College Hooing Memories

Other stories about Nora Meara are

Freshman Hooker

and

Nora Turns a Trick.

Her senior year experiences of being a dominatrix are in

Nora Works as a Dominatrix

and

Fantasies of a Young Dominatrix.

The $25 she charges for the first trick would be about $177 today. Elsewhere, she admits that she didn't know what she was doing and had to adjust the prices downwards. The thousand dollars in the safe deposit box would be about $6,200 now.

CCNY is a common abbreviation for the City College of New York, a public institution run by the city.

*******

The World's Second Oldest Profession

The first being, I assume, hunter-gatherer. It probably happened in various places at different times. Some clever gals figured out that they could trade blowjobs for extra pieces of mastodon meat. That was a big innovation, and humans haven't been the same since then.

Those of you who have been following my various memoirs about hooking -- first as a college freshman and then my second stint as a senior -- know that the work was hardly a lark. It took a toll on me, physically, mentally, socially, and I suppose spiritually. For one thing, I had to be alert to certain issues all the time, even when I wasn't in the middle of a trick. I guess the term "situational awareness" would apply to that.

As I have said, it was a job. My task was doing certain acts that usually, but not always, resulted in my clients having orgasms. Thus I wouldn't say I was "selling" myself, per se. Call it "leasing" perhaps, often for very short time periods. Maybe I could compare it to those "hot sheet" motels which rent rooms by the hour.

I never needed to use one of those places, thank God, for reasons I'll describe below. Now that I think of it, I was only leasing the

parts

of my body needed to accomplish something. That at times included my hands, mouth, my anus a few times, or my buttocks for frottage.

Occasionally my female appearance alone was adequate for men who wanted to masturbate while gazing at my clothed or unclothed form. Or they watched

me

masturbate peepshow-style. I admit that the performances I gave for those were rather desultory.

The rest of me was compartmentalized so I was detached from whatever activity I was involved with. I'm reminded of one of those tractors that have a back-hoe on one end and a front-end loader on the other. Of course, I had a lot more than merely two functions I could offer. That state of mind was a way to keep my sanity intact for a while, although I cracked in 1974 after two semesters.

I believed that my clients also considered me to be a collection of parts. These items were not part of a person -- me, in other words -- but rather the whole package resembled three-dimensional pornography with those guys starring in their own (pathetic) films.

The very etymology of the word

pornography

comes from ancient Greece. It was defined as writing about prostitutes. Those people knew what the truth was centuries ago.

In turn, I also looked upon my clients as mere body parts, usually their penises or, if I was spanking them, their buttocks. Many of them probably perceived my disdain for them. Sometimes I was horny after a trick, and I would masturbate later while imagining being penetrated by their disembodied cocks.

Mostly time was not involved, and a guy didn't have to come within a prescribed number of minutes. Usually, they all came quickly anyway, unless they paid for a double session.

Emotions like love, or even affection or, I guess, friendship were completely irrelevant in that world. It was, foremost, a business transaction. Clients who thought otherwise were very disappointed. Sometimes I had to firmly remind them of that. One doesn't have to have a personal connection to the employee rotating your tires at Sears.

Some Standards to Meet

In my first stint, from September 1973 to June 1974, I was completely on my own, running a one-woman business. I got into it by coincidence when I taunted some annoying guy on the North Campus. I said that I would give him a blowjob in his car if he gave me twenty-five dollars.

Instead of scoffing or laughing it off, he took me seriously. It was the strangest experience in my life up to that point. Twenty minutes later I had twenty-five extra dollars and I didn't even swallow his semen. I aimed his cock away from me and he shot off all over his Ford's dashboard.

Somehow at the beginning, I impressed myself with how easy it all seemed. My second big decision on the first day was to give that Ford guy my home phone number. Yes, I was really that clueless and naïve.

