Tales of Times Square: Expanded Edition (15 page)

Patrice pulls Lev’s elastic dick into her mouth, slurping away, working it up to hard-on consistency, which after four forty-five-year-old orgasms, is amazing. The King of Swing’s pecker looks a mere five to seven inches at full mast, or so it appears in the murky light. Once he reaches this equilibrium, Larry lies on top of his woman, his soft, large belly spilling over the sides of her body. He doesn’t move much while he fucks. He closes his eyes and just sort of lies there like a small beached whale, occasionally giving a buck or two. In short, the King of Swing is a lousy lay.

On the night of the big contest, however, it is up to the women to do most of the work. Patrice is a four-star pro, and she whispers sweet nothings into his ear. Her gravelly voice becomes louder: “Fuck me... Fuck me, you bastard, I love it, I love it.... No one makes me come as hard as you.”

First, we hear Lev’s initial groan, which resonates once from his chest, cuing up the judges’ alertness. Then, a buildup of grunts from his throat, and his face scrunches up, turning red.

“Fuck me!” she yells, bucking like crazy, digging her heels in his back. “Bounce off my feet!” She has been announcing her own “multiple orgasms” throughout, even though Lev does virtually nothing to cause them. Furthermore, she sucks his tongue, digs a finger up his ass, then starts to panic.

“I’m gonna come again! I want you to come with me, baby, I want every last drop, please,
please
, Larry, fuck me so it shoots right up to my throat. Oh, God, come for me, I want to feel it shoot up my throat. I’m not finished with you. I wanna feel your orgasm in my throat. Now, I’m gonna come, and you better too!”

The final warning from Lev is the buildup of
Ohhhs
—it appears he may be having a heart attack. Then the most amazing thing happens. Lev yanks dork from squack, dropping it on her belly while, from out of nowhere, Mark and Butch are fired out of a cannon, landing directly over the spot with flashlight. But it is Butch who holds the flashlight, defying the laws of obesity with his leopard-like moves. My own eyes, peering from between the rail, see the flashlight click on simultaneous with the first spurt, followed by three more spasms of jism onto milady’s belly. Hallelujah.

“Bull’s-eye,” Mark declares, looking up at Butch for confirmation.

“It’s good,” says Butch, on his knees, flashlight held out like an elegantly poised surgeon’s, with an inquiring koala bear expression. These guys have it down to a science.

Lev is out of breath, his heart attack having reversed to light-hearted laughter, and some modest proclamation of victory. (That was the best fuck so far—lemme keep it for myself, haw haw!)

And so it goes throughout the night. Larry pulls out of the female assembly line a moment before ecstasy, half machine and half animal, a spunk-splashing Zorro unleashing his sword—and then,
voilà
, proof of manhood on belly of woman, gushing forth in disgustingly frightening amounts. The ease and precision with which he displays each “money shot” for the flashlight under the adrenalated eyes of the judges defies enjoyment. But the amazing thing is that he genuinely is having a great time, loving each boff.

This is what overwhelms men like Goldstein, who celebrate for a week after having had one successful orgasm.

“Write me up!” demands Patrice, cleaning herself off in the room. In the porn game, it’s always up to the gal to clean off the jizz. “I want coverage! My man is a soul brother with a thirteen-inch cock, and I can swallow all of it.

“Here,” she says, grabbing my hand, “put your fingers down my throat. Go on, try it, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

I comply and Patrice goes through a skilled set of maneuvers involving great amounts of saliva, acrobatics with her tongue and suction technique.

“You see, I could teach any woman how to be a great whore. I’m a born whore. Not a slut. There’s a big difference between the two, you know. The other girls are sluts. They’re doin’ it cause he’s the King of Swing, and they’ll fuck anything with a dick, some money, and a name.

“I’ll make Larry come seven or eight times tonight, and I’m the only one gettin’ paid for it,” claims Patrice, hitting her thumb between her breasts. “A whore does it for money, for power. A slut does it for free. So don’t you dare think of me as a slut.”

I’m not quite sure what to think at this point as Patrice leads me out into the crowds.

“My sixteen-year-old brother had me blowin’ him when I was four,” she admits. “He taught me how to suck cock by practicin’ on his. And my mother was a French prostitute. So, it runs in the family.

“French women have less hair than any other nationality. Here, look carefully at my pussy,” she says, lifting her towel. Sure enough I notice a neat, natural black triangle, not a single hair of peach fuzz surrounding it.

“I don’t even have to shave my legs,” she adds, “or my armpits. Feel.” She runs my hand along these parts, and Lord have mercy, they sure are smooth. Who cares whether she has to shave or not?

