'If you don't like the taste,' she gasped, 'I'll go wash.'
'Naw,' I said, licking and feeling around with my tongue and making her ass twitch. I played with her for a while, using my tongue, and then, when she was gasping for air and making strangled sounds, I pressed my whole mouth into the cunt and gave it a huge kiss and put my tongue out and tried to run it up her hole. She screamed and a huge shudder went through her body. I had~ my tongue thrust in as far as I would go. I felt the inner muscles throb and pound and I knew she'd gone. Then she was tugging and pulling on me and I was sort of on my hands and knees over her, my behind up into her face and her gone tongue working on my anus, my slit, my pudenda.
I kept on eating her, sort of liking it. Kissing a twat is sort of nice. It just sits there and lets you kiss it any way you want to. I mean, you can turn your mouth inside out and rub it on it, you can tongue it, you can lick it, and it just takes it and likes it and mine was really liking it with Pearl's educated mouth working and I came and went into a spasm it was so good and 'she moaned and yelled and came again and I came and then we were sort of exhausted. We lay there and I had a nice little nap. When I woke up, Pearl was leaning on an elbow looking at mei
'Oh, darling,' she whispered. 'I want to tell you how wonderful it was.' 'It wasn't bad,' I agreed.
'Better than with a man?' she asked, looking at me with a sort of heartbreak in her eyes.
Well, I'm not much on lying. 'I can't say that, Pearl,' I told her. 'It was fine and I really grooved on it, but there's something to be said for having a cock in here.' I rubbed my twat and grinned.
She shuddered and looked as if she were going to vomit. 'I'm sorry, I said. 'That's just the way it is.'
'All right, darling,' she whispered. She got up. 'We have work to do.'
We spent the evening learning how to walk. That is I learned how to walk. I thought I knew how, but Pearl said walking in a beauty contest or on a public appearance is something different. You walk proudly, briskly. You swing your arms just so. I walked up and down Pearl's living room until I was tired and when she was finally satisfied she started on my smile.
Now smiling is easy. It just comes naturally. Unless you're standing in one place for twenty minutes, your back killing you, your shoes too tight, a million people out front staring at you. Then smiling can become damned hard work. I found out that, although I was a natural smiler, when I had to force a smile I looked sort of sick.
She had me stand in one place, as if I were on a stage with the judges looking at me. She had me smile into a mirror and I saw what she was talking about. 'Think of something pleasant,' she said, 'And smile with the eyes, first. If the eyes look as if they're smiling, then the rest of the face is all right.'
I thought of Bill Murphy and being in the back seat of his car with my legs wide open, that first lovely moment of eniry when you're so hot your head is dizzy and your lungs can't get enough air and the whole body is trembling and iny eyes smiled. And then I thought of Roalt Fepperdine and the first time I'd opened my legs for him and how his cock was so huge and lovely and Pearl said, 'Honey, you're a natural.'
So, baby, when you see me smile, when you see one of the T.V. commercials I've done, or see me on the stage, or signing autographs, just remember what I'm thinking. I'm thinking, maybe not of Bill or Roalt, because that's been a long time ago, but I'm thinking of cock. Cock in me. Cock lifting me into that nice, heavenly haze of sensuality. I'm turned on when I'm slyly smiling. And think what you're missing, huh?
CHAPTER THREE
I, Kitsy McRae, known to you, the reader, so far, as Ruby Gore, am basically a sexual bteing. As I write this, I am twenty-eight. I weigh what I weighed when I was eighteen, entering my first 'beauty' contest at Old Town. I measure 36-24-36. My hair is my own. My skin is smooth, tans well. I'm writing this while seated on the balcony of a fancy resort hotel in Barbados, where I've come with a man who could buy and sell my first benefactor, old man Worth, a million times over. I don't look a day over twenty.
