Tales of Times Square: Expanded Edition (12 page)

She would delegate her body to four at once, the anatomical accommodations consisting of her vage, her mouth, and two unmistakably feminine hands. In other words, she’d be blowing, fucking, and handjobbing four guys simultaneously, an act that would make her Queen of the Gang-Bang. Her hind end remained off-limits.

A gallon jug of “Olde Country” lay on the table, a Plato’s Retreat brand of diluted mouthwash. Her husband, John, walked in with the see-through robe in which she’d be making her grand entrance. She was entitled to some degree of anxiety, and by God, it was evident with each deep inhalation from her cigarette.

“I feel that most women cannot do what I’m about to. Not many would have the guts to try in the first place. You have to be extremely hot... and enduring. I know I’ll do as many as I can and I’m sure the number will be satisfactory to me. If any girl tops it, fine. I might have an annual rerun of the event.”

Even when grilled about SALT II and the Iranian crisis, Tara was feisty, willing to shoot over and fight as a woman soldier: “I would have started the war a long time ago. I feel that America should not stand for this, the hostages have been held for too long. I’m serious.”

One aspect was serious for sure. This Tara Alexandar, local kid, who ran away from home to become a topless dancer at the Lucky Lounge in Queens, spread her legs in a loop or two, which catapulted her into two obscure roles on the silver porn screen... this lady was looking to get discovered.

Meanwhile, the formation outside Plato’s was shaping up better than a Salvation Army bread line. One of the attending Plato’s officials was impressed. It was a quick, unofficial demographic survey of the
Screw
readership: poker-faced elevator men, veteran “swingers,” young cabbies, businessmen in smart raincoats, middle-class blacks, artists, and several studs recognizable from their work in loops on 42nd Street—all to be Tara’s faceless lovers. If any magazine wants to get a fix on “their guys,” all they have to do is throw a massive “Spermathon.”

As they increased in numbers, so did their desire increase. Some were there to be “part of a record, a big goof.” Others were just yearning for sex, and Tara had become a celebrity dream-fuck. The horniest in line had arrived at five-thirty, while the elevator man who was second stood at a loss for words, shaking in his pants under the rain. None of them bothered to draw lots for how they would divvy up Tara’s charms. Al Goldstein arrived to rousing applause from the crowd, which realized it wouldn’t be long before they could stick it in. Countdown to ecstasy.

A formal press conference was held at 8
P.M.
Sex-rag correspondents were buzzing about. “Hi, I’m covering for
Partner
,” resounded one voice, along with other more abashed introductions between
Genesis, Swank
, and
High Society
.

“The owners are sinking a lot of bread into upgrading the magazine,” confided the man from
Pub
. “We’re going from a third-rater to a real second-class slick.”
The Village Voice
was present, and even a rep from Hefner’s publication. Photographers elbowed for space at the dais. It was requested that strategic priority be given to the
Screw
cameras, and “to that slob over there covering the event for
Screw
.” Gossip passed that
The New York Times
had sneaked a man in—perhaps in the event of an obituary.

Tara was escorted to the dais by Plato’s owner, Larry Levenson. The electronic flash of cameras was reminiscent of King Kong’s historic Broadway press unveiling in the film.

“The guys from
Playboy
are jerking off,” noted Al Goldstein the moment Tara’s robe dropped. Can miracles be real? Hot shots of actual tits, ass, and snatch! Porn starlet Vanessa Del Rio, who had left tongues hanging as she passed the line outside, gave a dumbstruck
no
when asked if she would fill in for Tara.

Enter the motley gang-bangers. Each is given a number. All are instructed to proceed to the lockers and remove their clothes. Towels are given out, along with a rule sheet, from which the following is reprinted in part, permission granted: “Thank you for coming to help Tara establish her world’s record.... We ask that in the spirit of the occasion, you take as little time as possible with her. The faster you can be, the more you will be helping her.... After you are through, we ask that you please leave the premises. If you wish to shower first, please be our guest.... Sorry for so many rules, but you can well understand that this is an unusual situation and we will try to make it as pleasant as possible.”