I told him to pass the number around to anyone who might be interested in my services. And man, did he come through for me. Within about two weeks it seemed that every "thirsty" guy on campus knew about Nora Meara. I suspect that many of them expected college to be a place with abundant pussy, a campus filled with drug-addled girls who would doff their panties for them in an instant.

When they got tired of wanking with their own hands, they would turn to me. As I think Al Capone said, he was merely providing a product that his customers couldn't get because of Prohibition. But at least with Capone, you got your bottle in return.

With me, they got their orgasms, but I still think most of them would have done better buying a porn magazine or just going to a porno theater. That way they could let their imaginations run free. They wouldn't have to face my indifferent, in fact usually unfriendly, demeanor.

I was a rather weird hooker in that I wouldn't accept vaginal penetration at any price, with or without a condom. It wasn't like I was losing my virginity. That had happened already in the summer before my first semester at college. It was with some mook from my neighborhood who was admitted to another university. Believe me, he was no great loss.

There are some cultures where a girl can get fucked up the ass and still remain a virgin with an intact hymen. I didn't find that out until later, but it somehow paralleled what I was doing. Frankly, by the time that first guy "deflowered me" in the summer of 1973, I think my constant and intense masturbation had already shredded whatever "maidenhead" I had to lose.

Also, I would not be submissive for pay. In other words, I wouldn't allow guys to spank me. It's not that I didn't have fantasies about it -- I'm rather kinky in that regard -- but I didn't want to be in the position of being dominated by a man.

Some guys thought I was a very bad girl and that I deserved a firm punishment. Well, it was too bad for them. I wouldn't do it for any price.

Now, if

they

wanted to be spanked by me, that was a whole different story. Being a nineteen-year-old avenging goddess came naturally to me. They usually wanted it hard, not a little "spankie." Thus my hands, a paddle, a belt, a shoe, or something else would be flailing around, cracking into exposed male backsides.

Instinctively I knew that being an effective dominatrix required verbal as well as physical lashings. I didn't have to fake that. I believed that the men on campus had contempt for me, so I had no problem loathing them in return.

Often they wanted me to play some "role" which offered a pretext for corporal punishment. I have some acting talent perhaps, and I was good at improvising dialogue as a professor, aunt, employer, church lady, or some other position that gave me authority over them. Once I played a detective, and a couple of times I was a parole officer.

Bend over and present you bare behind or it's back to prison for you!

They loved it no matter how much they would yell and beg for mercy. (They always had an unmistakable safe phrase, like

tuna salad

, which they rarely used.) Often their erect cocks would give away their true feelings. A couple of them ejaculated onto my lap while being beaten. I would pretend to be outraged but in reality, it was oddly satisfying to have that effect on men. Pain in their rear ends resulted in pleasure in their genitals.

Some men did turn me down because of my two odd limitations. But there were many others to take their place. As long as they ejaculated, it didn't matter to them which orifice it went into.

Legal Issues

Every cop is a criminal, and all the criminals saints.

I may not have been a saint, but I was a criminal according to New York State statutes. If convicted, I could face jail time and financial penalties. Yet I was lucky in that the way I operated may have saved me from those outcomes.

Almost all of my domination gigs and the majority of other tricks were arranged by telephone. So where did many of those events happen? Well, usually at my house in Maspeth in southwest Queens. The only other occupant of the premises was my Uncle Tony, who worked during the day as a carpenter. Thus in daylight hours, I turned the place into a one-woman bordello.

The customers came to Maspeth in their own cars, or they took the subway and then a connecting bus. Some of them had a two-hour round trip to obtain twenty or thirty minutes of sexual activity out there. That was definitely not my problem.

Of course, my grades suffered because I would sometimes skip classes if I had a good deal scheduled. Domination sessions paid particularly well and I sort of enjoyed them. It certainly wasn't easy to find a place on campus to spank my customers.

It was a bit less difficult to perform a blowjob somewhere at the school. An empty classroom with the door locked, a restroom stall, or even a dude's own car would do. I would tell the automotive Casanovas to bring a blanket or quilt in the vehicle. Then we could cover ourselves much like that very first guy with the Ford on St. Nicholas Terrace.

