For the next few weeks I was lovestruck and unhappy and followed her everywhere like an adoring puppy, praying for a chance once more to get my hands on her gorgeous breasts. If she played tennis, I played tennis; if she went horseback riding, so did I; and when she joined the snooty rowing club, I joined the snooty rowing club, even though it was notoriously anti-Semitic.
I would love to watch her sliding back and forth on the bench of the boat in her shorts, and would follow her to the shower afterward and wish I could rub the soap all over her magnificent body as she stood there wearing nothing else but a bathing cap.
As Helga matured a little she started to recognize my absolute infatuation and began teasing me, which would drive me more and more out of my mind, and for two whole years I walked around adoring and desiring her, even after I lost my virginity to a boy at the age of seventeen.
To most girls the actual deflowering is one of the most significant events of their young lives. To me it was just a technicality. I had been dating my steady boyfriend for two years, and we had experimented with sex and explored each other, but had never made love “all the way.” In Holland young people are strictly supervised, and even though we would fool around behind the windmills and beside the dykes, we had never found the right combination of courage and opportunity.
The way it eventually happened in a friend’s borrowed apartment was very ordinary, and nothing like wild rape – there was no bleeding and no pain. There was just the nice, secure feeling of my boyfriend’s penis going all the way inside me, back and forth with more rhythm until he exploded and left me warm and wet.
Far more significantly, I must confess that from the moment I lost my virginity I became absolutely wild about sex, and even threw over my steady boyfriend in pursuit of it. I couldn’t care less who I did it with, even my relatives. In fact. the idea of sampling forbidden fruit made incest all the more exciting. The only taboo against it was don’t make babies, that’s all.
In my early teens when I first heard the facts of life from older friends, I used to wish I had a big brother so I could fuck him. In my late teens I did gratify my taste for forbidden fruit and actually made it with some members of my family. And not by accident.
My first attempt was my mother’s brother, my favorite uncle, who adored me as a child in a paternal way and was an adolescent in what was definitely a more carnal way.
One weekend when my family took me with them to visit his family in Düsseldorf, Germany, we made an assignation to sneak away to a motel room and make love. But the prospect of the clandestine affair apparently so excited him that his wife was able to guess what he was up to. She did not let him out of her sight until my family and I returned to Amsterdam, so the whole endeavor was abortive.
The second family affair was more successful, and it happened a few years later with the twenty-eight-year-old son of another uncle, who had come to stay with our family and see the sights of Holland. He was a big, strapping young German, and certainly no virgin.
It was my job to take him out and show him the town, and I was even allowed to stay out past my midnight curfew because he was a relative. The first night I showed him the regular tourist sights and sent him home early. The second night I showed him the fun spots like the “girls in the windows” in Amsterdam’s legalized red-light district on the canals, then took him back to his hotel and seduced him. He was not bad, nothing special, a typical strong German, but with an unromantic soul.
By this time 1 had graduated from high school with top marks, studied music for a year, and then gone to work for one of Amsterdam’s leading ad agencies as an assistant account executive.
From the moment I began work I approached my job with the large amount of enthusiasm and dedication with which I have done everything else in my life – and still do today. The work was nice, but it didn’t have what you call in America immediate “upward mobility,” so I decided to try for something else. Even in those early days I had the desire and the drive to be Numero Uno. I’d heard that the Manpower Employment Agency was conducting a contest for the best multilingual secretary in Holland, and being competitive and ambitious, I decided to enter it
The contest was to be judged on best typing. shorthand in four languages, translating skills, poise, and personality. There were several exams leading to the final, which required each entrant to write a two-hundred-word poem as a publicity pamphlet for the employment agency. I was the youngest of the sixty contestants – and, as it happened, the most successful. I won the title of “Number One Secretary in Holland.”
Television interviews, newspaper articles, and a trip to England, as well as $1,000 prize money, followed, and I was appointed a unit head at Manpower – a job that was, coincidentally, not unlike the one I do today. A client would request a service, and I would satisfy his wishes by supplying the right person to do the job. That was when I discovered my best skills were administrative, in an intermediary capacity. I also learned another valuable lesson from that job. That if you have real initiative it is best to work as an independent if you can, because others tend to sit back and reap the profits of your hard efforts.
For relaxation after a hard week, I would go with friends on weekends to a white-sand beach not far from Amsterdam named Zandvoort. This beautiful beach stretched along the entire Dutch coastline and had little terraced cabanas and gaily decorated restaurants where you could sit out front and have meals and refreshments. Each little restaurant had a name and a number, so when you wanted to make a date with someone, you would say, “See you later at Wilhelmina’s number twenty-four.”
One weekend I went to Zandvoort with a drummer friend named Kuuk, and we both had a brand-new personal experience – we discovered Seaview number twenty-two, and the colorful and gay crowd that hung out there.
The men were all beautifully dressed in minuscule bikinis which hardly covered their emphasized assets, designer T-shirts, Pucci or St. Laurent scarves. There were also lots of manicured poodles jumping around that belonged to the gay boys.
