NOTE for READER: After a degenerate, compulsive gambler gets lucky, he decides to stretch his luck with a beautiful stripper, and with the beginnings of what would become a terrible cocaine addiction.
Chapter 11- Marriage and the Best Use of Cocaine for Sex:
She had pretty eyes... genuinely pretty eyes. I scanned her face as she brought me the drink. I blanked it out and took her in anew with a "refresh" reality view. Sometimes a second look reveals the extra makeup, sexy clothing and smile which beguiled you into thinking she was fantastic looking, but then you see the illusion. You were stunned by the suggestion, pose and innuendo of her feminine smoke and mirrors. But no, there was no doubt about it. This girl was a nine-point something. An exceptional find.
"I gotta go," she said with actress-like remorse, biting her lower lip and making her eyebrows come together full of young-love regret that our flirting was about to end. "My turn to dance," she added, smiling. I gave her a five dollar tip for the drink.
Sure it was all an act, but I sensed there was something different about this girl. The undercurrent of bitterness normally found in females working these strip-joints appeared to be missing somehow. As I was soon to find out, she was about to be unfettered and released; freed from this prison of cheap feels and dollar bills.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I had, after all, just won $500 as a pari-mutual ticket clerk at the racetrack. That is to say, as a Pari-Mutual Betting Teller, I had punched out bets I had no money for and had won. It was the 1970's, and Marge Everett, owner of Hollywood Park, had said "no" to the union.
The pari-mutual clerks - the guys who take your money and give you your betting tickets at the track - had gone out on strike, and since my dad and I had practically lived at the racetrack, I immediately knew what line to get on when the strike hit and the track needed scabs. I was now a pari-mutual clerk, eschewing the $100 a day salary to steal and gamble as much as possible. I was supposed to be straight, with drugs a "thing of the past."
I was in AA, but found working for the racetrack not unlike being a sex-addict working in a whorehouse. Wiser heads in AA told me I should get out, but the money was really good ($100 a day in 1970), and my psychotic mentality kept emphasizing the fact that 'I was making better money at the track than what these wiser-AA-guys-who-were-telling-me-to-quit were making,' and it was like, 'Yeah, I really should get a different job,' but me having a job that made a respectful impression at the AA meetings bloated an enormously needy and alarmingly dis-proportioned ego.' To not be ashamed of my mode-of-income was itself almost too much too bear, and (therefore), this feeling of "belonging" and "having-a-decent-income" had to be assassinated and I had to be humiliated.
I had grown up with horseracing as religion. I regarded horses like Spectacular Bid and John Henry as totems to the racing gods. I loved John Henry's peak as a champion horse. So I punched out $10,000 to "Show" on him.
Having only $5 on me with $10,000 in tickets in my pocket proved I was now also a champion. I was in the running as well; in some ways more so than any of the hundred thousand plus people in attendance. I certainly had more to lose than anyone. As John Henry crossed the finish line ahead by five lengths, the jockey slowly waving his whip in return salute to the roar of the adoring, wonderful crowd in that adoring, wonderful moment, I felt the chills shudder off my trembling body and no small amount of moisture wiped away from my crazed eyes. I had beaten them. With my gambler's insight and heroic betting, I had created wealth for myself. The momentary sense of excitement and quasi-godlike assumption was instant magic; something beyond sex or drugs.
Because of the incredibly high one-sided betting on the part of the crowd when one of these legendary champions show up, the track gets special help from the Legislature that mandates they don't have to pay the usual minimum of ten cents on the dollar, so a "show" bet will not pay the minimum $2.20 for a two-dollar bet as is the normal case for pari-mutual wagering." When a horse is bet so much that the pool of money is insufficient for the track to pay $.10 for every dollar wagered on a particular heavy favorite, it creates a situation known as a "minus pool." The track is in a position in which it could lose money if the horse comes in first, second or third, as there is not enough money bet on all the horses in the race for the track to pay off at a minimum of $.10 on a dollar. The track might have to gamble. The racetrack does not like to gamble. Gambling is for the losers who make the racetrack a winner.
Consequently, the state legislature allows the track to escape unscathed financially, and the track is therefore only paying $2.10 to show. Still, $10,000 to show allows me to cash my tickets, take $500 out of my till, and put it in my pocket. I only lose $160 in the ninth race.
I'm kind of pumped and decide to head back to Eva's after a call home necessitating a lie to my wife. It's a shame I have to have this burden to figure out how to keep her out of the immediate situation, and I shoulder this responsibility as aman taking on the new responsibilities of married life. A man who dutifully calls home. After all, I'm married, and what kind of man doesn't call home? A drunken, tatooed gentile, maybe.