Indeed, what was so unusual about the situation? Cleopatra, Catherine the Great, and the empress Messalina of Rome had staged similar events. And, more recently, rumor had it that a major rock star’s stomach was pumped to the tune of sixteen ounces of semen at an L.A. hospital, which would indicate that he sucked off about thirty faggots. But unlike the aforementioned, whose sexual shenanigans were more mythical than documented, this lady had chosen to establish an official public record in modern America. And one Gary G. was the first number called to commence the action.

Young, cherubic Gary broke into a sweepstake winner’s smile as the entire crowd gave him an ovation. Naturally, he thought he’d be getting the first clean shot at Tara’s fresh snatch. Not so. Larry Levenson had already spoiled Tara’s virginity for the evening in the dressing room.

With Gary at the helm, the first four were led into the orgy room of Plato’s Retreat. A king-size, elevated mat was centered in the room, and on it lay the lady of the night.

Larry Levenson, the “King of Swing,” momentarily lowered his head with fatherly remorse and wondered aloud, “How could such a nice young girl...?”

Tara had employed a nurse for assistance. Danielle, a professional RN in transparent leotard, was busily attending to the next four cocks in line. As soon as one popped, another would be ushered in. Awaiting cocks were swabbed with alcohol, and those entering Tara vaginally were fitted with a Trojan rubber. How did Danielle feel about being here, or was she professionally detached?

“All I know is, I’ve got a reliable baby-sitter minding my kids. I have to be up at eight tomorrow morning for medical classes. Would
I
attempt to break a record for fucking? I’d think about it, you bet.”

“Danielle,” called Tara in her soft-spoken voice. “More lubrication, please!” The nurse marched over with a tube of Ortho Personal Lubricant. The gang-bangers were rotating round the orifices, musical chairs-like, and one fellow had trouble fitting limp member in twat.

Next in line was an overexcited black fellow who heckled his crony on the mat. “Come on, fuck dat bitch, you can do it, Charlie!” It was obviously his first upcoming taste of a white woman. The cheers continued as the next quartet of studs took up positions. From every open nook and cranny leading to the orgy room was a peering face, a horny craned neck, the beady, glow-in-the-dark eyes of a sex journalist.

Tara’s husband, John Alexandar, a co-organizer of the event, looked as worried as any man would be whose wife was about to be gang-banged by a hundred men. He stood by the doorway, calling out numbers.

“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen... come on up!” he hollered, with his coffee-stained detective’s voice. He’s built lean, with a pot belly and a Fu Manchu mustache, but tough as nails—the kind of guy you somehow wouldn’t want to tangle with, much less mess with his woman. His eyes were wells of anxiety.

“I had to take a tranquilizer, I’m so anxious. I want her to perform; I know she can pull this off. Last night I had a dream—everything went perfectly. She was just reaching out, touching dicks like a magic wand, and they were popping off, one after another. She produced two hundred orgasms. Tonight she’ll prove she can do it.”

And proving it she was—meeting the great challenge of making these sultry troops climax in front of lights, cameras, and Larry Levenson. One cabdriver was stopped on the brink of orgasm by Larry, who had the harsh responsibility of timing everyone (five minutes and out). The guy ran off, hard-on in hand, to slap ham in the lockers.

Husband John was chalking up the victories on a pad. His eyes darted furtively at the action from a sideways angle. “She’s great at French,” he continued. “Anyone’ll come when she Frenches. The hottest scene I ever saw was Tara and this other chick going down on each other. These guys started to crowd around and join in. By the time the other chick finished fucking one of ‘em, Tara had sucked off five.”

John enjoys telling stories about his wife, as befits an enormously proud fellow. What can you say to such a remarkable man, whose unselfish display of generosity had rescued the sexually deprived. (Hey, bud, that’s your
wife
in there, your goddamn
wife
. Holy wedlock!)

“What should I do?” asked a rather dumbstruck fellow, next at bat. Nurse Danielle was there to instruct, getting hornier as she warmed up to the job.

“She’s got two hands, a mouth, and a vagina. Stick it in whichever of those becomes available.”

“She joins in,” said John, with an unamused gaze at Nurse, “and I’ll shoot her.”