“Not only that,” says Patrice, “but I’m a gymnast. Feel how tight my muscles are. I’m an expert at keeping muscles tight, believe me. Me and my soul man—that black guy over there’s my husband, you know—have to fuck thirteen times a day at the Avon 7 in Times Square. So you gotta be a health nut to keep in shape for that. His cock is so big, he can fuck me up to my wall, and he ain’t in all the way. So I let him have other women.”

My shirt is off at this point, trying to get into the
swing of things
, here at Plato’s, in between Lev’s orgasms. Patrice notices a particular pimple on my back while professionally inspecting my musculature.

“That’s ready to pop,” she says. Nice to know, I answer.

“Lemme do it!” she insists, moving into some sort of karate position. “I’m trained at this from when I used to be a nurse in France. I’m an expert at popping zits.”

“That’s okay, really, I’d prefer you didn’t bother,” I say. Her husband ambles over at this point, a black man wrapped in a towel.

“Look, Rick, isn’t this ready to pop? Aren’t I an expert at it?”

Rick glances over my back somewhat irritably, humoring his wife along, and shrugs. Before I know it, she’s pinched me.

“Look!” she screams, shoving her black thumbnail under her husband’s nose. There’s a little speck of pus on it.

“Didn’t I tell you, Rick?”

Rick is unamused. I back off, biting my lip.

“Say, man...” he says, losing his cordiality. “Didn’t you bring your own woman down here tonight?”

Al Goldstein leaves for his summer home at twelve-thirty, telling Butch to “watch my bet. We’re in this together and we’re still gonna win. He’ll dry after six.”

At 1
A.M.
, Levenson unleashes his sixth orgasm.

Butch and his prize bull from 42nd Street are deliberating at the buffet. “He’s got it,” says the tattooed stud, a pro sideline commentator. “Six in three and a half hours—all’s he gotta do is one every two hours, and he’s got till nine-thirty tomorrow night to glide on home.”

Levenson cruises by sucking on a joint, his fat belly hanging out of the bathrobe. Butch’s eyes fill with woe. His own pro had sized up the situation and declared Lev the winner. Five grand is five grand.

“Jeez, when I come, I’m exhausted,” says Butch. “When I was younger, maybe two, t’ree times in a night. My stud Dave, here, he sticks it nine times a day on stage, and I’d pit him against anybody. But this guy... if he comes fifteen times tonight, I’ll double the bet to ten grand that he can’t do it tomorrow. And if he does, I’ll bet him triple that he can’t repeat it the third day.”

I relay this information to Levenson, who merely shrugs and exhales a chestful of pot smoke.

“I could come till I’m dead... but why press myself?”

Lev’s seventh orgasm occurs at one forty-five. Mark and Dave, who officiated over the payload, claim it barely qualifies: “Just two tiny drops.”

Larry claims the first two spurts were in her cunt: “I just didn’t pull out in time.” When Patrice leaves the room, he elaborates.

“I need a looser pussy now. Patrice is too tight. My hard-on isn’t hard enough when I penetrate, and she’s too tight for me to pull out fast. I’ll use Vickie next.” Just like changing golf clubs.

Butch feels a spark of hope after the two measly drops of semen are described to him: “We haven’t lost yet. The well’s gotta go dry sometime....”

I guess your time is numbered at Plato’s, because sure enough, by around 2
A.M.
, I become a “swinger.” Stripped down to a towel, feeling somewhat like a moron, I dive into the Jacuzzi with Lisa Be, both of us buckass naked. It goes against the sex journalist’s ethical code to actually
participate.
We don’t usually fuck before porn cameras, or even show our precious cocks in public—we’ve got families, you know. The Jacuzzi is not designed to accommodate the breast stroke, which I casually attempt through annoyed swingers, while choking down a mouthful of warm dick-and-cunt water.

“Wasn’t that water chlorinated?”
Screw
editor Richie Jaccoma asks later.

“Couldn’t taste a trace of chlorine,” I answer.

“But they’re supposed to, it’s the law.”

“They’re supposed to pay taxes, too.”

When I traipse back toward the round table where our sporting members are centered, I am dumbfounded to see we have all become swingers. Butch, of 42nd Street, is unnaturally draped in two white towels, Roman-toga style; rockabilly Mark is in a towel that barely fits his waist, on the hunt, but always nearby so’s not to disappoint his buddy by missing a Jizz Call. Plato’s apparently turns down the air-conditioning at about 2
A.M.
to make things hot—much in the same fashion a bar serves salted peanuts to make folks thirsty. The holdouts in clothes break under the heat.

