by Robert Klein
Sheree put a key in the lock and gave a warning knock: “Evelyn, you in there? You cool?” Could that be the signal for her confederate to jump us when we enter the apartment? We entered with trepidation, but Evelyn didn’t jump us. In fact, no one was there. Sheree said, “I’m goin’ in here to get ready. I’ll let you know when. Who’s goin’ up first?”
This simple question sent us into shock. We had not thought that part out. “Well . . . uh,” I said.
“No matter, I don’t care,” she said, and closed the door to what seemed to be a bedroom. We were in a small apartment with grandmotherly lace curtains. It was sparsely furnished, as if nobody lived there. It appeared to be a place of business.
“I don’t want to go first. Joe, you go first,” Manny said.
“You know, it’s funny,” Joe said, “I don’t feel like going first, either.”
“For God’s sake, somebody’s gonna have to go first,” I said, stating the obvious. “All right, we’ll choose by odd finger. Odd finger goes first.” This was the neighborhood method used by children choosing up sides and settling disputes. On the call “Once, twice, three, shoot,” the participants put out either one or two fingers. If you put out one finger and the others put out two, you are the odd finger. Likewise if you put out two and the others put out one, while three of the same resulted in a do-over.
We agreed that this would be fair. I checked the bedroom door, and as quietly as we could, being very fearful of having the woman hear us, we said, “Once, twice, three, shoot.” Right on the word “shoot,” Sheree opened the door and caught us being the children we were. She began to laugh, and we were devastated. Out of humiliation I ripped off my jacket and charged into the bedroom. “I’ll go first, for Chrissakes!”
There I was in the room with her. A chair and a night table sat next to the bed. My legs began to shake. “Put your stuff there, on the chair, and put the money on the table.” She had a silky robe on, and I could see as she sat on the edge of the bed that she was wearing a red bra. “You got change for a ten?” I asked, too young to be embarrassed by the absurd context of the request. She quickly pulled a five from somewhere and made change, like a proper merchant.
The room smelled of liniment and latex and roselike toilet water. There was a package of condoms, a box of tissues, and a large jar of Vaseline on the night table. I stripped to my socks and my Fruit of the Loom briefs and retrieved the condom from its accustomed place in my wallet. “I brought this,” I said, like a seven-year-old doing show-and-tell.
“Okay, we better get started,” she said matter-of-factly, and she gestured for me to join her on the bed.
Here was the moment I had waited for forever, the invitation I had hoped I would hear in my lifetime. Perhaps I had daydreamed about a slightly more sexy line than “We better get started,” which sounded more like the beginning of a construction job. Nevertheless, there she was, and here I was, and we were almost naked. It was then that I realized I was not sexually aroused. Quite the contrary. All those salacious thoughts had been replaced with dread. What was more, this apprehension was not born of the fear of physical harm, as I was certain that no one would rip us off now. It was manifest because of the business at hand. Could I go through with it?
She took off her robe to reveal a crotchless red garter belt to match the bra, and pale stockings. “This your first time?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, now, take off your underwear,” she said.
I reached out and touched her thigh, and while it didn’t arouse me, the feel of her lovely copper skin sent through me a shiver of hope. She had, so far at least, not turned to bronze. I noticed that she was indeed very thin, skinny, even, with small breasts under the bra and a bit of wiry black pubic hair surrounded by narrow thighs. It seemed as if I had never known a thin girl or woman in my life; the sexy garter belt and stockings I had seen or imagined were on big women, bursting and Rubenesque. On her, they looked like the working uniform of the day, somehow inappropriate and a little sad.
I lay down next to her and discovered that the pleasant, rosy scent came from her hair; it was a pomade preparation of some sort. I had never felt hair like hers. I reached to remove her bra, but she grabbed my hand. “Uh-uh, the bra stays on,” she said.
“Jeez,” I said, “can’t I just see ’em?”
