College Hooking Memories Ch. 01

This series examines in more detail a few of the events of Nora Meara's time as a hooker in 1973 and 1974.

For her overall description of her first ten months at City College see Freshman Hooker. For her account of a single day see Nora Turns a Trick.

City College of New York is abbreviated as CCNY, while the City University system is known as CUNY.

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My Motivations

As I described in my memoirs I got into prostitution almost by accident. Arguably it wasn't absolutely necessary for me to do that, but once I started I went "all in" on it. Yet I convinced myself that I could still be a student at the same time.

Greed was certainly one of my motivations. Previously, I had never held a job of any sort, and the amount of money I could earn through "leasing" or "renting" (I never thought of it as "selling") myself seemed impressive.

There were other, deeper psychological reasons that I didn't want to look at too closely. I'm sure I was deeply ambivalent about my own sexuality and how I would relate to men on that level. Something about leaving my home neighborhood of Maspeth in Queens and entering that large university set off a crisis within me.

I became convinced that the males at that place were contemptuous of me and saw me purely as a sexual object. Probably I exaggerated that but my first couple of weeks at CCNY were awful. I felt out of place, and I blamed it on the male students at the school. I imagined that almost every one of them lusted after me and would rape me if they got a chance.

Probably I was having some kind of mental breakdown that started the moment I stepped onto the campus. Before that, my life had seemed quite ordinary, humdrum even. During the last month at Maspeth High School, I acquired my first boyfriend from among my graduating classmates.

It was a wholly unsatisfactory relationship, and we broke it off as soon as we entered our new schools. He went to LaGuardia Community College which was near our neighborhood. I'm not even sure why I picked City College when I could have gone to another CUNY unit, Queens College, which was in the opposite direction out in Flushing.

Maybe it was because City was the oldest, the "flagship" school of the system. For sure, I had no idea of why I was even in college except that everyone accepted it as the key to success in life and career -- merely by earning a diploma.

The fact that all of CUNY was tuition-free for city residents clinched it. My thinking wasn't always logical, but the pressure of being eighteen and having to make life-altering decisions was intense. Thus I thought that if I didn't know what I was doing in a university, then it wasn't worth spending any money on it.

Becoming a part-time prostitute required equally odd logic, but I discovered with my first, ad hoc trick, that I got a sense of power from doing it. I don't need to deal with men, I don't want to deal with them, but I certainly can take their money. And were they ever eager to fork over large amounts of it for the most pathetic sexual acts. It confirmed my bias that they were all foolish jerks.

Of course, paradoxically I was indeed putting myself into serious peril with those johns, like being raped or even killed, but the stark reality of that didn't strike me immediately.

I wasn't just Nora from an obscure Queens neighborhood, but rather I felt important then, a "Big Lady" on campus. When my second boyfriend Paul first saw me in January 1974, he said that I appeared to have a "regal" bearing, as if I was a queen. The Queen of the Whores, but that was better than being a nobody.

That all lasted for about ten months. Near the end, people, mostly other women, would come up to the school and offer to get me into some organization or another. In other words, I was on the radar of pimps by then. It was only a matter of time before one of them dictated a deal I couldn't refuse. (Yes, the Mafia was still big in the prostitution racket.)

The illusion that I was in control, that I was working on my own terms, was evaporating. Thank the Gods I wised up and got the hell out of that life while I still had the chance to escape.

*****

My Methods

I usually thought of myself as a "hooker." The word "whore" seemed too much like an insult. "Prostitute" sounded like a police report label, and it reminded me that what I was doing was illegal although I never got caught.

"Sex worker" just seemed wrong, like I was on the line at the Tarrytown Assembly Plant. Yet "working girl" was okay with me, for some reason. I supposed that was because it omitted the word sex from the job portion of the phrase. "Professional" was acceptable too. It emphasized the self-employment aspect -- or delusion -- of my new career. And through all that I still tried to function as a student too.

Right from the beginning, I set rules for myself about what I would do and not do for money. Most hookers will not kiss their clients, but I took it much further. I would not allow any vaginal penetration, with or without a condom.

