College Hooking Memories Ch. 04

Chapter 3 is here.

Queen Nora

During my second freshman semester I met my second boyfriend. Considering how unsatisfactory my first one was, that fellow Maspeth resident in the summer of 1973, maybe I should count Paul as the first one.

Certainly, whatever meager dating skills I possessed had atrophied during my time at City College. After a few months, I only knew how to deal with men as clients. They weren't even full human beings to me any longer, but simply sources of income to be exploited as needed. Without any real experience to rely on, I guess I did fairly well in my new task as the small-denomination bills began to pile up in my bedroom furniture.

I met Paul D'Amato in January 1974 when I entered my modern European History class in Wagner Hall. I always found it ironic that the building had been constructed in 1936 as a dorm for the presumably chaste Catholic women at the Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. In 1945, Ethel Kennedy, née Skakel, entered the school, and I wondered if she had ever roomed in that place.

At a later date as part of a public university, it had been converted into classroom space. Being part of the liberal arts-oriented South Campus, it was the headquarters for the history department. I was a history major, but after five months of hooking while also trying to be a student, I was becoming physically and emotionally drained by the experience.

As a freelancer, I was only turning maybe four or five tricks a week. The true professionals might do that and more in a single evening. But I had no pimp or madam controlling my actions, so I could do as I pleased and I turned down guys in person or over the phone if I wasn't in the mood for a job.

Yeah, a "job," a term that usually refers to a task like rewiring a house. In any case, maybe I wasn't as tough as I sometimes imagined myself to be. The pros would have found me pathetic, perhaps, an eighteen-year-old college lady who couldn't handle a lower-stress imitation of what "the life" was really like for seasoned hustlers.

But I didn't know any of that. Only I could make a judgment on what I was doing, and for me, I was feeling the toll hooking was taking on me.

When I first strode into that room at the back of Wager, about twenty students were already waiting for the professor to show up. I remember what I was wearing, and I was rather dressed up compared to the bad-girl outfits I favored in my last hooking months that spring.

My long coat was open, and I had a purple pullover top, a dark gray skirt, and gray leather boots. I scanned the other students through my steel-rimmed glasses. Well, it was really the males I was looking at. The women didn't register in my consciousness at all.

I wanted to know if there were any former customers in the room, or perhaps some potential future ones. For some reason, none of them took much notice of me, which I found slightly irksome. Perhaps fortunately, I recognized none of them.

Then as I continued into the seating area, I saw that one guy was indeed looking at me. He was slender with dark, somewhat messy hair, and nondescript clothes. I instantly recognized him as one of those young, fumbling virgins who seemed to be everywhere -- in my distorted opinion -- on that campus.

My months of experience gave me the ability to instantly pigeonhole the personality of any man I met. And, I'm not sure why, but I resented his gaze on me. He was obviously attracted to me, and I had the impression that he would try to pull his courage together at some time in that class and ask me for a date.

You twerp, if you want a handjob or a blowjob from me, you're going to have to come up with some cash to pay for it.

My cynicism about men had increased greatly since September and I classified most of them as either twerps or assholes. The only thing that mattered was if they could afford the services I offered. This one looks completely broke, in my estimation.

Much later, Paul confirmed that I had accurately read his opinion of me. He said I looked like a "queen," which oddly fit my image of myself. I was the queen of Queens, perhaps, or maybe just Maspeth. Certainly, I wasn't a brunette like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. Maybe with my dark blonde hair I was more like Vanessa Redgrave in Mary, Queen of Scots.

But yes, he recognized the haughtiness I projected, but he hadn't noticed my insecurities yet. Those doubts, which I hid well, were about my social, sexual, and personal worth.

That room had movable desk-chair combinations, and I spotted the one I wanted. It was right next to a window, and I wanted to be able to look out and indulge in some woolgathering when the class got boring.

However, that Paul person was seated a few feet inboard from the place I had staked out. I went over to my selected spot, took my coat off, and folded it over the sill. When I sat down, he was still glancing over at me.