“No, you can’t see ’em, and you can’t touch ’em, so let’s do what you came up here to do.” She appeared impatient: just what I didn’t need, and the romance was quickly sliding away here. She took my penis in her hand and looked at it carefully, like a farmer inspecting a cow’s udder before milking. Evidently, I passed the inspection, because she started rubbing and manipulating and doing all sorts of things that unfortunately were more painful than arousing. The problem was that her right hand didn’t have the years of experience and knowledge that my right hand had. She did not know when to be gentle and when to be rough.
I moved to kiss her, but she turned away: “Uh-uh, don’t do that, neither.”
“Why not?” I needed to get started here, and necking was the only way I knew how. “ ’Cause that’s my rules,” Sheree said.
“Okay,” I said. She knew a guy who would follow rules when she met one. I was just thankful she hadn’t said, “Robert, do you respect me?”
I avoided her gaze and closed my eyes until her manual labor yielded some results and I became aroused enough for her to put the condom on and place me inside her. So this was it. It occurred to me that I could stop right there and truthfully tell everyone that I was no longer a virgin. I resolved, however, to stay. The fact that she was real, that she was not a statue or a pornographic playing card, cannot be underestimated. As real as she was, though, it was not she I was thinking of as I struggled to keep in the mood. I was intimidated by her distance and by her treating the whole thing like a business deal or something. I lay on top of her, with my face buried in the pillow next to her fragrant hair, and pumped for all I was worth. An orgasm, however, seemed some considerable distance away, the exact opposite of my previous experience in the world of autoeroticism. I thought of the dirty pictures. That nifty ten of spades and my beloved jack of diamonds. Nudist magazines, my Marilyn Monroe calendar, even National Geographic. I did not have the perspective to note that here I was, in my first experience, and already cheating on my lover. As a matter of fact, making love to one woman while thinking of another was to become a well-practiced art in subsequent years, coming in mighty handy in given situations.
Sheree tried to be helpful as she coached me: “Come on, honey, push like you mean it. That’s it. Now push.”
I pushed faster and faster until my gluteous maximus began to cramp up, but to no avail. She not so gently pushed me off and removed the condom, studying it intensely. “Don’t you even feel like you gonna come, honey?” “I don’t know,” I said, feeling numb, like a mouth-breathing imbecile. She let out a sigh and reached for the package of condoms next to the bed. “Look, I’ll give you one more chance, then that’s it,” she said.
The specter of failure was staring me down, and cold it was. How could I face the guys? Would I lie? Would she tell? She opened her arms and gently enfolded me on top of her, which felt very good, and I began to relax a little. I looked at her face, and she smiled, and it suddenly dawned on me that she was a real live woman, and she was pretty, and her body felt warm, and I didn’t need Marilyn Monroe or those loose women from 1938.
“Yeah, that’s more like it. Come on, baby, Sheree’s gonna make you happy,” she whispered in my ear. The tactile sensation of her lips on my ear made me excited. I had a nice rhythm going, headed for the home stretch. “That’s it, now. You doin’ good. Keep it up, nice and smooth.” It was going to happen. I got incredibly hot and . . . there . . . was . . . no . . . stop . . . ping . . . me NOW!
I felt limp and exhausted and sort of happy, but she left little time to ponder the accomplishment. “Good. You did good,” she said, pleased, as she pushed me off. At least
she seemed to be showing some enthusiasm and satisfaction. Not sexual, necessarily, but certainly in the sense of a professional job well done. I felt a tremendous weight lifted from my shoulders, the proverbial monkey off my back, as I dressed hurriedly. “I need a minute here, honey, then tell the next one to come in. You near wore me out, baby.” My mouth opened to reply, but I knew some stupid unintelligible sound would come out, so I said nothing as I exited the room.
My companions looked at me as if I had just journeyed to the moon. “Did you do it? You son of a bitch. You did it, didn’t you,” Joe said with a huge smile. “Oh, man, I can’t wait.” But Manny was next, having lost “Once, twice, three, shoot” with Joe. With only two participants, it’s evens or odds instead of the odd finger.