It wasn't a fear of STDs or pregnancy. Somehow I associated it with a remnant of sexual "purity," as if I wasn't really a prostitute if no man's penis entered my vagina. Well yes, I had done vaginal sex with that Maspeth mook before I got to City, but that was consensual, not for pay.

I was not entirely consistent in my actions, because I would let men finger-fuck me. Most of the johns were surprisingly inept at it, and I had to finish myself off. That was an indication that many males at the school were virgins or near-virgins, and they had no clue about how to satisfy a woman's sexual desires.

A few would pay to go down on me while they masturbated themselves during or after the act. That was not common, because prostitution is about male, not female, pleasure. Besides, most of them were terrible at it. They couldn't find a clitoris if their life depended on it.

Plus I never faked an orgasm during their incompetent attempts at pussy-licking. For some reason, I went for honesty when actually it was in my interest to do some play-acting. But if a guy couldn't make me come with his mouth then I considered it his problem, not mine. To me everything I did was physical; the pride or emotional state of a customer was not something to be considered.

Some guys would complain about my "no vagina" rule. "But I already have a pack of Trojans with me." Yet at least three-quarters of the complainers would accept oral sex from me instead. It was actually better in some ways because they could concentrate on their own pleasure and not have to pretend to be a stud who could please me when most of them probably couldn't do it.

Besides, I put some attention into doing a blow-job properly, and they rarely had anything to gripe about. Frankly, I was better at it than most of those women you see in porn films. They were just going through the motions of jamming cocks into their mouths or, more improbably, their throats

Also, I would occasionally accept anal sex, mostly because it paid so well. My rate was far above the blowjobs which were my most common product. I rationalized it in the same way women have been doing it for millennia. One could remain a "virgin" (although I wasn't one by then) by doing Greek-style only.

Another thing I wouldn't do was be submissive -- in other words, let a man spank me. Some were itching for that because they thought I was a very bad girl who richly deserved to be punished for my transgressions. They failed to realize that they would have been using their own money to enact such scenes.

Well, it was too bad for them. I would, however, enthusiastically spank them if they paid for it. Being a dominatrix seemed to come naturally for me. The harder I beat them and the harsher I was verbally, the more they seemed to enjoy it.

I discovered what was appealing about being submissive when I found that I enjoyed it myself. However, only a real lover was satisfying for that activity, not a client. It was my second boyfriend, Paul, who taught me that.

Pain was only one factor. It was cathartic emotionally as a way to deal with guilt, sexual or otherwise. That was the main motivation for almost all of those clients of mine. They wanted to present their bottoms, usually but not always bare, to a stern woman who would thus absolve them of their sins. I felt that as a regular student, they would feel contempt for me, but as a dominatrix I had the power of an avenging goddess when I thrashed them.

And let's face it, the blood rushing into one's buttocks often resulted in an erection for males and intense pussy tingles for females. Not everyone has that reaction, of course, and at first I saw it only in men because they were the only people I dealt with.

Thus I was surprised when I finally realized that I too was aroused by a firm thwacking on my rear end. So that's why all those guys got boners or even ejaculated if they happened to be over my lap. After being spanked by Paul, I was instantly ready to impale myself on his cock.

Yes, I could indeed be a good little switch and I could take it as hard as I could dish it out. I was certainly kinkier than I had originally thought. My new boyfriend was a switch too, and he always got those erections I alluded to. I used my best domination methods when I gave him a sound ass-beating.

The first time with him I went a bit too far, however, and I refused to have sex with him after I paddled him. He really wanted it because I had also flashed my see-through panties and garter belts at him. Instead, I threw him out of my house and he had to wait four days for me to bring him back. That was just gratuitously strict, I decided. After all, he was my special sweetie-pie.

After that first session, we always screwed after his punishment was complete. He was quite eager for sex even though his blazing red behind was quite sore.

Two switches in love. As someone commented later, "Could anything be sweeter?