The girls, as I soon found out, were all gay as well.
The only really straight person there was my friend Kuuk. Extremely handsome and well built, he had all the gay boys swarming over him.
Left alone, I introduced myself all round until I came upon a girl whore face seemed strangely familiar, although as far as I was aware I didn’t have any dyke friends.
“Hi,” the pretty red-haired girl said to me; “how have you been these last few years?”
“Me? Are you sure you mean me?”
“Yes, you little ‘butch’,” she said, laughing.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked her.
“My name is Hellen Karf, and I was your teacher in high school, and I used to see you lusting after Helga at the same time I was dying to have an affair with you.”
Hellen Karf, who taught us art and designing, was not exactly what you could call a schoolmarm type. She was dressed in a chic way and had told us she was engaged to the country’s top actor. Still, I was informed enough to know her fiancé was definitely gay, but I never imagined that for her part she was a lesbian.
“I could tell you were a little ‘butch’ in those days,” she volunteered. I was surprised to hear that I may have been strong and well built, and I had shortish blond hair, too, but when I look back at pictures taken in those days, I would say I looked like the average attractive, but sporty, schoolgirl.
Hellen now took my arm. Pupil and former teacher went around and talked to all the gay girls. And from this time on I willingly got into the female homosexual scene.
My first affair was with a girl called Liesbeth, who looked very feminine when we started going together but became more and more mannish as our relationship progressed. She cropped her hair, wore jeans, shirts, and sneakers, and started drinking and smoking like a man.
At that time I didn’t smoke or drink because of a truly sincere agreement I had made with my parents while a teen-ager. They had said tha
t if I didn’t drink or smoke until I was eighteen they would buy me a motor scooter, and at eighteen they promised me a car if I could abstain from both these things until I was twenty-one. I got both the scooter and the car and, astonishingly enough, to this day have never taken an alcoholic drink and have smoked only an occasional cigarette without inhaling – at the request of a kinky customer, which I’ll come to later.
Liesbeth, the little dyke, was madly in love with me and considered herself my male partner, but as I got more into the lesbian activity, I discovered I was definitely “butch” and so we had a “supremacy” fight and broke up.
I met many more girl friends through my female hairdresser, who was also Hellen’s lover, and my sex life soon became part heterosexual and part homosexual, and sometimes a happy mixture of both.
It was also around this time that I was taken under the wing of a sophisticated older couple who lived in a magnificent seventeenth-century house in the artists’ colony on Amsterdam’s Prinsen Island. Daedo, the husband, was a man of forty-two, and Silva, his wife, was eight years older. Nights and weekends I would often sleep over and spend a lot of the time gossiping with Silva, an attractive, vivacious woman, while Daedo, who owned an advertising agency, worked in his study.
One evening in her bedroom she asked me would I give her a back-rub. She was fresh out of the shower, and she lay face down on the bed. “Why don’t you take your clothes off, Xaviera?”
I was rather surprised at her approach, and to tell you the truth, the idea of making it with a fifty-year-old woman did not appeal to me. As I rubbed her she started making low moaning noises and was getting sexually stimulated. “Xaviera, take off your clothes and make love with me,” she pleaded. She turned over, and I saw her nice big firm boobs – I have always been intrigued with beautiful breasts, and even as a child I had fantasies about sucking my mother’s breasts- I recognized quite early that I was a natural bisexual and have completely enjoyed both homo- and heterosexual encounters. There is no guilt where I live. So I undressed and started making it with her on the bed.
I was worried in case her husband walked in, but she didn’t seem to be concerned. And as she lay on her left side with me facing her and eating her pussy, I heard Daedo walk in.
He didn’t say a word, and the next thing I knew, his big penis was against my back. And for a while I neglected Silva and freely started sucking Daedo’s penis. Then I went back to her, and he put his penis inside me from the back while I was giving it to her with my vibrating tongue.
Everybody was having a ball, and even the dog joined in and was licking our feet and legs and jumping around all excited. Then the three of us, happily minus the dog, worked ourselves into a frenzy and all climaxed simultaneously, screaming, moaning, and laughing.
Now and again, after that, we would swing together, because basically I had no steady romantic interest happening at this time. And, in my way, I was still in love with Helga, who had in the meantime married the well-to-do owner of a travel agency and was expecting a baby.
I had sex at least once or twice a week with my casual boyfriends, but to be quite honest, Dutchmen more often than not bored me stiff. I have never enjoyed or been part of the dull, serious Dutch mentality. I was more like my father, a bon vivant, and needed something more in my life than unromantic, stingy Dutchmen with their famous “dutch treats” on dates.
Friends of mine who had visited me recently, just arriving from South Africa, had told me about the beauty of this country, and the warm all year round climate. In case I would be interested in immigrating there, the South African government would pay the airfare completely. So… away from cold and misery and rainy summers. Down to the sun and my sister, who lived there as well. In fact, I was getting a bit bored with the Dutch mentality, even though Holland is a very charming country and Amsterdam lately has become one of the swingingest cities in Europe. Maybe it was not so much Holland itself, but my inner hunger for someplace new and exciting. The fact that I had my stepsister (a daughter from my father’s first marriage) living in Johannesburg with her husband and children made it more encouraging for me to go there.