Sheree stuck her head out and summoned the next gladiator. Poor Manny looked so intimidated as he slogged through the door that Joe and I looked at each other with some apprehension. “You think he’ll make it? He’s liable to have a nervous breakdown in there,” I said, worried. But there was some condescension in my concern, because I had passed the test and Manny had yet to. “He’ll probably have a hard time getting it up,” Joe said. “Not me, though. Shit, I could get a hard-on during an H-bomb attack.”
“Me, too,” I lied.
Joe began to question me about the details of my recent affair, things I never would have thought to ask. He wanted to know the size of the bed, when you paid, how you paid, did she smell good, and did she have nice boobs. He did not take kindly to the fact that Sheree’s breasts were off limits. “That’s not fair, that’s just not fair,” he whined, sounding like a guy who might call the Better Business Bureau or complain to the Channel 4 consumer reporter. I told him about the no-kissing rule, and while he didn’t like it, he was impressed that she could make change of a ten.
My mind was still so busy sorting out everything that had happened that I couldn’t think of what to tell Joe. Indeed, some of what had gone on in there, I might not want to tell anybody.
“So, how was she in the sack?” said the man on deck.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “she was kind of standoffish.”
“ ‘Standoffish’? She just let you fuck her, for Chrissakes! How is that standoffish?”
We heard Sheree giggle and remembered the vulnerable Manny. “I hope she’s not humiliating the shit out of him,” I said. Joe continued with his “failure to get it up” theme and how it would devastate Manny. Just then, Sheree came out laughing and holding her arms in front of her like a surgeon after the scrub. “Wooeee! Wooeee!” she said, and closed the toilet door behind her.
“Oh, shit, he must have cracked,” said Joe as he approached the closed bedroom door. “You all right, Manny?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Mind your own business, I’m not through yet,” came the voice through the door. Contradicting our concern, it seemed that our friend Manny was too good at getting it up and had prematurely ejaculated in three nanoseconds into her hand. In a decent and sporting gesture reminiscent of “the customer is always right” creed, Sheree agreed to continue the procedure and take Manny all the way to a second orgasm. After washing her hands, she returned to the bedroom to satisfy her current lover-customer. He apparently felt no such obligation, for after a few garbled sounds of conversation and the rhythmic squeaking of the bed, a smiling Manny emerged in a minute and a half flat. For a fifteen-year-old, two orgasms in five minutes is no problem, more the rule than the exception. Manny had had a grand time that he couldn’t stop talking about, extolling the virtues of the entire experience at a rapid clip. “You knew I was scared shitless, I know you knew. Well, as soon as I got in there and saw her naked, I got a huge boner. She touched me, and two seconds later, I came, I was so hot, it was great. Let’s do it again next week.” So much for “poor” Manny.
Joe went in totally relaxed for his crack at it, and unfortunately for us, he took his damned time. A full twenty-minute cacophony of groans, yells, and bed squeaks ensued, during which Manny and I exchanged sporadic conversation and tried not to notice. But we had grown antsy. We had been here for the better part of an hour, three horny honkies in a tenement in the middle of Harlem who still had to get to the subway and safely home. “What the hell is he doing in there?” I asked Manny. Just then we heard Sheree let out a bizarre squeal and “Oh baby! Oh baby!” Joe emitted a groaning roar like the Titanic breaking up. Complete silence followed. Sheree emerged looking like a dazed hurricane victim, limping noticeably as she made her way to the toilet. Joe came out with his nine-foot patented smile. “She was unbelievable. Just unbelievable,” he said.
“What the hell took you so long?” I said, annoyed.
“What do you mean, what took me so long? I could have gone a lot longer, but I didn’t want to keep you guys waiting.”
Sheree came out and made a parting statement: “Well, you boys ain’t virgins no more. You done good. Come and see Sheree again. I’m out there most Saturday nights.” It was like a commencement speech without the diplomas.
We each mumbled an embarrassed farewell as we left. I took special care to get a good look at her for my memory bank as she stood there, slightly disheveled, in her red slip. I felt a little guilty; it sure looked like a tough way to make fifteen bucks. We elected to take the stairs down the four flights amid the aroma of curry and bacon and the sounds of television. Out on the street again, we adopted a brisk pace as the dread enfolded us once more. We seemed to be attracting more attention as an assortment of devious-looking characters pointed and whispered, or so it seemed. A pimp right out of central casting, wearing a huge white hat, grabbed Manny by the arm. “You boys looking for something good?” he growled.
