Slice by American Suburb X Each month a new artist; each image a new angle. This month: American Suburb X. /photography/
DISPATCHES
posted 6/28/2005
promotion
After a lifetime spent consuming liquidized chicken fat the way celebrities just out of rehab swill Evian, my Great-Uncle Harry, a small egg-shaped man who had once owned a delicatessen on the South Side of Chicago, began to experience rapid heart failure. Like so many men of his generation whose internal organs functioned from inside a calcified layer of kosher corned beef, Harry was forced to give up his preferred pastimes of yelling at people and inhaling tongue sandwiches in favor of quiet indoor hobbies. Rejecting carpentry, ceramics and poetry, Harry eventually dedicated himself to the creation of latchhook pillows and wall hangings, smiling contentedly as the bits of bright yarn formed a shaggy panda or grinning clown. To visiting friends and relatives who witnessed him at work, he would proclaim, brandishing his instrument and grinning impishly: "Look at me! I'm the Happy Hooker!"
This is a beloved family anecdote, one that my mother, recalls with loving amusement each year on the anniversary of Harry's death. But I don't think any of us imagined that someday I would be seated in a lawn chair at an Amsterdam garden party, telling it to Xaviera Hollander, the Happy Hooker herself.
"Are those tits real?" Xaviera replied, when I had finished. "All the transsexuals are wondering."
A sex icon of the '70s, a Penthouse columnist, a best-selling author, a dominatrix, a sex-positive feminist colleague of Camille Paglia and Annie Sprinkle, a gourmet chef, a theatre producer and now the proprietor of what is arguably Amsterdam's most eccentric bed-and-breakfast (or "bed-and-brothel," in her words), there isn't much Xaviera Hollander hasn't been. More than the frank, lovely face with the naughty smile and predatory gaze looking out from the cover of her book, she is a sophisticated raconteur and formidable intellectual. (At her home, I overheard simultaneous discussions on the merit of Wagner's score for Parsifal, the Buddhist philosophy of death vs. the Hindu, and the chafing potential of various makes of rope.)
"In the '80s, we always had to start the orgies in the afternoon," said Xaviera, in her accented but fluent English as the homemade birthday apple cake was admired and distributed, "because everybody's baby-sitter had to be home by midnight."
As my boyfriend and I prepared to leave for Xaviera's, I had no idea what to expect. After a series of emails, she had invited Ben and I to attend her afternoon birthday celebration, with the understanding that we would rent a room for the night.
"In the '80s we always had to start the orgies in the afternoon."
Would Amsterdam's elite stand around sipping wine, nibbling cheese and speaking softly about their gardens? Would it be a scene of unbridled depravity, as aging libertines plucked fruit from their crevices and forced it down the throats of those reluctant to join in?
For an hour, I deliberated about what to wear. Once dressed and on the street, I stood at a flower stall, agonizing over which bouquet would say we belonged.
"You know," said Ben, "Whatever you do, we're still absolutely going to be the least interesting people there."
"Right."
"If I were you," he continued, "I wouldn't even speak for the first two hours."
Humbled, I got my shit together and chose some peonies.
We arrived at the house, one half of a large duplex just a few blocks from Ben's apartment, in the throes of final party preparations. Among an elaborate collection of mismatched lawn furniture and miniature refrigerators stood a man in a Hawaiian shirt, looking for all the world like an original member of the Eagles. He was cursing softly at a stubborn beer tap.
Xaviera Hollander in the '70s
Today: Xaviera (right) with Ten-Fingered Eddie (far left)
"Vagina clown" from burlesque troupe
Two dancers and Davida
The B&B living room
The "Goliath" bedroom
"Hey there," he said, with the gravelly Californian drawl of the serious marijuana smoker. "I'm T-Bone. You guys want a drink?"
We accepted. Soon, we were joined by a thin, intense man who sported a thick white crest of hair, a button-down shirt and black leather vest. (Later, in a concession to the heat, he wore just the vest over his bare skin.) He introduced himself as Ten-Fingered Eddie, called so since the '60s, when he met in Kathmandu another itinerant wanderer "whose name was Eddie. And he only had eight fingers — he lost two in some kind of accident. So he was Eight-Fingered Eddie, and I was Ten-Fingered Eddie, to avoid confusion. The name stuck."
"What happened to Eight-Fingered Eddie?"
"Who knows?" He gestured dismissively, ostentatiously fluttering all ten fingers.
"How do you know X?" T-Bone asked me, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette.
"I don't," I said.
"You've never met her?"
"No." Guests were trickling in, bearing flowers and small wrapped packages.
"She'll descend at some point, when it's time for her to make her entrance. I'm sure she'll be fashionably late."
We heard a rustle inside the house, a cascade of exclaimed greetings.
"DARLINGS!"
"There she is now," said T-Bone, chuckling.
Ben and I took a deep breath and went inside to introduce ourselves.
Some people are clearly stars. The energy changes when they enter a room. People talk about them, stare at them, want to be close to them. Xaviera Hollander is one of these people.
Her body has thickened substantially over the years, and she has poured all her glamour into her face. Her large green eyes, shrewd but compassionate, were liberally lined with sparkling green shadow, and she had applied several coats of festive red gloss to her lips. The effect, combined with the practical simplicity of her yellow housedress, was playful rather than cartoonish, as though she had made herself up with her role in mind — what's the point of being an ex-madam if you don't get to look like one?
