone to call except Paul Lindfeld, a straight man I met in Miami whom I’d been going out with steadily since Christmas.
Even though it was late, I hoped he wouldn’t mind helping me out, because he was my guy.
“Paul,” I said, “I’m awfully sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I am in some serious trouble. I’ve been arrested, I’m worried, I don’t know what to do.”
The last thing in the world I expected was his answer. “I don’t want to know about it,” he said. “Don’t tell them you are calling me, don’t mention my name, and scratch it out of your book in case they confiscate it.”
It shows you how much you can sometimes depend on a man – when you need a helping hand and there’s nothing in it for him, he lets you down.
Time passed by very slowly at the police station, and nothing was happening for ages except that we were hungry and cold. Finally they decided to interrogate us one by one.
Georgette whispered in my ear, “Deny you were paid,” which turned out to be true, because we lost our pay for that night. “And don’t tell them who you are or where you live.” When my turn came a young Irish cop sat me down and asked my name. Despite Georgette’s advice, I gave it to him. There was no alternative. “Address, age, and occupation?” he pursued. Occupation? This struck me as a redundant kind of question, so I answered, “Nymphomaniac.” This big idiot said how do you spell that. “N-y-m-p-h,” I began and the girls started to crack up, and even two detectives dozing in chairs started laughing.
Despite the humor, I was depressed about this whole thing, and it was cold in there. I was very tired, so I climbed on a desk and tried to get some sleep. Behind me as I lay down I heard the cop interrogating Georgette, and they didn’t have to ask her name, because she was already one of the most notorious madams in New York at that time.
“Hey, you’re typing all kinds of errors on that sheet,” I heard her say to him. So the cop replied, “Yeah, how can I concentrate?” He pointed at me. “Look at that broad there with her bare ass sticking out in my face.”
Around five A.M. we were once again pushed into the squad cars, and this time we went downtown to the Tombs – my first visit – where we went through the whole rigamatick, filling in forms and making statements all over again. Only this was an even more horrible place than the station house – full of robbers, hoodlums, drunks, addicts, guys in fights, and streetwalkers.
We had to get mug shots taken and submit to the most humiliating kind of physical examination by a big dykish matron.
We had to bend backward, forward, and spread our legs so that if we carried anything in our vaginas it would most probably fall out. We were ordered to the bathroom whether we wanted to go or not, and then we were shoved into separate cells. People talking and coughing and vomiting, and altogether a very grim atmosphere.
In the cell next to me, a black girl fifteen years old kept telling me in a whiny southern accent that she had been pushing drugs since she was twelve, and she was dying for a cigarette, and she wouldn’t leave me alone. One of our girls had some, so we passed them from hand to hand to shut up her dragging voice.
It was terribly cold on the benches, and that night passed slowly, fitfully, without any possibility of sleep. Around eight A.M. we were taken to an even worse cell, full of vicious-looking black street hookers with long boots, colored wigs, and leather miniskirts. Their horrible body odor made me gasp and try not to breathe.
They started asking us all kinds of questions, as though we made a habit of spending our nights in these stinking jails. One black girl with bruises all over her face took an interest in me and wouldn’t stop demanding information. She was one of those kind of people who thump your arm when they want to know something.
“Hey,” she said, “you with the blond hair,” thump, “you must be high-priced jet-set call girls, the twenty-five-dollar-an-hour kind.”