If the man’s wife was out shopping or getting her hair done, we would go up to his room, and I would blow him, fuck him, boom, boom, fifteen minutes, $50, and out.
If their wives were around, they would usually give me their card and say: “I can’t do anything here, but call me in New York.”
Occasionally I would hand them my card, but as a rule that is a dangerous practice, because their wives could discover it in their pockets. In New York, card-passing is acceptable because prostitutes disguise their professions by printing on them activities like objets d’art, management consultants, or, in my case, interior designer. However, others are more obvious, and if a sharp wife finds a card in her husband’s pocket with one of the following occupations – headmistress, erection and demolition expert, public relations, or even manual laborer – she can usually assume the only thing getting made is himself.
After two customers, I would go back to the guest house, take a siesta until around ten P.M., bathe, dress, and have a bite to eat at the Lemon Tree in the El San Juan before setting out for my night’s work. My target was four customers a day – two in the afternoon and two at night – because I wanted some time to myself, and frankly, could not easily handle any more on my own.
However, I was obliged to make an exception in certain cases. There was the time the group of eight New Jersey Italians vacationed in San Juan for a week, and all kept wanting to get laid at once.
They would send their wives out shopping around ten in the morning and take me to their cabana at the Americana and screw me one by one while somebody watched the door to make sure the women did not return and catch them.
They would be laughing and joking and turning on to the outrageousness of the scene as much as to getting laid.
Once this same horny group arranged to meet me on the beach at midnight while their wives were all occupied at the tables playing roulette or blackjack.
It was a beautiful, idyllic setting under the stars with a warm breeze blowing and the waves gently crashing in the background, but the lovemaking was far from romantic.
As they stood in line laughing and unzipping their pants, I gave them each a blow-job on the sand. I was blowing and spitting and blowing again and wishing I had my bottle of Scope with me, or at least a water fountain to rinse my mouth out, because the taste of sperm really turns me off, and that night it almost made me vomit.
I am used to a more sophisticated way of operating, but these guys didn’t care about white sheets, only about getting their rocks off before their wives discovered they were missing.
I had my panties off while I was kneeling down on the beach blowing them, and the mosquitoes started biting my bare bottom. Then the guard dog from the hotel came barking around, followed by the night watchman, who threw a flashlight beam on us and ran away, shocked.
Altogether, it was a complicated and uncomfortable way of conducting business on both sides, so I settled for a ten-dollar reduction per man on a package deal for the group of eight.
Business was booming, and I was making a fortune, but Carmen’s Guest House was becoming an inconvenient place to stay. Apart from the fact that it was too far removed from the action, I suspected they were starting to figure out just what my activity was, and in a little place like that, word soon gets around. So I started thinking about moving out of there.
A few days later I met a young man on the beach named David, who was around twenty-eight, much older than my usual freebie. He approached me, for a change, and asked me would I like to go for a row on his little rubber raft.
The funny thing was that on that day I had an invitation to go sailing on a huge luxury yacht, but David’s suggestion, appealed to me more.
We paddled a long way out to sea, talking and laughing and falling into the water and scrambling back on board, and as I hung on to his strong sunburned shoulders, I started to get really turned on.
He wasn’t good-looking, but he had a sexy Jean-Paul Belmondo kind of face, arid he also had a big Jewish nose. There’s a saying in German – “An dem Nasen eines Mannes erkennt man sein Johannes” – which means you can guess the size of a man’s penis by the size of his nose.
I also believe you can tell from his hands. If he has long, slim fingers, he usually has a long, slim cock. If he has short, thick fingers, he usually has a short, thick cock, and if he has meaty, fleshy hands like a butcher, he usually has a flabby, fleshy cock.
I take the liberty of making these generalizations because I have seen enough cocks in my time to consider myself an expert on the subject.
After paddling around for a while, David and I came back ashore, left the raft in the shade to dry out, and went to the hotel’s outdoor bar for a piña colada and a fruit punch, my favorite drink. There we met his roommates, Ricky, Hood, and Brian, and together we spent the rest of the afternoon running around the beach, talking, and, of course, getting around to the topic of sex.
The boys, aged between twenty-eight and thirty-two, complained how square the vacationing New York girls were and how innocent and stupid. “What we need for us is a woman like you,” David said, to which the others all agreed. When one of them suggested I move into their guest house, I jumped at the idea.
Why not? Their place was close by the beach and the action, and what more could I want than four strong, horny young men to play with in my free time?
We all walked over to the little white two-story clapboard house, where we found the landlady, a dear old German grandmother type, in the garden watering her plants.
I approached her in German requesting a room, and she was so charmed and flattered that she said I could have the best room, on the boys’ floor, with airconditioning and a bathroom all to myself. The guest house was modest, but clean and unbelievably cheap for Puerto Rico, only $10 a day.
“Okay, I’ll move in,” I told the boys. “So let’s go over to Carmen’s and get my belongings.”
When the boys brought me back with my luggage, which had increased since I arrived in Puerto Rico, they went to their own room to freshen and relax, and I went to mine down the hall to unpack.
Half an hour later I went to their room, which was very big and had several single beds in it, and I found them all fresh out of the shower with towels around them, all except David, who was walking around naked, proving my theory about big noses.
There was the smell of grass in the room, and they were lazily smoking, and the sound of rock music was roaring in the background, and soon somebody suggested we have an orgy to celebrate my arrival.
Nobody needed much persuasion, and pretty soon we were all stripped naked, tangled on the floor between the beds sucking, fucking, blowing, laughing, and climaxing. It was an unbelievably beautiful scene. Our bodies were hot and perspiring because there was no air-conditioning in their room, so we showered and did it all again.
Caught up in the abandon of the whole scene, I forgot my resolution never to allow compromising photos to be taken of me.
We took out the Polaroid camera to make some pictures, one of which was an absolute masterpiece. The Tourist Bureau should have used it on a scene card. It was a picture of me wearing David’s Spanish matador hat, sitting on his cock on the floor while Ricky was standing on my right getting a blow-job and, Brian to my left getting a hand-job.
Hood, the one who took the pictures, had never been in a group scene before, and he was so bashful he could not get it up, so I had to fuck him privately in my room later on.
As we jumped around and carried on, I started to get a sneaking feeling that somehow we were being watched. Nobody else seemed to notice, but they were so whacked out of their heads on grass that they couldn’t care less if we were on Candid Camera.