All my previous drug life has centered around psychedelics and then anti-psychotics in experimentally mammoth dosages, and after that, heroin, barbiturates and soporifics like Quaalude, as well as Percodans, Dilaudid, Morphine derivatives, etc. Opiated, mellow and relaxed was what I sought. I did not care for stimulants - or even marijuana - at all. My love affair with Preludins, Disoxin, methamphetamines and bi-phetamines had been relatively short-lived. If I took a Contact cold pill, the stimulation of the withdrawal had me masturbating three times in an hour. I was, medicinally-speaking, a downer guy.
Nevertheless, I found cocaine intriguing. I bought a gram from Eva and enjoyed folding up the little envelopes again, which I hadn't done since using heroin years before. I made three little packets of cocaine totaling maybe half-a-gram. These would be my special offerings. And so here I am, looking at this most attractive of strippers in the most high-end strip club in the Valley.
Her "I don't give-a-shit"-attitude merged with nature's perfect gifts to give her a regal sexuality. Her natural blonde mane fell to her shoulders, leaving the eye to travel from the challenging pout in her dance face to the twin mounds below. Her blue eyes smiled and laughed, while her perfectly round breasts stood firm and impressive, joining her eyes in daring you not to love her. When she caught your eye she riveted this focused vibe right into you, her feline movements suggestively reeling you in with seductive orbs which alternately demanded, begged, and commanded. She could catch and trap you in her tractor-beam, and I returned her look at surrendering myself to be her captive. I sat at a table about twenty feet from the stage. At the stage level, men paid-with-tips to sit close and be tormented by her buttocks of perfection.
She defined the word 'stunning.' She immediately became my top choice. At the close of her act I got up from my table and walked the few feet to the far right side of the stage, waiting for her as she bent down to collect the offerings from the supplicants to my left.
"Why don't you check it out?" I said, looking pointedly at the folded bill leaving my fingertips and being now placed before her; and then let me buy you a drink?" I asked, as she bent down in front of me to pick up the tip. I watched her beautiful eyes take interest as her fingers felt the bump of the coke envelope inside the ten-dollar bill.
She was one of three. Each came over and thanked me. I smiled and told them they were welcome, adding that people didn't understand how hard they worked, and why shouldn't they relax a little bit too?
Now shmoozing comfortably as we all now know that I'm not a cop, I bring the conversation around to well, I hope - sincerely - that you won't be insulted, but I have to ask," I add - eyeball to eyeball - would you be interested in some private work... say, $100; a motel room?
The first gives me a colder 'no' than the second, who does the walking in place,
'Oh golly gee, I wish I didn't have to say this' gum chew with face turned up at the eyebrows and mouth. "I have a boyfriend," she says somewhat apologetically, the last word valley-girled out so as to imply it's not a terrible suggestion; but it just ain't gonna' happen anytime soon.
"I mean, I'm not a nut," I hear myself saying to the goddess with the tractor beam. I barely notice the irony in my come-on. I am, drink in hand, immersed in flight from reality, but floating in total self-entertainment. After an initial uncomfortable silence had greeted my proposition, I notice she's now beginning to give it a second look. My foot's on the accelerator. "I know you have to be careful," I say, placing my hands down on some imaginary foundation. "I parked in Valet Parking here. So you can ask the valet guys to get the license number. Normal license plates linked to my home address. See, you can tell your friends," I say aloud, taking out my wallet to pull out my driver' s license, which I hand to her, mimicking as I do in an imaginary conversation she can have with her friends: "I'm going out tonight with Marty, here's a copy of his driver's license, his fingerprints, his mother's maiden name, his father's rabbi's name…" The stunner with the great behind suddenly laughed and after a quick study of my face, says slowly, deliciously, wonderfully: "OK."
As if I had proposed and she had accepted; Let's arrange for the honeymoon suite.
"So sit and have a drink with me." We talk.
With appropriate boyish hesitation and what-I-hope-she'll-interpret-as-sweetness, I stammer a little as I tell her she's head and shoulders above anything else in the room and hope all the bullshit she has to put up with at this place is worth it for her financially.
She tells me it's her last week. She's marrying her boyfriend 1000 miles away and she could use the extra hundred.
As we got into the where, when and how she begins to get nervous and I could see her trepidation is genuine. She was no hooker by any means. Now the desire to bed her was volcanic. It was as if I had this treasure in my hand which threatened to slip between my fingers. It was maddening.
She was about to verbalize something I knew I wouldn't like so I quickly said: "Let me take you to dinner first." I know a nice Chinese restaurant… we'll have a nice little meal, a drink, it'll be fine... and then we'll go..." watching her eyes, I decide it's better not to add the word "motel." The ice is thin, my radar reports. She says "OK" and smiles. Night after tommorrow, six o'clock. I'll pick her up at her place.