*******

Peep Show in the Library

At the beginning of the fall 1973 semester, I made the mistake of giving out my real full name to a couple of guys who promised to pass the word around about my services. I gave out my home phone number too. Back in Maspeth my uncle, who lived there, definitely got some strange calls and I'm sure he knew what was going on. However, initially he didn't call me out on it.

It was too late to take any of that back, but I learned to accept it. Word soon got out among the males at the school that a girl with dark-blonde hair and steel-rimmed glasses named Nora was turning tricks, usually on the South Campus. Thus, guys would often see me around and come up to me.

They'd ask for one of my deals, or at least what I might have available as an offering. That's what I called them: deals, because I felt like I was running my own business. Nora the entrepreneur. I didn't realize it right away, but I was only fooling myself.

Sometimes even classmates would approach me, usually right when the class was ending. I rarely had to do any soliciting of my own, because some guy would notice me almost every day. Sometimes, I guess, they went up to the wrong girl, which I imagine could be somewhat embarrassing depending on what they said to her.

An early example of such an approach happened in October 1973 when I had been at that gig for about a month. It was a mild day and I had a Susie Coed look going -- a cloth skirt and black nylon knee socks. I was walking down the steps of Wagner Hall, and sure enough, there was a guy at the bottom -- there was nothing extraordinary about his appearance -- who asked, "Are you Nora Meara?"

No "excuse me" or "pardon me;" politeness seemed to be optional among the johns. I was a completely free agent, so I could always turn down somebody if I wanted to. Maybe I was hungry and wanted lunch or maybe I was just tired and wanted to go home.

But often we would hear each other out before I made a thumbs-up or thumbs-down decision. Money was honey, and I was getting to like the tax-free cash I was earning and the relatively little work I had to do to obtain it.

Usually, I was not outright rude with a guy unless he was rude first or else annoyingly clueless. I could be brusque, however. After leading him off to the side -- I didn't want somebody else to recognize me -- I said "Yeah, I'm Nora. What do you want?"

"I'm not really sure."

The standard response to that was, "Well, how much do you have to spend?"

He told me the amount. I said, "That isn't very much, you know."

More information was forthcoming. "I have a key to this little room in Cohen Library." That was the only South Campus post-war building constructed after the city had purchased Manhattanville College in the early 1950's. A Catholic women's college: what a delicious irony.

"So what's in this room? By the way, what is your name?"

It was Jason or Kevin or something; usually, I forgot it by the next day. Regarding the room, he said, "Not much. Basically a couple of chairs and a desk."

I had been considering a tactic for low-rent customers like him, and I decided to experiment with it. "For that price, I can give you a peep-show experience, but without the glass, of course. You do know what a peep-show is right?" I was learning never to assume anything about these clients, some of whom were amazingly naïve.

"Of course, I know what it is."

Just to be sure, I explained the details. "A woman will be in a booth, behind a window, and the customer will jerk-off while looking at her body. However, with us there will be no window and thus I'll have to trust you not to touch me."

"Why can't I touch you?"

"Because that will cost more than you have."

With hookers, everything was an extra charge. A girl had to be careful about giving away freebies to customers who tried to wangle one from her. For example, a blowjob had different cost levels. Just spitting out the cum was the base price, like a stick-shift on a car. You're done with it, and so am I.

Swallowing was more expensive. The highest fee was far a "facial," a full blast into the face because it was so difficult to clean up afterwards. Inevitably, some of that sticky goo got into my hair or onto my clothes. If the latter happened, I'd charge for dry cleaning too even if the garment was machine washable.

Blowjobs were my bread and butter, but this dude couldn't meet my price. I explained my proposal to him. "When we get in there, I'll bend over the desk. Then I'll lift up my skirt, take my panties off, and present my, ah, underside to you. Got that so far?"

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"Then you'll sit in a chair and do your thing on yourself while you look at me." Something else occurred to me. "Do you need something to lube yourself with?" I always carried some such item in my bag in case it was needed.

"I've already got a tube of Vaseline in there." He must whack off in there a lot. But this is probably his first time with a real girl.