My uncle was clued into what was happening by all of the males who would leave messages on my home phone. It was inevitable that he would play some of those before I could get to the answering machine.

Yet Uncle Tony didn't call me out on my atrocious behavior until near the very end. Then he made me take some serious consequences.

I never acted as a streetwalker on campus; I didn't solicit guys there. Rather, they came to me as I was doing something else, like trying to study in one of the lounges of the student center.

Like my phone number, another thing went out on the horny guy grapevine. The word among some of the 5,000 or so male students was that a tall girl with dark blonde hair and steel-rimmed glasses was peddling blowjobs and handjobs on the South Campus. Several times per week, one would recognize me and come up to ask about my services.

That presented me with three options: turn them down, tell them to come out to Maspeth at some other time, or just find a place on campus to consummate the act.

They had to remember that they paid not just to be with a prostitute, but also for her to go away afterwards. Or many times,

they

were the ones to go away. I wasn't there to hang around with them afterwards for drinks or to share a doobie.

One incident was in a Wager Hall restroom stall. I was on my knees blowing a student who stood in front of me. Just as he shot his load into my mouth he moaned, "Oh my God, Nora, I love you so much."

That kind of statement enraged me. I stood up and spat his splooge onto the tile floor. Then I got close and insulted him, although I tried to keep my voice down.

"Listen, asshole, get this straight. I'm not your lover, your girlfriend, or even your fuck buddy. This is strictly a pay-to-play operation."

He was shocked that his attempt to praise me had gotten that reaction. "I'm sorry, I was just trying to..."

"Do you have more money for something else? If you don't, then get your pants up and get the hell away from me."

He had no more cash, so he just turned and left. It was late in the afternoon and I didn't see anyone else in the room. Thus I gave him a three-minute head start. As I marched out the door, another guy came in. He was surprised to see a woman there, and I sneered, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

I was seething, and I could still taste the client's semen in my mouth. There was a water fountain nearby where I rinsed the remnants out.

Yet as I walked down the hill to catch a cab on Amsterdam Avenue, I was feeling that familiar post-trick hum or buzz I often got. That time it was sexual arousal, although that hapless john in Wagner meant nothing to me. It was more like:

If the men on this campus need to have an orgasm at a particular time, they have to come to me. And they give me the money I ask for it in return.

It was satisfying to bop around with illegitimate cash in my purse, and I felt that way on my walk to the avenue. That's how delusional I had become.

******

There were over ten thousand students at CCNY at the time, which made it easier for me to maintain a low profile. The campus was also sprawling, occupying the top of a ridge along Amsterdam Avenue. It had been created out of the properties of two very different schools.

The North Campus had a uniform masonry design for its buildings. It had moved there from its cramped location downtown in 1907. Yet it had a very urban appearance.

Since I was a history major, most of my classes (and on-site tricks) were on the South Campus, which once was a Catholic women's college that was usually called Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Yeah, nuns had a convent there (thus Convent Avenue) and they taught the presumably chaste young women attending the place.

It had also come up from lower Manhattan back in 1840. For a while, it had very bucolic grounds even as more buildings were added over the decades. Even in the 1970s, it still had the look and feel of a real university.

I had two basic types of clients: those who phoned me or those who met me at the school. They all said that they were students there but I could rarely verify that. Could one of them have been an undercover cop who had been informed by a relative at CCNY?

That never happened to me, and I had no information about what the NYPD was doing to stop prostitution. That was partly because I had no friends, whether hookers or not. In addition, the department was likely still reeling from the recent Knapp Commission report on police corruption.

In any case, I wasn't standing around on street corners or by tunnel exits. There was virtually no way to identify what I really was in public. Merely being registered at the college probably gave me additional cover.

That was all good because I never was in a precinct lockup and then the horrible Central Booking facility on Centre Street. I had a strange double identity as both a college student and as a hooker. At times it felt like I was being torn in two.