I couldn't stand it. I almost left then. But of course I had to stay to watch her dance one more time. In those days the girls really danced, had some moves, some attitude with some showmanship. They didn't just grind their genitalia into a pole or your embarrassed face. She showed me that attitude and that body talked to me with a language all its own, dominating and submissive, wiggling and whimpering, demanding and begging.
I walked outside limp with lust and dizzy with anticipation. But I soon faced a reality as glaring as that hot LA sun that hits when you come out of that cool dark club.
Wife. Debts. But paying bills just didn't feel right at all. There was something inherently wrong with that. I mean here you had money that could feel so pleasurable to spend, and instead to choose to put it in an envelope and send it to something as sterile and empty as a utility company or a landlord just seemed so counter-productive to life. I knew the bills had to be paid, but certainly they could wait until next week, couldn't they? I leaned towards the Scarlet O'Hara school of finance: "I don't want to think about that now. I'll think about that tomorrow." And Scarlet wound up with that whole plantation! Surely I deserved a little pleasure from this rat-race life?
Two nights later I pick her up in front of a little house in Sherman Oaks. We went for dinner and had a couple of drinks over some nice Schezuan chicken; we talked of this and that, actually without too many awkward silences. I liked her. Then it was time to go.
We got into the car. She started to say "maybe this isn't such a good idea," and I answered - trying to sound upbeat although a terrified energy was squeezing my heart at the thought of losing her, "Oh, it'll be fine, really. I already bought booze and put a bottle of champagne on ice in the room. "
"You did?" she asked with genuine surprise.
"I did." I responded, smiling with pleasure, as if she's my girlfriend of years.
Wonderfully, all she said was simply "Oh, OK."
I already had the key to the motel room, and she was pleasantly surprised to find the air conditioning already on and beer and sparkling wine in the ice bucket. She seemed genuinely pleased, and it took the edge off both of us. I spread five-twenties on the dresser.
"I'll take it afterwards" she said.
We both got out of our clothes, I for a moment regretting that I hadn't prepared any music to ask her to strip to. That quickly became a non-issue. Naked, I pulled the covers back and we laid down on the crispy clean sheets.
We embraced clumsily and out of habit I started to kiss, but I learned no lip kissing was allowed, or tongue anyway. It is an ancient tradition of prostitution. Kissing is supposed to be kept for boyfriends and husbands. Sometimes. I relaxed, stroking her face and breasts, kissing her neck and slowly fondling her breasts as I could hardly dare to lower my hand and slowly caress, stroke and squeeze those perfect buttocks mounted into these wonderfully silky smooth thighs. She reached for my growing apparatus and after a few squeezes started to go down on me. I let her for a few seconds, curious to see if she was gifted with any special talent in that area. I felt a pleasant amount of warm wetness surround my head, and after concluding I'd felt enough, gently brought her shoulders back, propping her head on a pillow at the headboard.
That bottom of hers had teased and tantalized me for weeks, and could not now be treated askance. Smiling patiently and gratefully, I paid patient and sincere tribute to her smallish round breasts with soft caresses, first nubbing my lips across the sweet richly pinked nipple, squeezing and licking them till they both stood up hard. Only then did I allow myself to continue south. The smooth soft skin of her midsection a testament to her perfect youth. I continued on, slowly submerging my face into her lower realms, settling in with my arms coming up around her bottom so her thighs kind of sat on my shoulders while my hands met below her belly button. My two thumbs entwined in the supernatural softness of her small patch, while what was left of my brain marveled at the multifaceted perfection of the slang word "pussy." I was ready for the smorgasbord.
Not only could my forearms and shoulders move this delightful buffet this way and that for my mouth to delve into, but my fingers could so gently push and pull up that extra little bit from her supernaturally soft patch area - when and if necessary - to manipulate that precious little ball inside with an extra protrusion, a little extra perch, and from there it could be engulfed more easily into my mouth, where I could stay servicing it into eternity.
I started to gently kiss and lick the high inside of her thighs where they melted into those those perfect round melons. She tasted incredible. The scent of her down there was perfect. She hadn't covered it all up with some astringent douche like some women do. That could make eating a woman seem the same as licking washed butcher meat. Her scent was getting me hard as my brain reeled out of this world. I tantalized myself as long as I could before starting to joyfully eat at that folded entrance.
I think every woman's v is unique. No two are the same. I learned my way around her, tasting each fold, finding her button first with my tongue's tip, then investigating its centrality by pushing my upper lip into the area just north of it, causing it to come out and play into my mouth below, which was plastered like a suckerfish over her private region, holding this delightful arrangement in place, breathing when possible. With my fingers pushing upwards ever so slightly on the region around her pubic hair, I could tilt my newfound friend to a more accommodating position in my suckling mouth. I soon had a rhythm going licking and sucking on the little thing far into my mouth, my nose pressed deeply into those exquisitely soft hairs. Experimenting going around it, under it, flagging it quickly with the tip, the front and the bottom parts of my tongue, I found that the gentle sucking, occasionally interspersed with a little rhythmic licking of my little friend was creating spontaneous and candid exclamations of rapture from my young princess.