“I figured I might as well try and get laid,” says Butch, swaying a pudgy leg back and forth on the barstool. “Jeez, lookit that one, she’s
beeyoodyful
. I wish she’d toin around, I can’t see the face.”

Patrice’s hubby, Rick Lucas, is clad in a towel, finally at peace after the pimple episode. He’d also put in an honest day’s work fucking onstage in Times Square. While his wife helped Levenson establish a world record, Rick held firm to his manhood.

“Levenson’s no threat. Fifteen times is only two inches more than my dick. No big deal. I come from eight to twelve times onstage every day. You gotta learn to hold back your orgasm at two to three drops. But Levenson don’t know what he’s doin’. He’s throwin’ his balls to the wall.”

“If he wasn’t Larry Levenson, owner of Plato’s,” adds Patrice, “I’d charge him a million dollars.” I learn that the happy couple crash in a sex cubicle in the rear of Plato’s—their own little nest.

“Look,” continues Rick, “if he’d only drink a malt with three raw eggs, he’d have it wrapped.” Rick divulges his own stud recipe—the Breakfast of 42nd Street Champions: Helth Malpotane vitamins, a swig of Geritol, and a malt with two raw eggs.

“Here, have a Malpotane,” he says, emptying one into my hand. “It’ll grease your prostate gland. You’ll shoot off like you were sixteen, hitting the fence from ten feet.” I tuck the vitamin away for future use.

Levenson joins in, swearing he has no secret formulas, uses no vitamins. “All I gotta do is take a nap, for two, three hours. I wake up horny as a bastard, with a piss hard-on.”

Butch’s stud, Dave, having just awoke from a nap himself, relates to this wholeheartedly, a young pro acknowledging an old miracle man. “No matter how much I been fuckin’,” says Dave, “I can come immediately after waking up.”

“Yeah,” says Lev, “but do you have wet dreams?”

Levenson jizzes for the eighth time at 3
A.M.
“I really hope the guy don’t have a heart attack,” says Butch. “Maybe we should have a doctor in the house.”

Plato’s still jumps between 3 and 4
A.M.
, possibly the hottest hour on this swelteringly jammed summer night. The dancing, fucking, sucking, scoring, striking out, eating, and barfing—otherwise known as “swinging”—reaches its apex. But on this particular Friday night there’s been a little too much hanky-panky for even the likes of Larry Levenson.

“One of the judges fucked me up!” Lev complains, barging into the King-of-Swing room. “I think it was your man,” he bitches to Butch, who rubs his confused eyes awake, a puppy being scolded. Butch has abandoned his towel ensemble, sporting instead a pair of baggy-assed white underpants. Mark Lee Smith looks up worriedly, waiting for the Ninth Go, but he is not to blame for the trouble.

Tattooed superstud Dave, the varmint, has gotten into Larry’s coop and
schtupped
his two best broads—broads Lev had painstakingly procured for this high-risk, cash-on-the-barrel contest. And the eighteen-year-old blonde, the one Lev was counting on for some “loose” pussy for his next jizzing, now suffered on the sidelines, holding her vagina. Wanting to test the mettle of Dave’s 42nd Street schlong, she bit off more than her little box could chew. An innocent matter of girlish enthusiasm. Dave’s professional putz was just too big. Larry had found her lying in this overfucked condition in the makeshift team room for his girls. The blonde mumbled that she wouldn’t be able to fuck for a few hours; maybe she’d just blow him.

“I’m worried that he hurt her,” cries Lev, standing over Butch for an explanation. Dave lies beside Butch, sunk into a cushion, his face lost in a savagely peaceful sleep, and his long pecker uncoiled on his waist.

“I know she shouldn’t have done it,” Lev adds, “but she’s only eighteen, and
he’s
a fuckin’ judge!” Lev storms away to tend to his wounded girls, and Butch turns my way, nodding his head with disappointment.

“Dave’s built like a racehorse,” he explains through missing teeth. “He’s the best in the business. Gets hard like a fuckin’ rocket. Fucks eight, nine times a day....” He glances sourly over his stud, a stuffed coyote in slumber. “So why the hell did ya have to go and fuck that little blond goil, Dave? It don’t make any sense.”

Two fresh troupers who have remained out of Dave’s grasp—one, a brunette looker about to debut for the evening—enter the King-of-Swing room. They work Lev to the mat, sucking his tits as he smokes a joint to calm down. As I lean on the railing, the door bursts open and a stray woman waddles in.