On the other hand, a woman with a good oral urges who enjoys sucking a cock will make love to it, she will lick it, nibble and tease, and cuddle it to pieces. She will relish the feel and texture of the skin against her lips, her tongue, the inside of her mouth, the velvet feel of the head sliding over her sensitive oral tissues. The gratification that a man feels from a loving woman sucking him is far greater than he will ever receive from a homosexual, who is by nature self-gratification oriented.
Many women don't or won't swallow sperm. I have met only a few who really enjoyed the taste and wanted to swallow it. I have never met a woman who wanted me to shove it halfway down into her stomach when I came, and the women who did like it in the mouth preferred me to shoot shallow into them, so that they could feel it better.
Some women will take it in their mouths and then spit it out; some will pull it out of their mouths just before I come, and, leaving their tongues extended, will catch it as it comes out. Some have liked me to pull it out and do it all over their faces. I knew one girl who would have an orgasm when I did this. Evidently the excitement of seeing the sperm shoot out, and the sensation of it, wet and warm on the delicate skin of her face, set her off.
But all of that was later.
I became a real whore, shoving my cock into mouth after mouth; dispassionately blowing my goodies down throat after throat with all the detachment of a nurse shoving a thermometer up somebody's ass. There were no faces on the Johns, no personalities, just a conglomerate of mouths groping for my hot sperm. I would service five Johns and then go home, or flop in some friend's pad and jack off, because my masturbation dreams gave me more satisfaction and at least a pretense of emotional involvement. Like Portnoy's imaginary Great Mythical Fuck, "Give it to me, big boy," it was more personal and immediate than the Johns, who themselves seemed to exist in a dream.
Eventually the atmosphere of the Tenderloin got through to me. I found myself as hard, bitter, and cynical as the drabbest streetwalker. Shit- and piss-adored glory holes were my second home, girlie movies with the dried cum from a thousand vicarious fuckings running down the walls beneath the small viewing screens, enough crusting sperm to repopulate the world stuck onto the cheap, gray deck paint in an atmosphere reeking of stale orgasms.
And walls everywhere written upon with the empty longings of sick minds:
"Need your hot load in my mouth"
"Love to fuck, suck sailors, cowboys"
"Give me your eight inches"
"Got twelve inches, looking for a hot suck"
"Love to fuck, suck your balls and asshole"
"Let me clean out your asshole with my tongue"
"I fucked my sister this morning"
"For good suck, Ron (phone number)"
"Come to Aetna Hotel Room 661 for good suck, fuck me in the ass"
"Hot for your throbbing, cum-filled dick (phone number)"
"Flush hard, it's a long way to the kitchen"
"Let me drink your hot piss, eat your shit, 5 P.M. every day"
And on and on, scribbled on the walls over urinals, in the booths, washed away and rewritten by a thousand tortured souls who would not have their fantasies denied by the scouring rag of a careless janitor.
Over a period of time, Bobby's appearance had become shoddy and unkempt.
He disappeared from the street and I didn't see him for a while, until one night when I was taking a trick to a glory hole in a parking garage. I just opened the door and there he was, on his knees in front of some old wino, sucking cock. His back was to me, but the matted blond hair and fancy cowboy shirt were unmistakable.
I closed the door quickly and took my trick elsewhere.
The poor bastard had gone full circle; he'd turned from hustler to queer, and it had destroyed him. I never saw or heard of Bobby again.
But as I left that closet-queen glory hole I had a painful feeling of foreboding, a feeling that if I didn't do something with myself I might end up as a worthless piece of human garbage, like Bobby.
Chapter 8
Junkies were a part of our life, although it was uncommon to see a white one in those days. Sharon is the dope-head I remember best. She was a black hooker who hung out at Jack's, and she liked me a lot, always buying little trinkets for me, ties, cufflinks, and the like.
When things start to go bad for a street girl, they go bad in a hurry. Her old man, street lingo for "pimp", took every cent she had, beat the shit out of her so that she couldn't work, and jazzed off for New York. The law picked her up twice in one week for vagrancy. The landlord kicked her out of her trick pad when he heard that her old man was gone. She thought she was pregnant again. And, being unable to pay for any heroin, or borrow from even her closest friends, she was going into withdrawal.
This was before federal and state agencies were equipped to handle such problems. If she had shown up at a local hospital for treatment they would have called the police to haul her off to jail.
However, the street was well prepared for such situations. Her sisters of the night, also mostly junkies, got together. Clarabelle donated her apartment-trick pad and moved in with Junie, who had the same pimp. Then a guard was set, military fashion, around the clock. Sharon and her caretaker were locked into the pad, and every few hours a replacement would show up to baby sit. I sat several day watches. It was the most horrifying experience of my life. There was a movie called Man with the Golden Arm, in which Frank Sinatra vividly portrayed a junkie going cold turkey. Most people who saw this so-called ultra-realism were appalled, but to me it was child's play; Sinatra didn't even come close to what Sharon went through, the sweating; the screaming; restrained on her bed with rope so that she wouldn't kill herself or somebody else; moving her bowels and rolling in her own feces; urinating all over herself; breaking loose a hand and throwing her own shit around the room; smearing it over her body; the tremors; the indescribable agony; the vomit everywhere, and the constant retching when there was no vomit left; the unbearable pain of that old monkey on her back.
And finally she slept, in fits at first, and then for longer periods. In four days the symptoms diminished to the point of controllability. Two girls came in to clean up the mess and change her sheets. They sprayed the room to clear the incredibly foul odor, brought her nourishment, and gave her better care than she would have received from the best nurses in the best hospitals in town, because they knew that when their turn came, when they couldn't afford their own goodies, Sharon would take just as good care of them.
They didn't have much in the way of facilities in that old apartment on Sterner Street near Geary, but they made do, and in a couple of weeks Sharon was almost her old self, and off junk.
But the way of the street is a hard way, and some lessons are never learned. Within a month Sharon's bruises had healed, she had found a new old man (a pathological need for all of those girls), she got a new trick pad, made herself a few bucks, and went right out to find Mister Sandman with his expensive little envelopes. She was off and free of it, but she couldn't stay that way. The pressures of life on the street were too strong, and like all the girls, Sharon was too weak.
As Vacation ended I got a job playing for a while in the pit orchestra of the old President's Follies, the last of the late, great San Francisco burlesque houses. To a drummer, doing bump-and-grind music is the most boring, uncreative job in the world.
The girls, some of whom were national headliners, were as finicky and temperamental as old-time opera stars. If you gave them a riff in the wrong place or missed a boom on the bass drum, they would chew your ass for an hour after the show. I goofed and got chewed out fairly often because I couldn't concentrate for very long on that shitty music, three shows a night and four on weekends.