Confident that I could find the lovely bump whenever I needed to, I could now make the necessary foray south to that one-eyed place that I had thought about since getting it shoved in my face from the stage weeks before. When I finally could get my tongue into, around and across the essence of her bottom, I was delirious in the taste of her; a sense of perfumed, musky fruit, a slight fecal scent hardening what I didn't think could get any harder.
Like most women when they first sense a tongue down there, she tensed up and temporarily alarmed. But this was too great! Her gasp and body language alerted me to a most wonderful intuition: I was her first ass-lick. I knew she needed to hear what so many females need to be reminded of in situations like this: "It's Ok, I love it like this," I gasp out from underneath her thighs and cheeks.
Getting your ass licked takes some getting used to. It is an acquired taste from both ends of the sexual exchange. Often a woman needs to hear that a man is truly enjoying himself while serving her bottom before she can truly let go, allowing herself the luxurious abandon of giving it all up, relaxing and loosening her lower sphincter muscle control as if she were evacuating in a carnal worship to the spiritual hedonism.
I felt her sphincter relax as her moans now took on a wanton abandon, and I was reassured to feel the ache in my hardened desire. I returned to the natural honey pot. After bringing this back to boiling anew, her cries louder and her fingers tensing, I returned to the bottom, slurping up any juices that had run south on gravity's command, and I could taste its delicious love on my foray south. With her moaning echoing both our desires, I returned to that wonderfully tight and juicy object with dedicated passion. Like a hungry animal, my own sucking mouth craved her small and swelling item as the center of the universe. I went out of control in the sucking and licking of it, losing myself totally in her service.
After a crying release of satisfaction she lay gasping beneath me, her eyes closed, her breasts rising and falling as she caught her breath with an ever-widening smile of joyful satisfaction. Aching in my rock hard state, I was now there: lover, caveman, king; my beauty beneath me. As I rose up to mount her I barely had to use my hand to guide it into her entrance. I started to penetrate as my weight settles onto her. Her eyes fly open as those lower v-lips, still pouting from their prior exertions, now part for the rock-hard guest. Her eyes settle onto mine doe-like, closing as her arms circle my neck, bringing my mouth down to hers. I continue to slowly, slowly, slowly enter her moist, hot, tight cave of pleasure, giving her all my love in the kiss, not yielding to the urge to drive in quicker. I sense in the lips and small amount of growing toungular contact, that the moment by moment increased tongue-love is in concert with the slow progression of me into her. The hot wet easiness bears witness to our compatibility; our love; our joy… I am in love.
I pull my face back a few inches, to smile into her eyes and touch her cheek. At this one moment she is really joy, a young woman in springtime. She has a wonderful look in her eyes that allows me to again lower my lips to hers, and she is slick and tight and steamy as she takes me in to the hilt with a slow suction, enveloping me in a gasping, giving, moaning love.
Such freedom there is in this ride, such glorious uncomplicated pleasure. The first time is always so uncluttered, so free of anything but the giving; releasing it all up in pleasure and freedom from control, analysis or worry. Just the ride of pleasure, the riding of the orgasmic wave, not thinking about it, just riding that tidal experience. The woman reacting with lust and joy to my giving her of my same lust and joy. No emotional hooks, she wants nothing more from me than I want from her, and we are both ecstatic at the arrangement. I find in the fucking the love of an agreeable and happy partner, and we wordlessly entwine ourselves in the genetic dance. The orgasm skyrockets and leaves me in an ocean of serenity. We both give a laugh of delight and amazement, soon do it again with another hour flying by, and we come together beautifully to call it a night a short time later.
Driving her home in the car, she breaks the silence.
"Y'know, I forgot to ask once we started, but I'm kind of glad you didn't bring any coke. After I snorted the stuff you gave me a few days ago, I got a little antsy, and wanted more. I'd be tempted to spend this, she added for emphasis."
"I know what you mean," I answered. We were at a stoplight as I turned to her, gazing at her deeply and at that moment just wanting to kiss her, leave my wife and drive away with her to Mexico or something. "Tell ya the truth… don't need drugs when I'm with you," I said sincerely, reaching over and squeezing her hand. She looked down, and even in the reluctant darkness of the streetlight, I could see she was blushing.
I am ecstatic with a sexual satisfaction I hadn't had in months, and feel really loving now towards the whole idea of the wife, family, etc. I mention this to my new friend in the car that I think this has saved my marriage. I had needed this time. She looks at me and says, "I think you're a little confused."
She was right. I soon started shooting cocaine, and the worm would turn... quite a bit.To read the sample chapter "The Worst Use of Cocaine for Sex"in html online, simply click.
