If the object of the New York authorities were to increase prostitution and depravity, they could not better accomplish it than by their present policy towards the unfortunate class that everybody endeavors to ignore, but who suffer and cause more guilt, crime and misery than even bad rum can justly be held accountable for.
-Walt Whitman,
Brooklyn Daily Times, June 20, 1859
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In mid-January 1975, I had been separated from my wife for seven months. She had actually moved out of our one-bedroom Bronx apartment and left me behind. I kept one of the cats and less than half of the furniture. I also got to keep our blue 1973 Chevrolet Malibu sedan. She was going someplace in Brooklyn with tight parking and she didn’t want to deal with that situation.
Our five-year marriage had been stressful for both of us. The only positive aspect of it was that we had great sex. Her only downside in that area was that she never went in for anything kinky. I figured there would be an upside to this separation. Now I could get all the pliable chicks I wanted. Except, I hadn’t dated since college and I wasn’t ready for the adult scene.
The fact that I lived way up in the north Bronx didn’t help. My shabby apartment in a 1920s-vintage building was another liability. The one time a lady accepted my invitation to go there was a disaster. She was in there for about ten minutes and then she left; I never saw her again.
By January, I had passed my twenty-seventh birthday and I was really unhappy with my lack of a sex-life. Masturbating to Penthouse and Hustler magazines didn’t cut it for me. In fact, it was frustrating to look at all that luscious pussy I couldn’t really get.
One Thursday night, I got into my car and drove into Manhattan. It was a clear evening and not that cold for the time of the year. I almost didn’t want to admit to myself that I might get a prostitute. I had never been with one, and I should have known that streetwalkers were particularly low on the scale. Maybe I thought I didn’t deserve anything better.
I drove aimlessly around for a while. After dark, I pulled in front of a hydrant by a coffee shop on West 38th Street in Manhattan. I was trying to get a legal parking space so I could go inside and have a sandwich.
A woman was standing outside the place. Her long, dark raincoat hid most of what was underneath except for her black high-heeled boots. We looked at each other and she made a gesture at me; I nodded and crooked a finger at her. When she was at the passenger side window, I rolled it down; she leaned over and said, “You’ve got some money to spend?”
Her dark, almost black hair gave her a Bettie Page look. I was sure from the beginning that it was actually a wig. She had way too much make-up on and it had been carelessly applied. I looked at her reddish-purple lipstick and green eye shadow. It seemed that she had powdered her face so that it looked extra pale. The total effect was perhaps more unsettling than erotic; I thought of Medusa.
For a moment I pondered just putting the car in gear and driving away. I knew I was out of my depth here and I didn’t know how to handle this. But I was tempted anyway. Maybe it was just curiosity to see what this lady was really like.
I said, “Yeah, sure, I’ve got money to spend.”
“Good, just so I’m not wasting my time. Okay, sport, open the door and let me in the back.”
Why back there? She lounged across the seat and said, “Drive somewhere, west of here. Just cruise around.” I knew from her voice that she was from somewhere in the metro area. Also, I could tell she was younger than my first impression, possibly six or seven years less than I was. Why isn’t this chick in college or something and going on normal dates?
As we pulled away she opened her coat to reveal what was underneath. Her outfit was classic dominatrix, almost all of it black. I wondered if she really ever worked that particular hustle. She wore a bustier or a teddy - what was that thing called again? Her skirt was very short, porn star short. Her legs were apart to reveal even more: black lacy panties and a garter belt with straps holding up sheer black stockings tucked into the boots.
She looked out at the passing buildings. I was trying to get a better look at her and still drive the car. When stopped at lights, I just turned around and stared at her. She rubbed her crotch and said, “What, you’ve never seen a twat before?”
After a few minutes, she directed me to a street – I think it was 59th – west of Eleventh Avenue. There was a Penn Central freight yard on the right side and an old powerhouse on the other. We parked in front of a tall step-in van that gave us a modicum of privacy, although the street was deserted.
She got in the front seat with me. “So, what are you calling yourself tonight?”
“I’m Jimmy.” That happened to be my real name.
“Okay, I’m Tammy. You remember those movies with Debbie Reynolds and then Sandra Dee, Tammy and the Bachelor, and so forth? So, Jimmy, are you in a hurry tonight, or do you have some time? I have a package deal for you if you have the time and the cash.”
She was leaning in on me and she had lowered her voice. I looked into her strange dark eyes. There was a blankness in them, but I also detected anger and hurt in there too.