It's time to nip this in the bud. I knew I had to warn him first before he decided to speak to me. And man, was I rude. As I had hardened over the course of the fall, I became increasingly nasty even though I barely noticed it. Men were only a business transaction for me, and there was no use in saying more than necessary to them.

I prepared myself by crossing my legs so my booted foot was swinging in the air, and by putting my left arm over the seatback. Then I turned my head and said to my classmate, "Hey you, I want to talk to you about something."

He was completely surprised and yet he seemed pleased that I had noticed him. "Yeah sure, what do you want to discuss?"

I calmly demolished him. "I don't want you staring at me like you've been doing since I came in here. Keep your eyes to yourself. In fact, I don't want you looking at me at all."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Apologizing; typical of a green newbie like him . Despite his embarrassment, he tried to rally. "By the way, I'm Paul."

"I really don't care what your name is." I controlled myself a bit, and I didn't add the word fucking before care. I had won that brief exchange decisively, and I didn't need to pile it on. Certainly, I didn't offer him my name.

As I turned away, I thought, If this guy ever wants a blowjob from me, I'm going to charge him more than usual -- just because I can. And he'll willingly pay it if he can pull the money together. I didn't notice his facial expression, but he must have been wincing from the jibe I had delivered.

Outside, it was a cold and overcast day, and I could see the gray-green towers of the Triborough Bridge. In recent months, I had been taking more and more cabs over that span. That way I could avoid the convoluted three-vehicle, two-transfer trip back to my house. Also, I could avoid any creepy guys I might meet (or simply imagine) on the trains.

Soon the professor came in and took attendance. Thus my name was revealed to anyone who cared and probably the only one who did was Paul.

After that day, I sometimes fantasized about Vanessa Redgrave portraying me in a movie. Probably it would play in some grindhouse in Manhattan, and it might be titled Freshman Hooker.

******

Even though his feelings must have been hurt, Paul had a stubborn streak (as do I). Instead of avoiding me in class, he just stayed near me. For every class after that first one, he always went to that seat near me. Although I was a bit bugged by that, it revealed that he had some gumption and he wasn't going to be intimidated.

As I found out later, he wasn't really a dork, but rather a fairly polite and low-key guy. He told me that during that spring, he fantasized about more than having sex with me. He really wanted us to go on a proper date.

I couldn't comprehend that any man would want to spend time with me for myself, not merely to bang me for a short time -- maybe only once -- and then dump me. Thus my hooking activities shielded me from my own negative thoughts.

Paul and I rarely spoke, although we did compare our grades on the mid-term paper. I got a D for that, and he got an A. With my philistine attitude at the time, I got a hint of how he might be able to pay me if he lacked the cash.

Nora's Taunts

As the weather warmed up, I went through my "bad-girl" clothing phase. I admit I did it partially to flaunt myself in front of Paul and incite him. It was enjoyable to present myself as an unobtainable hot chick. Thus I had various combinations of shorts, tight jeans and slacks, mini-skirts and dresses, bared-midriff tops, boots, and sandals.

One day I came in with a Catholic schoolgirl plaid skirt and red knee-socks. That had to be a provocation for a lapsed Catholic like he was. I was one too, which is how I understood exactly how to dress for the maximum salacious results.

As I sat down, I referred to my clothes. "I hope the nuns don't spank me for having a skirt this short."

Paul pulled together some daring. "Well, if they don't do it, then I'm willing to take care of that task."

He meant it was a joke, but I took it as an opportunity to be especially unpleasant. "I bet you're willing, but if you try that, I'll give you a swift kick in the nuts." That time I did watch his pained expression and the embarrassed reddening of his face.

It was an example of how bizarre my thinking had become. On one hand, I liked showing myself off; on the other hand, I used my increasing dominatrix skills to humiliate him. The verbal part of BDSM is underrated by those not familiar with the practices.

Baby, you are way out of my league, so don't even try to make an approach to me without a means of payment.

I wasn't sure which league bad Nora would be in. It wasn't like I had dated anybody during those two first semesters.