It all sounded like easy work, and I decided to clinch it. "So, do we have a deal then?"

Not quite, because he had an objection. "Why don't you just face me during this?"

"That's just the way I want to do it. Take it or leave it." I did have my reasons; I didn't want to look into his face as he masturbated. Often I had to look when I was paid to masturbate as well, but I knew he couldn't afford that. Remember those extra charges I mentioned? However, he didn't need to know any of that.

After a moment, he said, "All right, I'll take it."

"Fine. Now the money is due upfront, right now, before we go into the library. Let's be discreet and step over to the side of the building."

After paying me, we walked side-by-side to the entrance of Cohen Library, which was only about one hundred and fifty yards away. But we did it in silence; I stared ahead and refused to look at him. He kept glancing at me, but I wanted him to know nothing about me nor did I wish to know anything about him. It was all transactional, not a social event.

We entered the room on the second floor, and he locked the door from the inside. There was no point in wasting time during a trick, so I got right to it. "Sit down Kevin and get ready while I get ready too."

If I agree to an act, I do a good job with it. I left my panties on the floor because I knew that would help motivate his lust. My ass was up high, I spread my legs enough that he could see everything well, and throughout our time there I slowly swayed my hips back and forth. It's pretty basic, but he can't complain about the view he's getting.

On an impulse, I took my sociology textbook out of my bag and opened it on the desk to read. I don't know why I bothered, because almost all of those guys came very, very fast no matter what they were doing.

For a brief while, I read a depressing treatise on Émile Durkheim's study of suicide. Kevin was about ten feet behind me and I heard him moaning as he stroked his shaft to ecstasy. During a brief glance back at him, I noticed he was using a two-handed method. I had seen guys come before, and I had no interest in watching him any further.

As I predicted, it only took a few minutes for him to climax. His voice changed pitch, and got higher, which I knew was a sign that was going to shoot his load. At his peak, he was chanting, "Oh, Nora, Nora, oh Nora."

Goddamn, must he say my name during his sexual frenzy? It's only an ejaculation! Then I heard what sounded like raindrops spattering on a sidewalk.

I looked back again and witnessed him shooting a second stream up and out into the air. That also came back down onto the floor, but it missed hitting me. I would have been quite pissed had any gotten on me.

Raindrops keep falling on my head. I smiled to myself as I remembered the song. I let Kevin continue stroking until he was depleted, and then he sat back and dropped his hands. I said, "All done? Then it's time for me to go."

"Please Nora, don't go. We could do it again, and this time you could jerk off too."

"Do you have any more money? Because that would cost you more."

"No, that was all the cash I had."

"Then you're done with me and I'm done with you." Then I noticed my pink and white underpants on the floor. "Did you like my panties? Because I could sell them to you if you wish."

I was learning that many men were willing to pay a high markup to buy my used underwear after a session. Thus I always had extra pairs in my bag as replacements. The cost that day was reasonable, but he didn't even have that.

I said, "Are you sure? Because my aroma must still be on them. You could have a good time later whacking off into them." Men would fill my panties with their semen later after obtaining a pair.

His answer surprised me. "Do you have something like a layaway plan?"

I laughed at that. Customers -- and me too -- had used car dealership analogies, but that was a new one. "No Kevin, I'm not a jewelry store." Then as quickly as I could, I got my underwear back on and put my book back in the bag.

Just as I was about to leave, I glanced down at the semen puddled on the floor, but I didn't look at him. He was just this -- entity, this object -- who had paid to look at my genitals for about ten minutes. Beyond that, he meant nothing to me.

"Please Nora, you are so pretty." I hated it when a john complimented my appearance as a ploy to get more from me. Even though I was angry, I didn't express that emotion. There was no point in alienating potential repeat customers. Rather, I simply closed the door behind me.

I was sure that Kevin or whatever his name was going to continue masturbating in there while thinking of me. He could have saved some money by relying entirely on his own imagination. Surely there were classmates or even celebrities that could facilitate his fantasies like, say, Katharine Ross. Raindrops had fallen on her head, right?