I walked over to where he sat, and before I spoke he said, “I can tell you how to join in with that interesting group if you want to.”
“I’d like very much to meet them,” I said.
“Very well,” he said, “they are a sort of a club, and all you need is the right introductory passwords.
“They call themselves tulips and they are French or something like that, so give it a try.”
I walked straight over to the “flame’s” circle and said, “Bonjour, madame, je m’appelle Xaviera, et je suis une tulipe de la Hollande.” “Good day, Madame. My name is Xaviera, and I am a tulip from Holland.” Little did they know how accurate that was.
A pleasant laughter went through the group, there were introductions all around, and before I could say “Adam and Eve” they invited me for a drink inside their cabana.
Six of us crowded into the small room, which contained two single beds and little else, and without too much need for formality I was soon eating my way through my flaming redhead’s pussy. She was in her forties, I guessed, but she had a nice firm body, flat stomach, and strong breasts. Her inviting vagina was warm and exciting, and my tongue darted through her curly red hair as I was stretched out between her legs. I licked and sucked her clitoris with my vibrating tongue until it was hard and erect.
Meanwhile the “flame’s” husband was standing with his face very close to the action to see exactly what it was I was doing to make his wife moan, writhe, and have multiple climaxes. Each time she was exhausted, but I would work her up into a new orgasm with my tongue, which never seemed to tire. She tasted delicious, and my face was wet, and by this time I had made her climax three times.
As I finally stopped eating her, her husband, who had been waiting, all turned on, with a big erection, put his cock into the now soaking-wet vagina of the “flame” and it was a pleasure to watch them make love.
Her whole body was perspiring, and the squishy-squashy noises turned everybody else on. Only then did I become aware of all the other people, because I was concentrating only on my “flame.” But my hunger for pussy was not yet sated and several other girls who had been turned on and were going crazy at the ecstatic pleasure the “flame” was enjoying wanted me to eat them up too.
Afterward I was exhausted, and the orgy I had started was going strong, but some of the girls and guys went for a swim to freshen up and cool off, and there I ran into my companion, Norman.
“Go inside that cabana,” I told him, “and you will have a fantastic experience.” I didn’t see Norman again for another two hours, but while I was sitting around with some of the naked females, I found it easy to convince them that their generous-spirited talents could be gainfully employed, and they agreed to become working girls at my house.
As I expected, these girls turned out to be great professionals, because they were uninhibited in their approach, yet decent types of girls.
One of my first and most successful girls was a stewardess from El Al airlines, who was very popular until she got rerouted and we lost her. Stewardesses often drift easily into the professional life as a supplemental income, starting out with having flings with married men from the first-class cabin, then asking themselves why do this for free. After a while they do regular stints in houses from Hong Kong to Helsinki, and London to Los Angeles.
Among my early girls was also a young Englishwoman, a former stewardess, recently separated from her violent American husband and just wanting to make enough money to support herself and pay for her divorce action.
How many times I wished my business were legal so I could, indeed, advertise in the employment columns of the newspapers: good pay, flexible hours, opportunity to meet lots of men.
Another madam I knew recruited her staff entirely from among bored Westchester housewives, and her house flourishes in Manhattan on a modest scale to this day. Inés was a Cuban girl who married an American, went to live in Westchester, and spent her days sitting around with other neglected wives listening to them talk about how they screwed the window’ washer, the gardener, the delivery man, and anything moving slower than three miles an hour.
“Listen,” she said to them, “if you like screwing so much, why don’t you come down to Manhattan with me and make money out of it?”
Inés herself got divorced and devoted her time to running the brothel in a midtown apartment, and the girls worked for her in rotating shifts. But she had her staff problems, too, because married women are always taking time off to go on vacation with their husbands or to have babies and hysterectomies.
I started hiring girls who had daytime jobs as secretaries and salesgirls and wanted to make some money on the side. I found they were less jaded and more enthusiastic than a “working” girl who’s been screwing her brains out ten times a day in another house. Many high-class call girls, on the other hand, are also known to be cold and businesslike.
The next step was promotion. A high-class house advertises strictly by word of mouth of satisfied customers, and never goes out soliciting.
Other areas of prostitution go to any lengths to solicit business, like the semilegit massage parlors that even put cute little girls on Lexington Avenue these days posing as poll-takers. The only answers they want are the man’s opinion of “special massage,” his name, and office telephone number.
Others, as we all know, openly harass people in the streets and hotels and even sometimes savagely attack them.
An operation like mine never approaches people, but waits for the customers to come because they’re interested. In other words, it’s a supply situation strictly catering to a demand. And as long as there is such a thing as male libido, the ostrich-attitude law notwithstanding, there will always be a demand for a high-class brothel.
For me business opened with a bang, so to speak, because I had a very good reputation in the profession as a quantity as well as quality girl.
Word spread around, and within a month or two of my opening there was almost too much business to handle in a one-bedroom apartment.
Some nights were so packed that there would be two couples using the king-sized bed at the same time, another couple in the living room using the queen-sized Castro convertible, and yet another pair in the collapsible camp bed set up in the corner.
Still others would be in the kitchen boozing and queuing up for their turn, and those who were impatient or in a hurry would sometimes settle for a blow-job in the bathroom.
By the end of the year business was so fantastically successful that I had to look for a bigger apartment. I was so happy at the way things were going that I sent out Christmas cards to my clients to let them know I was moving and that I had a “new stable” for them to look over, and the card listed my new phone number.
This move got me into a little hot water when one customer called up and said his wife had received the card and demanded to know who was Madam Xaviera and what was her stable.
“You have to get me out of the hole now,” he ranted. “I know she intends calling you up, so you’d better make sure you tell her you are a horse trainer.”
The new apartment I found was a three-bedroom place in the East Sixties in an entirely residential building, but with a cooperative door staff.
The week I signed the lease I had a phone call from my former madam and chief competitor, Madeleine, whom I had not spoken to for almost a year, since she had stopped using me. Some drunk had left my card lying around, and she found it and I can’t say I blame her for being mad at me.