Although my job was supposedly to give pleasure to men (which I, and most whores, defined merely as facilitating orgasms) I truly got a kick only by inflicting pain and shame on those who paid me to dominate them. They got what they wanted, that was for sure.

*****

I used that knack on Paul in early June. It was mostly faked, as it often was, but I could make my anger look quite convincing if I had to. I challenged him just for the fun of seeing how far I could push him and get away with it. Don't worry, you can push him a long, long way if you choose to.

I'm not sure why I even did it. Part of it was to relieve my own frustrations, and I took it out on him.

At the end of the class, just as we were all about to get up and leave, I turned to him and said. "Stay in your seat. We've got something to discuss right now." It was one of the few times I had initiated a conversation with him.

Instead of scoffing at me, as he probably should have, he stayed in his chair and said nothing. After the room cleared out, I got up, closed the door, and flipped the lock. That should have given him a hint of what was to come.

I came back and stood leaning against the back of a chair right in front of where he was sitting. My dress was short, but its lack of sleeves was hidden by a light sweater. That way I would lessen the attention I got from random males on campus, many of whom recognized me anyway as the school's working girl.

After we looked at each other for a few moments, I began my mind game with him. It had a good mixture of flirtiness, provocation, and menace to unbalance him.

"So, Paul, do you like my hot-weather outfit today? I'm sure you're wondering what kind of panties I have on under it."

He seemed both intrigued and bothered by what I had said. "What makes you think that?" But his face gave him away because he blushed so easily.

"Because you've spent all semester trying to look under my skirts when I'm wearing them."

I had to give him credit for pushing back against me. "It might help if you weren't always showing off yourself."

He was right, of course, but I knew how to parry him. "You lying little prick. I'll dress any way that pleases me, and that's not your concern at all. I've already told you not to look at me. You're a real creep, do you know that?"

I still couldn't rattle him to my satisfaction. He said, "And I'll sit wherever I want in here."

My plan was ready to go. "You know what? I'll show you right now what you've been craving to see for so long."

I grabbed the hem of my dress and pulled it above my waist. My panties were white with red polka dots on them. Then I turned around to give him the rear view and I wiggled my ass at him. In a moment, I dropped the hem and turned to face him again. I said, "So there it was, are you happy now? Now you really have something to fantasize about."

I was using a classic domination power play of enticing him and yet at the same time belittling his interest. One couldn't blame him for being confused and making the mistake of turning his responses into questions.

"What was that all about? I mean, what do you want from me?"

It was time to pile it on. "I don't want anything from you, that's the point. You obviously know what you want from me. I bet you've been masturbating for months thinking of me and my underwear, and we both know that."

I stepped closer and wagged a finger at him. "You've been imagining pulling my panties off and then spanking me because you think I'm so bad. Then on your second whack-off, you picture yourself shooting off in my mouth or whatever other orifice interests you."

Now that I was in full bitch mode, I couldn't turn it off. "Since your curiosity has been satisfied, you can do whatever you want when you're by yourself. I can't control your masturbation fantasies, even if I'm in them. But when you're in here, leave me the hell alone."

Yet I didn't request one obvious solution, which was that he finally change his seat from then on. At that moment, it just didn't occur to me.

My final ploy was to say, "We're leaving here now, but you're going out the door first. So get up and get out of here."

"And why is that important?"

"Because I don't want you watching me, specifically you examining my backside."

He rubbed his forehead as if wondering, What is going on with this crazy girl? But he gave in to my demand. "All right, if that is what you want, I'll go right now."

When he had left, I waited a couple of minutes for him to get clear of the building. Then I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked out into the warm June day. Even though I hadn't turned a trick, my mind and body had that familiar post-trick vibrating hum.

Part of it was a validation of my own sexuality, or anti-sexuality I might call it. It had nothing to do with Paul or any of the other guys I dealt with. Rather, it was based on my perceived ability to bend them to my will, which was getting them to pay me for what they wanted. In the little comedy-drama I had just been in, my reward was executing a power play to discombobulate my prey.

