NEW YORK 1978
That winter I entered the Victory Theater on 42nd Street to view THE VIOLATION OF CLAUDIA. A friend had recommended the hour-long XXX film about a housewife lured into prostitution, saying, “There’s not much of a story, but the skinny actress has no breasts just how you like your women. A little boyish.”
I sat in the middle of the theater. There wasn’t much of an audience. The lights went down and my friend was right about the slender brunette with the shag cut. Sharon Mitchell performed sex acts with a wanton enthusiasm set ablaze by the director saying, “Lights, camera, action.”
None of the men on the screen could handle her succubus. The director was so transfixed by her libertine performance that he only shot one take. Sherri understood the limited width of the camera’s vision and remained within frame for seven solid minutes.
Releasing Jamie Gillis’ cock, she glanced over her shoulder at the camera. A pink tongue licked at bruised lips, then her hands parted her asscheeks and Sharon moaned, “Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby!”
I had my zipper down and cock in hand mimicking Jamie Gillis’ each thrust. Every man in the theater stroked in unison like the Harvard crew and we arrived at the finish line seconds ahead of the actor spattering the money shot over her flawless ass.
After leaving the theater I unsuccessfully searched the porno shops for any magazines featuring Sharon Mitchell. A middle-aged clerk sadly shook his head.
“I know who you’re talking about. I got nothing. That’s her first film, but trust me we ain’t seen the last of her yet.”
Since the porno industry was centered in LA, I figured my chances of meeting the actress were nil.
I was dead wrong.
Three weeks later I was playing the pinball at the Nursery, an after-hour club in the East Village. My fingers twitched over the buttons and my hip banged SLASH, as the ball defied Newton’s Law on Gravity and the numbers whirled on scoreboard. I was heading toward history, then someone bumped into the pinball machine to tilt my game 50,000 short of Highest Score.
I turned to the right, fists clenched, but my anger evaporated upon seeing a miracle.
Sharon Mitchell was the offender.
“You____”
Her flimsy lingerie hid little skin and stiletto heels gave her another three inches of height, as she imperiously asked, “What are you looking at?”
“You t-t-tilted my game,” I stuttered, but before I could tell her how much I enjoyed her film, she snapped her fingers loud enough to be heard over the Ramones and two gnarly Hell’s Angels tossed me onto the sidewalk.
Adam, exiled from Eden and Eve.
Several thieves lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce on a hapless drunk. I scrambled to my feet to show that I was not worth the trouble. Skanky whores lined Third Avenue and junkies popped into the fleabag hotels for a quick shot. The arctic wind sent a shiver through my body, for I was wearing a thin leather jacket, a tee shirt, and torn jeans. Snow drifted in the air.
I forgot about the cold, because Sharon exited a five seconds later.
Alone.
A tight-high rabbit fur coat covered her near-naked body. A gust of chilled wind blew the bangs off her face. She stepped forward and pressed her fatless body against mine.
“Well, where we going?”
The Victor Hotel was a flophouse, but just across 3rd Avenue. She smiled lewdly, “How romantic!”
“You have a problem with it?” I asked, twirling her ingrown nipples to erection.
“If it was warmer, I’d fuck you right here in the street.” Her hand crudely rubbed my crotch, telling me neither of us should confuse this moment with love. We didn’t speak crossing the avenue or climbing the hotel’s creaking stairs to room 33. The 40-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling was enough light for the sordid room
Sharon shrugged off the coat and dropped dropped to her knees. Her hands expertly undid my zipper and withdrew my iron-hard cock. One hand gripped my balls. Her mouth slithered onto my shaft like a snake swallowing its prey, proving the scene in the film had not depended on special effects. Normally I would have shot a load right then, but she flopped onto the soiled bed.
“Get naked!” the brunette commanded, then swiftly stripped off her bra and slipped out of her panties. Her hands reached down to her vagina.
My jacket hit the floor. I threw my tee shirt in the corner. My pants dropped down to my knees and I shuffled across the dusty floor to the bed. Kneeling between her legs, I wrestled off my boots and jeans.
“Suck me!”
Someone had said that line recently. I didn’t care who. I was living a miracle.
My tongue ricocheted off her flesh. Each time I pressed the flat of my tongue to the coppery pucker, her body flexed in jerks. “Oh, yeah, suck it! Suck, my dirty asshole! Only your tongue. That’s all I need.”
Every word echoed from a recent memory and I lapped at her asshole. Her fingers blurred on her clit, as she called out, “Oh, yeah, fuck! FUCK! FUCCCCCK!!!”
I had heard those words before too.
Her back arched with her spine cracking in unison and she came with a vengeance. I half-expected her to spend some time regaining her breath, instead she rolled onto her stomach and begged, “Fuck me like a mercenary!”
That phrase spiked with a deja vu.
I stabbed forward and buried my cock, till the head reached her cervix. I had never felt so big and she moaned, “Oh, yeah, fuck me, baby!”
It all came to me at once. That line was from THE ABDUCTION OF CLAUDIA. In fact every word out of her lips was from that movie.
I looked for a movie camera, but there was only a cheap lightbulb in the room. I didn’t care if it was all an act and fucked, until a geyser of sperm boiled from the soul of my balls. She sighed slavishly, as my lungs suck air and my heart pounded in my chest. She slithered next to me and whispered “You’re sweet. My name’s Sharon.”
“I know. I saw your film ABDUCTION OF CLAUDIA. You were great.” I squirmed, as she pinched my nipple. I returned the favor, as she squealed, “I bet you say that to all the girls in fuck films.”
“Yeah, all the time.” I wished it was true, but she was the only woman I had ever met who performed sex on film.
We fucked two more times before I crashed out between her thighs. When I woke, Sharon was dressed and at the door. I asked, “Where you going?”
“I got to shoot a film.” She posed like a tart, sticking out her ass before throwing on her coat.
“You need any money for a taxi?” I sleepily reached for my jeans, which seemed farther from the bed than before.
“No, I’m good. We’ll see you around.” Sherri blew me a kiss and the door slammed shut before I could ask for her telephone number. I lay back in bed, then picked up my Levis. Going through the pockets I discovered why she hadn’t needed taxi fare. Sherri had ripped me off for every dollar.
Almost $20.
Pulling on my jeans and boots, I swore madly, then ran out into the street and up the 3rd Avenue.
The winter sun was coming up over Brooklyn and good citizens were walking to subway. They took one look at me and hurried on their way. Across the street the dregs of the evening were stumbling out of The Nursery.
I supposed I could have gone inside to find her, but confronting Sharon in a drug-maddened den of iniquity was more than dangerous to my health. She had fucked me and fucked me good, so I called it a night and walked home, thinking that she had gotten what she deserved. Next time I would have to make sure it was vice versa and next time wasn’t a long time coming, wasn’t a long time coming, because Sharon was like me.
We got around.