It's funny. In these few days, when I've been resting and thinking I remember things I haven't thought about for years. My current lover is down in the bar, making a dollar, talking about buying this hotel and half a dozen others over martinis. In my bank account, my checking account, there's just under fifty thousand dollars and I'll have to make a deposit soon, for I don't like it to get below fifty. My stock portfolio, managed by another friend, is valued in six figures and that, duckies, means that I have over a million bucks. And to this date I've never done a real trick. I mean, I've never laid my old bod down and said, 'The price is X number oЈ dollars.'
I like to think of myself as a modern courtesan. I'm not alone in this field. Throughout history there have been women who have traded their bodies for things and have not been called whore because the things they were trading for were like castles and empires and money of such considerable amounts that mere whoring cannot cover it. I mean women like Madame Pora-padour and a couple of blond bombshells who have been active in our society recently, whose names I won't mention, because the nice man who is going to market this book says I should not name names lest we get sued, but you've seen them on T.V. and in the movies and you know who I'm talking about, Modern courtesans. That's me, too.
You might ask, now that I'm independent as far as money is concerned, why I continue my career. Why do I, in effect, sell my body to the highest bidder? Well, it isn't quite like that. Not exactly. I've said, and have demonstrated with a few examples from my early life, that I am a sexual being. I like men. I do not, in fact, offer myself to the highest bidder. Oh, the bid has to be high, but-1 also have to be, attracted to the man. That is one luxury I can afford. Fortunately, those who can afford me seern to have that extra something which makes a man a man. I mean, in this day and time, no one makes it without having something on the ball, and quite often, that fantastic drive which makes a man a power in his field, also makes him something else in bed. I've had, tightly held in my body, the organs of men who have made it and men who haven't made it. A man doesn't have to be rich to be good in bed and not all rich men are good in bed, but I've found that a man has to have something to be good. I mean, well, take my old friend Roalt Pepperdine. He had a fierce drive to be good on the football field and that drive was also evident in his love making.
I look back over my life, and . certainly don't consider it to be over at twenty-eight, not by a shitpan full, and I find that it was the failures in life who were also just pieces of meat in bed. Take Ruf. Poor Ruf didn't even learn how to screw a woman and give her a little fun, too, until I forced him out of Old Town, got him to quit smoking dope and take an interest in looking good, making a dollar and all.
But philosophical observations aside, writing this book is serving a lot of purposes. First, I'm promised, in writing, with a very good contract, that I'll make a minimum of thirty thousand dollars and probably more, since one of my old flames is already reading the first chapters with the idea of making it into a movie. Aside from the money, which I love, writing it is giving me a chance to look at myself and discover myself. It's bringing home to me the contrast between the Kitsy McRae you see in the commercials, on the covers of magazines, in the movies, and the little girl from Old Town called Ruby Gore who once bought the Crown of Queen of the Mackerel Festival by walking in high heels over the body of an old man.
There are those in our society who use me, Kitsy McRae, as an example of decadence. I am damned in certain quarters as being completely amoral. Hell, I'll admit that. At least where sex is concerned. But, you see, I don't consider sex to be in the field of morality. I consider sex to be in the area of personal choice and, although I didn't have much of a choice in the beginning, I've certainly learned enough to know that I have a choice now and I choose to let my body enjoy itself. I choose to have sex when and where I please so long as it doesn't hurt… too badly. Some pain can add.
Admittedly, I was trained early that my body was good for just one thing, giving a man pleasure. Perhaps it would serve a purpose, before telling you about the great Mackerel Festival and all the other events which followed, to go back to my formative years and show you how I developed sexually.
Incest is a shuddery word. I think incest is bad in the minds of most people for one damned simple reason. I think it's gotten in bad because women of age, say of forty, fat, sloppy, just couldn't stand the competition from teen-age daughters. I mean, take an average household, an average family. There's a sixteen year old girl with slim hips, nice, tight little breasts, a cute face. And there's mama, over forty, letting herself go to pot, having a big belly, fat, doughy thighs, her hair stringy and unwashed half the time. She doesn't give a shit. She looks like hell. And papa, although he, too, might be over the hill, is still a man who can see the cute little figure of his daughter and think it's great and maybe get a little dreamy about the time when he was screwing girls just like that. Then