Yet I felt the other side too, the shame and disgust over my unseemingly behavior. That guy hadn't actually done anything against you. But he sure made a good target. It hadn't occurred to me yet that he might actually like someone as weird and twisted as I was.

My legs felt a bit wobbly. I knew I couldn't deal with the subway, so I hailed a livery car on Amsterdam Avenue.

Everything Is a Deal

I didn't set out to make Paul into my boyfriend; I had no interest in any man having that role. I could satisfy myself sexually through masturbation, and the concept of "romance" held little meaning for me. Thus I tried to snag him as a customer, and near the end of the term in June 1974, I had a plan worked out.

Paul was smart, and I knew he could write a much better final paper than I could. Well, I was smart enough to write it too, but at that time in my life, everything had become a possible deal to finesse. Thus I figured he would write a second paper just for me in exchange for some sexual favors.

It was better to discuss all that in the Finley snack bar rather than in the room in Wagner after the class was over. Thus I had him meet me over there, which he assumed might be for a friendly conversation or even the beginning of some dates.

The real reason I left Wagner first, which I didn't tell him, was that it was awkward to walk around with a john before a trick or during negotiations, even for a brief stroll. I just wanted to get the deal sealed as quickly as possible.

Thus I think Paul believed that I had intended a gesture of sociability over coffee. My blouse and skirt looked good on that day, perhaps as a way to lure him in and keep him off balance. As we sat there having our awful municipally-provided coffee, I used a combination of friendliness, sexuality, and browbeating to make my offer. Manipulation came naturally to me by then.

It wasn't guaranteed that he would do as I asked; he admitted later that my brazenness and his surprise at finding out about my real purpose both shocked and intrigued him. In any case, I knew exactly the machinations that would work on an inexperienced virginal guy who had a crush on me.

I was very good at closing deals and I understood what he would put up with. He caved in to my proposal quite readily even though he was initially dismayed by what I asking for. At least he was going to get some sexual contact with me, albeit in a very sleazy and impersonal manner.

The terms I set were rather strict. In exchange for the term paper, I would give him a blowjob and the opportunity to cop some feels of my tits and crotch. However, I wasn't going to swallow his cum. He'd have to shoot it into the air as I gave him the final strokes with my hands.

Why wasn't that negotiable? Because I thought he was weak -- which wasn't actually true -- and I figured I could set any arbitrary terms that I pleased.

We agreed -- at my insistence -- that the deal would go down in his Finley Hall newspaper office on the evening before the paper was due. I also demanded twenty dollars in cash I could use to take a cab home that night.

While at the snack bar, we wound up talking a bit about my hooking career, which wasn't really necessary on my part. It was a way, I think, for me to both brag about my abilities and also to impress and intimidate him. For the first time, I faked being chatty with him.

At one point Paul was trying to see some glimmer of hope in this sordid affair. "Nora, let's go to the West End or somewhere, and we'll have a drink." That was a bar and restaurant near Columbia University.

"Why, are we celebrating something?"

I went into my client lecture mode, which I sometimes enjoyed with newbies like him. "Look, since you are so inexperienced, I'll clue you into some things. I mean, I'm not a completely heartless person. You do realize that this is all transactional? I'm not dating you or something like that, and I'm definitely not becoming your girlfriend."

His response was, "You've obviously done this kind of thing before."

"It was always for cash before this, however. And what I have to do to get by, to survive, is not your concern. If it offends your delicate sensibilities then don't do it."

He apologized, and I responded by showing that I was pleased that we had come to terms on the deal. "That's okay, I knew you'd come through for me."

"Don't you at least want to know what the paper will be about?"

"I'll leave that up to you. That's one thing I'm sure you'll get right." My implication was that academics was the only thing he could get right.

I continued, "Now, since you've agreed to this, don't change your mind and not have that paper ready on that evening. You'll be really sorry if you leave me hanging." I didn't specify what I would do to retaliate in that case.