Would this have happened today, in the present climate of political correctness, the on-going debate on consent, third or fourth wave feminism, et cetera, Terry Hall, I, and our cabal of cohorts would all have been imprisoned for turning out the first on-stream bob'r.
Truth be told: consent to exploit was never given; or, was it ever asked for. Why? Because as sales professionals (read: hustlers) we followed the golden rule which every mother knows. “Silence means consent.” So, follow this one!
Terry rushed into my office very excited on a Friday at 3:05 PM in the afternoon.
“I’ve found her … I’ve found her!” he almost screamed at me.
At first I couldn’t understand what was going on. I worked downtown. Terry worked uptown. It made no sense that my friend was standing here in my office in the middle of the afternoon. Never having seen this behavior from an otherwise rational person, I was startled for a moment. “What’s going on? What are you talking about?”, found its way out of my mouth.
The bob’r … the bob’r … the first on-stream bob’r … that’s what I’m talking about!” Terry snapped back.
For over a year Terry had hypothesized that there existed a significant cohort of girls and women who would fully comply. In Terry’s dream world these ladies would allow their sexual apparatus, especially their mouths, to be used and abused in almost any manner. In Terry’s dream world every member of this horde of compliant women would carry the moniker – bob’r.
Hesitatingly, I retorted, “tell me about it.” Terry went on to describe the three-hour spontaneous lunch he had just had with a young divorced mother of two small children. She worked in an office down the hall from his and he had met her simply, or as he averred, accidently, by being polite and saying “Nice day, today,” to the lady standing next to him while she was also waiting for the elevator on the sixth floor of his office building. Ten minutes later they were grabbing a sandwich from a local eatery together.
Terry went on to elaborate the large menu of sexual activities he and Jennifer had recently enjoyed over the long lunch hour in the fire-escape stairwell and then again in the underground parking garage of the office building where he worked. Leaving as unexpectedly as he had arrived, Terry elaborated that he was seeing Jennifer Mosely again the next day, and that he would report on his progress as soon as early Sunday morning. Jennifer was taking him to see her girlfriend to prove to him that she was as good a cunnilinguist as she was a fellatrix.
Just before 9:00 AM on Sunday morning my telephone rang. Terry was speaking so loudly and excitedly that I had to hold the telephone receiver three inches from my ear. Some minutes later I heard myself, for the sixth, seventh, or eighth time, repeating … “No, that didn’t happen.” to which Terry responded and to which he continually replied, “You’ll see … You’ll see.”
I didn’t believe a word about the on-stream bob'r until a few days later when Terry hosted a small gathering with me, Lance, Maurice, and of course Terry, at his apartment. Jennifer appeared to be a sweet polite and friendly young mother. But, after less than five minutes in her presence, at Terry’s behest, Jennifer, without the slightest objection, fully complied, got on her knees in the living room and waited smiling, with an eager open pouting mouth, for penises to be inserted therein.
It seemed that Jennifer did just what she was told to do, never having a reason or need to object. At Terry’s urging ten of us went to a local sleazy strip club after work a few days later with Jennifer in tow. Terry ordered her to take each one of us by the hand in turn, march us out to the parking lot, get into one of the three cars we had with us, then perform oral sex to completion on whichever fellow she was with. Furthermore, Terry instructed that upon her return to fetch the next candidate for her sexual ministrations she must be prepared to elaborate to all present on the taste, quality, and texture of the semen she had just swallowed.
Jennifer quickly rose, smiled at John Fragala, grabbed his hand, and led him outside to the parking lot to begin, what seemed to be her assigned mission. This went on for over two hours and each time before departing for the parked car to perform her task, she smiled and pointed to the next candidate simply saying, “You are next.” before she once again took the next victim’s hand and led him to the parking lot.
Terry gets full marks for exploiting the first on-stream bob’r, something which David and Ruthie Mueller at Club Privé were either unable or unwilling to do. Maybe I’m being too harsh on them. Maybe they were not able to see the use value of a bob’r. (See Chapter 21 in Susan Starr’s memoir.) Social events in our circle soon took on a new meaning, a new dimension. Jennifer became known as “the pipe cleaner”, as she was over time introduced to our friends, family and neighbors.
Susan and I suspected that our next door neighbor, Peter Gold, was in need of some sexual healing. Peter’s wife, Judy, was the Director of a far distant summer camp. Judy had been away from Peter for two months with another month still remaining on her contract. Peter wasn’t his cheery self and his dilemma (whether acknowledged or not) was clearly expressed on his face and in his actions. To make Peter temporarily happy, Susan and I invited Jennifer, our first on-stream bob'r, to visit. After just a little socializing and with an extra soft drink in hand, we sent Jennifer next door with only one simple instruction: “Get down on your knees and suck until our neighbor fills your mouth; then swallow every drop.” [Wow! – was Peter ever happy for the next week.]
These kinds of shenanigans, and some, much more outrageous, much more salacious, persisted for close to two years, until Jennifer found a new boyfriend – a Systems Engineer from IBM. (In our vernacular) then, almost overnight, she went off-stream.
Next Post: Susan’s guest, Professor Nolan Brewster, reveals a taboo tale of Oedipus Redux.
FACTOID: Military outposts along the expanse of the Great Wall of China included a “barracks brothel.” In addition to their regular duty of entertaining lonely men, government prostitutes were trained as reserve soldiers in the event of an attack by Mongolian hordes.