“No, man, we’re cool,” said Joe, haplessly trying to use the vernacular.
“You ain’t that cool,” said the pimp, and his tone was disturbing. Our path was now blocked by several laughing whores and pimps, and my hand automatically went to my wallet. We were in a crush, and they were toying with us. “You got any money?” said one of the whores. “No,” snapped Joe, and he pushed forward. “Who you pushin,’ muthafucka!” said the gentleman in the wide-brimmed hat as he grabbed Joe by the collar.
So this was it. My heart was booming, and I could hear the pounding of my pulse in my head. Manny looked like he was about to snap.
“Let ’em go, they cool.” Everyone turned to see Sheree. She parted her way through the small crowd and calmly took the pimp’s hand off of Joe. There was an uncomfortable momentary silence. “Thanks,” Joe said. We carefully brushed past the company assembled and continued on our way to a chorus of laughing obscenities and catcalls until we were out of earshot with a long block to the subway entrance. “Keep your eyes open,” warned Joe. He seemed to have assumed the role of guide and protector, which was all right with me. Between us and the subway we could see six men shooting craps in front of a liquor store. They were noisy, surrounded by beer cans and wine bottles. “Just walk like nothing’s the matter. Just keep walking,” said Joe. But we had been noticed, and two of the men were coming toward us. We stopped dead in our tracks. “Oh shit,” Manny said in a dry-throated whisper.
“They don’t want anything from us. They won’t bother us,” assured our leader. The three men were upon us now. “Keep walking,” Joe repeated, “they won’t bother us, keep walking, they don’t want anything from us.”
The men stopped right in front of us. “You got any money?” one said. So much for Joe’s instinct and gift for prophecy. “Run!” Joe screamed, and took off across the street to execute an end around, followed by us in a panic, running along the other side of the street in the direction of the subway. The men were somewhat drunk, and we were somewhat terrified, which gave us a slight advantage as we raced for the finish. I ran as fast as I ever have before or since, but I was thinking they could easily chase us into the subway and trap us there; that we might have a better chance out in the open.
But it was too late to change course now, as Joe was almost to the
subterranean stairs, with Manny and me breathless and close behind. Joe disappeared down the hole three steps at a time, while we were out on the street twenty feet from the subway entrance. I could feel the muggers practically breathing down my neck. Manny whizzed by me down the subway stairs. I don’t know why, but I stopped and turned to see how close behind our pursuers were. I couldn’t find them. I looked past the subway canopy to the left and to the right, but no muggers. Then I looked way down to the next street, where I could see men shooting dice. I could count them. There were six of them, leading me to the inescapable but humiliating conclusion that we were never chased at all.
Suddenly there was a scream from the subway entrance: “Leave him alone, you motherfuckers!” It was Joe, with two cops and Manny close behind. He seemed more disappointed than puzzled that I was unharmed and there were no thugs to be seen. “What’s going on here?” asked one of the cops.
“Nothing, Officer,” I said.
“Nothing my ass,” said the other cop. “Now, get on up to the Bronx, where you belong.”
“Yes sir,” I said, and we scampered down the stairs like five-year-olds. The ride home was as melancholy and silent as the previous week’s; why, I could not say. We had accomplished what we had come for, but at what risk to body and pride?
Manny broke the prolonged silence. He was agitated. “I can’t wait to get home so I can take a shower. God knows what diseases she may have.”
“We used condoms, and anyway, she was clean,” said Joe.
“How do you know? What are you, a doctor? Besides, condoms can leak.”
Listening to this, I began to feel itchy, more itchy than I’d ever felt, especially in the groin area. I dared not scratch in a public subway car, so I just sat there imagining the horrendous afflictions possibly brewing in my crotch. I could smell faint traces of Sheree’s rosy hair dressing and the clean smell of her skin, and I wondered if my parents would smell anything unusual when I arrived home.