She greeted us graciously. "Davida will show you your room, and we can work out the finances now. Before everyone gets drunk and stoned." Ever the businesswoman. "Davida!" she called, addressing the slim, dark, man who stood nearby, adjusting his eyeshadow in a compact.
Davida snapped to attention, his dangling diamond earring swinging against his neck. He fussed over us warmly, introduced himself and — well, the only word is scampered — up the steps. We followed him through a hallway strewn with scarves and>wraps in every color of the rainbow to our room, one of two, and known as the "Goliath" (the smaller, naturally, is "David"). He darted here and there, opening drawers and doors and closing them again, apologizing over and over again for the state of the bathroom, performed an elaborately hysterical dance with the vacuum cleaner, and informed us kindly that if we were unhappy with the pattern of the tablecloth, or indeed, anything in the room, we had only to tell him and he would put it right.
"It's a pity Davida was too afraid to have the operation," said Susan, the post-op Hungarian transsexual, as she daintily buttered her croissant beside me at breakfast the next morning. I had met her only moments earlier. As I stood naked in the bathroom brushing my teeth, what appeared to be a man in a tousled blond wig opened the door, thrust his head inside and asked politely for some hot water for a cup of instant coffee.
"But he doesn't want it anymore," said Xaviera. "After, you can't have an orgasm anymore. Tell me, in twenty-four years, have you ever had an orgasm?"
"I . . . well . . . not the same," said Susan.
"Well, I guess it's not so important for some people," said Xaviera thoughtfully. "For me, it's important."
The bookshelves of the "Goliath" were lined with back issues of Penthouse, just in case we had missed any over the past thirty years, and a variety of other titles: Male Sexuality, Show Freaks and Monsters, and A Sexual Profile of Men in Power, the latter of which quoted our hostess extensively on her considerable experience fulfilling the needs of our legislative branch. (Apparently, sometimes all a naughty senator needs is a good spanking.)
Over the bed, an enormous oil portrait of Xaviera in all her youthful, leonine glory winked seductively, but the most telling aspect of the room was that it seemed to be intended for . . . three. Three chairs at the table, three towels laid neatly on the radiator, three sets of pillows at the headboard, accented, touchingly, with a small, red latchhook cushion in the shape of a heart. Oh,Uncle Harry, I thought.
Before long, the party was in full swing — tables laden with food, wine flowing, glowing joints traveling around the crowd. Ben was animatedly discussing cricket with an ex-bookie from Cape Town, looking happier than he had in weeks, and I soon fell into conversation with Michael, a soft-spoken Welshman who fled his dental practice in Cardiff thirty years ago for Amsterdam and an artist's life. Shortly afterward, he fell in with Xaviera.
"It doesn't happen so much anymore, now that we're all getting older, but all manner of things used to happen in that shed," he said, pointing off in the distance. "I was very shy and naïve when I first came, and it took a long time for me to join in. I made love in every conceivable way, in all manner of
"It was quite an education about humanity — and, of course, whips and chains."
configurations." He chuckled. "And Xaviera was always in the middle of it, making sure everyone was happy and it was all going according to plan. It was really quite an education about people, about humanity — and, of course, whips and chains and things."
"Oh yeah," said Ben and I, in unison. Michael laughed again.
"The thing about Xaviera," he went on, "is that above all, she is really the most incredibly giving person. This amazing generosity, this sense of trust she has in people. It's tremendous. And you know, she's been robbed, taken advantage of so many times — people who have worked for her, people she took in off the street and as soon as they get the key to the house, to the safe . . . but it never falters, her faith in people. She is, without a doubt, the most generous person I have ever known."
From time to time, the hostess herself would amiably wave me over to her seat — "Please, please, join us," — and introduce me to the friends and admirers assembled in lawn chairs around her. "Rachel is — what? — from New York and she is — who? — a nice Jewish girl. Like me." This is it, I thought. She's going to have all the answers. This was the chance to ask her everything, tell her everything, to be recognized and welcomed into the fold as a kindred spirit and adopted daughter. And then, as often happens in such situations, I open my mouth and my personality slips out my ass.
I felt shy. Boring. Sexually unadventurous. I was unable to compete with a throng of well-wishers and old friends for her attention. I was envious, but I was inadequate, so I chose instead to listen adoringly as Xaviera held forth about her determination to save the world from heart disease and her Overeaters Anonymous meetings, about the pneumatic attributes of the burlesque troupe that had performed earlier (my breasts were apparently not the only ones under dispute), about the sexy voice of the man who sat diligently massaging her feet — "I love it! You sound like a Jew salesman trying to sell me a schmatte."
By midnight, the sun had finally set. Davida had changed into an elegant white lace gown and danced beatifically in the living room to an elegant dance remix of the American Beauty soundtrack. A red bobbed wig brushed his jaw softly. He looked very beautiful.
The last few guests settled around the table for coffee as Xaviera held court. As she blurted out outrageous confessions and set the party laughing, I found myself thinking about what Michael had said. It was the extraordinary generosity of this woman that had created a family out of this band of misfits who had long ago left familial tradition behind. They were here, living together in comfortable bonhomie because of her, and not because of fame, money or power. They were here because of that most fragile and easily forgotten tenet of the sexual revolution — love. Well, I thought with not a little jealousy, once Ben and I were back in our room, taking off our pants for the night, Thank God that's not how we do it in America.n°
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Rachel Shukert is the author of Have You No Shame? (Random House/Villard). Her work has also been featured in Best Sex Writing 2008, Best American Erotic Poems, and 2033: The Future of Misbehavior. She lives in New York City with her husband and her cat. Her website is rachelshukert.com.