I said, “I’ve got time and money.”
”All right, it’s a three-part deal. The first is right now, you can have a blowjob for . . .” She quoted a price. “That is a very good price for this city as you should know. For an extra sum, you can abuse me verbally while you do it.” She gave a price for that too. For some reason, I agreed to that. I didn’t know her, but the idea of chiding her, if that was the correct word, appealed to me.
She said, “Then I’m feeling pretty hungry, so you’ll take me for some dinner. The Market Diner would be fine.” That place was at 44th and Eleventh, some distance to the south of us.
She continued, “Then, if you’re still up to it, we’ll come up here again for a very special deal.”
”Which is?”
”It will be a surprise. Don’t worry, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want it, but I’ll bet you will. Meanwhile, I assume you’re ready for part one, so pay up.”
I peeled out cash from my wallet, which she then stowed in her purse. In her next movement, she unbuckled my pants and took them down. She knelt on the floor while I sat behind the wheel, and she used a combination of sucking, licking, and kissing on my cock which was very effective.
I let my role-playing mind roll and said things to her. “Oh, you little fucking whore, you dirty bitch, suck on my hot Italian sausage.” It sounded more than a little silly, but I was getting into the spirit of the event. “Yeah, sweetie, leave that purple lipstick all over my cock.” Being with a hooker had never been a major part of my fantasy repertoire, but I was able to relax enough to savor the event.
When I came, she took all of it into her mouth, and I assumed she was going to swallow. But then she opened the passenger door and spit it all into the street. She turned back and said, “Hey man, you got a handkerchief I could borrow?”
I did, but I also expressed my dismay. “You just spit it out the door.”
“So what? You were done with it and so was I. Let’s face it, my obligation to your splooge ends when it leaves your cock.”
Then she looked out of the passenger-side window and said, “Look at all those condoms out there.” There were indeed several used ones on the sidewalk. She said, “This is where the rubbers hit the road. Yeah, there are eight million stories in the Naked City and half of them wind up in the business side of a Trojan-Enz.” She seemed to be amused by her own comment. Then she said, “The Market Diner, let’s get there already.”
In those days of depressed real estate values, the diner could afford to have its own free parking lot even though it was on the edge of Midtown Manhattan. A lot of cab drivers went there though so did many other New Yorkers who were perhaps at loose ends. It had become, over the years, a New York institution, although not one familiar to most tourists.
Tammy put on sunglasses before going inside. With her raincoat tightly closed, she didn’t get attention from anybody in the place. She took off the glasses to peruse the menu. She got a western omelet with rye toast and I ordered a tuna sandwich. “Oh no, buddy, if you eat tuna fish the evening ends now.” That seemed odd, but it didn’t matter that much to me. I had a salami and Swiss instead.
She had a good appetite and ate almost the entire meal. It was disconcerting, however, to see her bring the folk up to that purple-red mouth. Talking to her was difficult too; I had this rather sullen person to contend with. She was willing to listen to me describe myself, most of which was true except for some change of details like that I had graduated from Lehman College in the Bronx instead of City College.
I was reluctant to ask her about herself. What would I say, why did you become a prostitute? She did, however, have opinions about why I was a john. The main idea was that college girls, even after they graduated, didn’t put out except for a very high price. “Like if you take them someplace like the New Capitol diner, don’t expect even a handjob.”
How did she know about that diner? It was on Kingsbridge Road near Lehman. I wanted to know what she had been doing there, but I didn’t ask.
She went on, “If they’re feeling particularly expansive, and they think you might take them to a better restaurant, they might let you give yourself your own handjob while they watch. Or maybe they’ll be reading their sociology textbook while you jerk-off and moan about how beautiful they are.” Then she switched to the voice of some self-regarding college girl, “ ‘Please, sweetheart, don’t make so much noise, I have an exam tomorrow.’ ”
I laughed at that, but generally, Tammy remained sealed off from me. I thought she might have a colorful streetwalking story or maybe some views about the job itself. But none of that was forthcoming. We didn’t order dessert, but she did get a coffee to go. Then it was back up to the freight yards, in front of the same step-in truck.
She had us get in the back seat. As I sat there, she kneeled on the floor facing away from me, lifted her coat and skirt, and lowered her panties. She said, “Now, for a very reasonable price of you can have anal.” Again she quoted the cost.
“Anal?”
“Intercourse in the ass. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it.”
“I’ve never done it.