It definitely helped that the university had arranged with two private companies, one after the other, to provide security on the campus. Those guys weren't given guns or even nightsticks. They would have been a liability if they had been carrying those.

Instead, they were poorly trained and indifferent to their jobs. About the only useful thing they did was give one a ride to the subway at night if asked. They had a small fleet of brown Dodge Darts, which was the perfect car for organizations like those.

Once I got caught red-handed (or was it red-lipped?) by such a guard. I was giving a blowjob to a customer in the basement of Shepherd Hall. The guard just laughed and kept going. You can imagine what the overall security at that school was like.

In the spring of 1974, I started wearing "bad girl" clothes but not to increase business; I already had plenty of that. I did it to taunt a male student in one of my classes who had an obvious crush on me. He was clueless about what else I did at the school.

So merely wearing a short skirt or shorts with boots ("hot pants") was not enough to make me stand out that much. Other female students at CCNY wore similar outfits. The only time I had real hot pants was whenever I was masturbating.

Pimps and Madames

In a big city, it was difficult to just be streetwalking alone for any amount of time. One would get the attention of "professional" handlers to manage the tricks and take a cut of one's income in return.

Saying "no" to a pimp's offer was not like turning down a vacuum cleaner salesman. If one was operating in his "territory" -- the boundaries of which were loosely defined -- one was compelled to work for him.

Fortunately, I was not on the streets or in a park; I was on a college campus. Like with the police, no one could imagine such a place being a haven for prostitutes. In reality, it was a good environment for my work. The school had plenty of those horny virgins and near-virgins around, and eventually many came to me as the supposed solution to their problems.

I hated pimps with a passion. I ranked them as the lowest of the low in an underworld where there was tough competition to be the most evil. Their methods included conning girls into their "stable" where they were increasingly exploited. When they were too old or too addled on drugs to function any longer, they were discarded.

My fantasy of what to do with pimps who were convicted or copped a plea probably was unconstitutional, but it was satisfying to imagine anyway. Get a chick with some dominatrix skills (like me!), give her an English school cane, and tie him down for at least fifty strokes on his bare ass. That would discourage him from going back to his old ways.

Yes, I am not always a nice person. In my junior year, I saw

Taxi Driver.

It was very satisfying to see Travis Bickle blow away that odious Sport.

Suck on this!

Travis, you were demented, but you did good that night on 13th Street.

The idea of being forced to go to a whorehouse with a customer repelled me. For 85% of my gigs, I had my comfortable Queens house where I set all the rules. Of course, the loneliness of being out there after the clients were gone bothered me. I would drink (vodka and tonics were my favorite), play records, and finally fall asleep upstairs.

Personal Safety

But the real dangers I faced were because of my own fecklessness. I tried to not think about the possible consequences I faced by having clients come to my house during the day. Many of them had just been voices on the telephone.

Even if we were at CCNY, I was often alone with them in some room. No one knew where I was or what I was doing. If I had been robbed or raped, the police wouldn't believe me or even care. And yes, sometimes hookers are killed by a maniac posing as a client.

Even if my body was found, it would likely be impossible to trace who had done it. In that sense I was disposable. If I let such thoughts into my mind, I had to hide the fear I had about being with the johns.

I was not interested in other forms of sex work like stripping, "exotic" dancing, or porn shoots, either still pictures or films. Ironically, I would have been safer with all of those because there were people around.

But I wanted my autonomy and I wanted to set my own rules. I've never been that adept at working with other people. Yet near the end of the first stint, a couple of young women came up to CCNY to "recruit" me for some operation or another. Maybe they found out about me from one or more of all those men who had my phone number.

That was a clear signal that I had to get out.

Finances

Al Capone and others eventually went down because of tax evasion. I was only bringing in a trickle compared to them, but I was wary anyway. All of my income was in cash, mostly small bills, and that piled up pretty quickly. At first, I stuffed money into my chest of drawers, but that wasn't a secure place to keep it.