One of the black guys was nearly demanding a warm-up, some contrivance to stiffen his Johnson before the main event. Perhaps the nurse would oblige? “No
fluffers
,” screamed someone—the rule sheet strictly forbade it. This was an important factor for future “Spermathons,” as John stressed the point: “Anyone who tries to break Tara’s record
can’t use a fluffer
”

A momentary cease-fire was declared after an hour or so. Confused participants worried whether irate feminists had stormed the barricades, or a Hare Krishna procession was on its way through. No such luck, for it was, in fact, the
Midnight Blue
camera team and a cluster of photographers entering the orgy room to shoot some live action. Reporters’ heads were popping through the window to inquire what number she was up to and how our lady fared.

“Twenty-five guys so far,” came some official word.

“I’m feeling fine,” said Tara in her most vixenish tone, “but I haven’t come yet. I could use a hamburger or something, but make it
very
rare. On second thought, make it raw meat.”

Tara seemed more interested in how everyone
else
was holding up. It was time to catch her breath and reach for a Miller.

After signing model releases, the four cocksmen about to be filmed congregated outside. One was wearing a paper bag over his head. “I own a restaurant and I’m afraid I’ll lose customers if they find out,” said the mystery fucker.

“Do you have a bag on your dick also?” I asked.

“No.”

After the cameras had finished up, directing both hardcore and soft-core poses for the different markets, Tara was off to her dressing room to reenergize with a Philly steak, french fries, and a Milky Way. A group of pornographers were sitting cross-legged in the orgy room talking about guns. John Holmes was apparently busted with a .44, or some such news. Mobs of unfucked men were milling about in the lounges and getting restless. Some had been waiting for hours. One fatso was straining to keep his towel on, but there was no way it would reach around his flanks. Would Tara emerge fresh as a daisy?

“It doesn’t matter, I’d stick it in a snake,” said the next in line. Some were reclining on Plato’s Retreat lounge chairs while others were starting to proposition the female guests. This only seemed to enrage John Alexandar with some phobic form of reverse jealousy (Hold on, not
without my wife
, you don’t).

The long wait had set one of the old boys hopping mad. He wanted to get his rocks off sans delay. When Tara returned, her husband was biting his nails, irritated. “Hurry up, Tara, there’s a million guys waiting—soon there’ll be a riot!”

Tara was collected and as lovely as ever. A porn movie director was tending to her nose. She shed her robe and kicked off her heels. At this point, emboldened by snort to new heights of sexual expression, she hopped back on the mat, spread-eagled, mouth agape, fingers itchy for more and more! Extraordinary.

The guys were getting more time with Tara now. Larry Levenson had left, there was no longer any need for a referee. Tara would occasionally surface from the mass of naked bodies on top of her with a soft smile. She actually took on a softer glow with each new foursome. After fifty guys she was “really starting to get loose,” according to John, who sighed with relief.

“I’m starting to calm down now,” John said. “You know, when I was in the army I took pictures of B-52 bombers. They come down the runway looking like they’re going to crash into the canvas fence. But the suckers always took off. That’s what tonight is like. After fifty guys, she’s really starting to take off.”

“I’ll be back next week, har, har,” said one satisfied customer, winding up his orgasm.

“Bring your friends,” said John, marking his scorecard. Yes, sir, here was the unsung story of the evening.
“Push push in the bush”
he sang absentmindedly, reaching down to readjust his balls. “Number sixty-five, come on up!” His partner in holy matrimony was throwing it up to a Sydney Greenstreet clone. The man kept missing the vaginal target, then had to grapple for his pecker under the folds of his great belly and try again.

“God bless her,” commented one bystander. “There should be a million like her in the world.”

“I give her a lot of credit for trying,” uttered one guy who didn’t pop.

“I’m in love,” came another starry-eyed participant, after he
did
pop.

By the time Tara had polished off eighty-two fellows, she had used up more than sixty rubbers, four tubes of lubricant, and six pints of alcohol (source: Nurse Danielle). Trojan wrappers, cotton swabs, and cigarette butts littered the floor. A heaping pile of towels in the corner smelled like hell. And what should lie at the bottom of this pile but the favorite dinner jacket of yours truly. But these were the signs of victory. Tara had achieved her fantasy and shot past the minimum goal of seventy-five—her name was destined to appear in lights on 42nd Street. Her nipples were swollen; her hair disheveled.