When I decide to do something, I do it quickly and efficiently. I arranged visas, booked my ticket, and organized my private life to leave Holland.
There was only one last thing to do before boarding the plane. I had to say good-bye to my lovely Helga, who was now eight and one half months’ pregnant.
When I went to see her for the last time, she was standing there in a nightie, and nothing was more exciting to me than to see that big belly sticking out, and those beautiful breasts.
“Helga,” I said, “please let me touch your belly and suck your nipples, because they are so beautiful.”
She hesitated at first, now not because of modesty but because her husband, whom I could not stand, might walk in. He didn’t care much for me, and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it was jealousy, but I found him a real bore.
His name was De Boer, which means farmer, and it suited him perfectly. He had already gone into her mail and found the love letters I sent her from all over Europe. Looking back, I guess she thought I was simply foolish, because she never even replied. However, on this last visit she agreed to let me have my wish and touch her, and she lifted up her nightie.
I gently lowered my mouth around the nipples, and a trace of milk escaped, and the loving feeling was still there, except this time I didn’t feel I wanted to screw her. I felt an entirely pure kind of love.
I couldn’t believe that after five years I was finally sucking and caressing those divine breasts and Helga was letting me. In all the experience and sex I have had in the intervening time, this is still the most precious moment I can remember.
I think I was just about to tell her how I loved her when a red-faced and furious De Boer stormed in and ordered me out of his house.
“If I ever catch her here again, I’ll throw you both out,” he screamed at his wife.
A few days later my family and friends bade me a tearful farewell on my flight to South Africa, and everyone was crying, including me.
“Come back to us,” my mother said through her tears, but even then I knew I never would.
The only thing that tied me to Holland besides my parents, believe it or not, was Helga, and that was an impossible dream.
3. SOUTH AFRICA
The flight from Amsterdam to Johannesburg promised to be very long but not necessarily dull. I was seated alongside an attractive Italian businessman with a divine sense of humor and a cultured manner. During dinner, served immediately after takeoff, we enjoyed a spirited conversation, discovering we shared a mutual interest in classical music, among other things.
He was such a charming person that, by the time the stewardess removed our trays, I already wanted to go down on him. A lot of acrobatic skill was required to accomplish this feat without being observed. The way we finally did it was to cover me to the tip of my head with a light blanket while I pretended to be getting my vanity bag from under his window seat. Doing it got us so turned on that we wanted to make love all the way. But first, we had to be patient until the girls handed out blankets and pillows, dimmed the cabin lights, and everyone was settled down.
As soon as the coast was clear we removed the arm-rests from the seats, squeezed down together under the blanket, he facing my back spoon-fashion, and proceeded to make love. We had to be very quiet, and, we soon discovered, very careful, because a couple of times he became overamorous and I almost fell down between the seats.
We made a game of doing it between the stewardesses walking up the aisle to answer call lights and the passengers walking sleepily to the lavatory. The challenge of making love 30,000 feet in the air made it even more exciting.
It was rather like herrings in a can, to tell you the truth, and very uncomfortable, but, even so, by the time we flew into daybreak we had managed to make love three times. As breakfast was served, we got up, stiff and sticky, and finally stretched our cram
ped legs.
The rest of the trip I spent sprucing up to meet my stepsister and her husband, Jan, whom I had seen only once before, and that was when Mona had traced my father down in Amsterdam while she was there from South Africa on her honeymoon.
Like me, Mona was born in Indonesia, but her mother, formerly a beautiful Russian ballerina, took her away from there after the divorce, and she and my father completely lost much.
At the time I met them I remember thinking what a lovely person she was and how handsome was her husband. Even as a fourteen-year-old virgin I had the tingling desire to make love to him someday. Jan was a mining engineer of French Huguenot descent, tall, well built, with dark curly hair. He was a true Afrikaner, stubbornly assertive and proud of his masculinity.
Both of them were at Johannesburg airport to meet me, and it was a happy reunion with lots of hugging, kissing, and laughing. Mona was just as dear as I remembered, and Jan was even more handsome.
Also there to meet me was a girl named Deenie, whom I had never met before but had corresponded with through a lesbian friend in Amsterdam. She recognized me from a photo I had sent, and she walked straight over and introduced herself to me and my relatives.
Deenie worked for KLM, the Dutch airline, and we exchanged telephone numbers, agreed to meet when I was settled in, and Mona, Jan, and I set out for my new home.
After a half-hour drive we arrived at a magnificent two-story white house in an exclusive outer suburb of Johannesburg. The building was set in sprawling lawns which made a vast playground for my niece, eight, and two nephews, seven and six, and two huge dogs, a Great Dane and a German shepherd.
To one side was a luxurious swimming pool, the other a three-car garage, and in back was a chicken farm, Mona’s pet project, which she ran with the aid of some of their servants.
The Happy Hooker: My Own Story Page 3
