Laura Meets Jeffrey Read Online Free Page A

nose lobbies for me to marry her immediately.
    This is the single best sex I ever had. Ever. More muscular. More pumping. Shakes me from the inside out.
    My connection to Laura grows every moment. The warmth, the smile, all the stuff you hear about in top-40 pop songs. They wouldn’t write about love at first sight if it didn’t sometimes happen.
    â€œYou are wonderful,” I say.
    â€œYou are wonderful,” she says.
    That’s what this is: love. Not just great chemistry, like I have with Sherry but love, like on a Hallmark anniversary card, like in the last scene of a chic flick, the feeling deep inside me that makes me know if need be, I would die to save her.
    I’d fucked many hookers in my life. Some encounters were terrific, mind-boggling, ultra-satisfying releases. I’d had many girlfriends. I’d been married and loved my wife. At orgies I’d fucked women I hadn’t even been introduced to, some whose names I never learned, some whose faces I never saw. I was thirty-four years old and I knew which end was up.
    I knew what it was like to fuck on acid, mescaline, peyote, mushrooms, grass, coke, Quaaludes, poppers and most of the chemical enhancements known to man. Or even Hunter Thompson. I’d used opiates and speed, which give you a lovely bone but make it nearly impossible to climax. This was different from all of that, and all I’d had were a few tokes.
    I’m lying there with Laura stroking my short beard, kissing my cheek, touching my brow, moving on my chrome molly cock. “Fuck me again from behind, please,” she requests. I stay inside her as we articulate into doggie style. I’m on my knees and hold her hips. She fucks in half time. I stop moving and watch her slow rhythm. My vision widens and again I see where I am. I’m finding romance in a sex marketplace.
    She charms the next orgasm out of me. We come together again, both too loud. We freeze, a snapshot of dogs fucking. A minute later a knock on the door means my time is up. We crumble into a double spoon cuddle, my dick finally softening. I stare at the back of her long aristocratic neck. What the fuck is this wonderful creature doing in a whorehouse? Is she like this with every man? Am I special? Is all that I feel one-sided?
    * * *
    A month before he died, Norman Mailer suggested I ask Laura, whom he knew, to add her side of the story. She agreed, read the manuscript, and revealed her thoughts in a series of interviews with Legs McNeil.
    â€œHow did I get to the whorehouse?” Laura laughs and begins to explain. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. You see, my first husband, Sandy, and I had a very open relationship, and actually, I didn’t really have much sex with him. Sandy had a really giant cock. It was uncomfortable. He was so obsessed with his cock it was disturbing, so I didn’t even want to suck him off. So, no, we didn’t have much sex for the first five years.
    â€œThen he started having sex with other women. And then I started having a lot of sex with people. That was kind of my modus operandi . That’s what I would do—I would go into a club and find the most attractive guy or whoever got me hot at the time, and say, ‘ ‘Let’s go fuck.’
    â€œSo I was picking up guys—a lot—and being very wild and promiscuous.
    â€œThen Sandy and I went to California,” Laura continues, “and on the way we stopped in Reno, Nevada, and he gambled away every single penny we had. Every single penny! I was stoned and goofing around and having a good time and came back and discovered that Sandy had a gambling addiction. I don’t even know if he knew he had one. Sandy used up our entire credit card and the only thing we had was the van—and the gas in it. And that was it.
    â€œSandy had gambled away $10,000 in like two hours playing blackjack so now we are $10,000 in debt. At that time in my life being $10,000 in debt was