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My Secret Life With Older Women


The boy James Blaine was drawn to older women as a bee is drawn to honey. And why not?

Madelaine—38, beautiful and strange—would slake her desire for him in exhilarating ways that left her virginity intact. Columnist Olga would teach him even more sophisticated acts, and even the lady psychiatrist who vowed to cure him of his “syndrome” fell herself before his youthful virility and charm. . . . No, James Blaine had no problem. To him, all cats were grey at night, some merely more expert than others. Until he met the rich and jaded Dorothy Di Marco, whose unspeakable passions would strip him of that young manhood and leave him maddened for revenge . ..

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My Secret Life With Older Women

James Blaine

This page copyright © 2006 Olympia Press.

The boy James Blaine was drawn to older women as a bee is drawn to honey. And why not? Madelaine—38, beautiful and strange—would slake her desire for him in exhilarating ways that left her virginity intact. Columnist Olga would teach him even more sophisticated acts, and even the lady psychiatrist who vowed to cure him of his “syndrome” fell herself before his youthful virility and charm. . . .

No, James Blaine had no problem. To him, all cats were grey at night, some merely more expert than others. Until he met the rich and jaded Dorothy Di Marco, whose unspeakable passions would strip him of that young manhood and leave him maddened for revenge . .


THE SKEPTICAL READER, armed with cynicism and proper inner refusal to accept the James Blaine papers, will perhaps find it useless to go any further than his first few pages of memoirs. Possibly, this prefatory opening will be enough to put him (or her) off sufficiently to make all that follows a useless recounting (and accounting) of one man's particularly lurid and hopeless existence. As an author it is hard for me to make any prophetic claims with a decent amount of optimism. I can only say the facts speak for themselves and if there is only an ounce of truth in James Blaine's confession, then there will be reward enough for all my attempts to bring this manuscript to light.

I first met Blaine in the summer of '65 when his normal occupation as, what shall I say—playboy to older women—brought him to Asbury Park, New Jersey for a weekend of pleasure with his most current lady friend. I did not meet the lady but if Blaine's memoirs serve any truth, she was perhaps one of the numerous conquests that peppered his days among the defeats of the four major women in his life.

In any case, I saw a man who was remarkably young. The boy eternal, I believe, is the proper phrasing. Never have I known a man to be so movie-oriented and sexually preoccupied. His speech and memory pattern was thoroughly rooted in free association with the films he had seen and liked. In almost every case, the memory was one dug up from a Hollywood movie. I cannot recall one instance of his citing a film of foreign lineage. I feel it important to mention this because the story that Blaine had committed to my care and later approved of reflects this utterly chauvinistic attitude.

The psychological ramifications and conflicts of Blaine's struggle with his Older Woman Syndrome I shall leave to the tender and learned mercies of the psychiatric fields. Analysis is not my province. I have let James Blaine speak for himself, permitting myself only the liberties of editing and corrective blue-penciling. A man speaking into a tape recorder tends to say many things twice and presumes to quibble with his own memories. I haven't allowed him to draw back in fear from a single truth. Nor did I let him fall into the error of repetition and needless self-excoriation. There is enough of that in the world. The only gratitude I feel is that Blaine was granted the privilege of authorship before the laws of the land caught up with him.

So much for that.

I can only add that this is one of the strangest memoirs ever to greet my eyes. In an era when nearly all are 'telling all' and spilling their psyches all over the rental libraries for prestige as well as dollars, it is more amazing still.

James Blaine will gain nothing from the publishing of this manuscript save perhaps the never-ending disbelief from all the readers of today and tomorrow who will continually find some comfort in that very weak question: “Can such things be?”

They can.

And are.

Read the story of James Blaine and see for yourself.


Sidney Stuart

Reno, Nevada

November 3, 1968


BEFORE MY STRANGE life caught up with me, I suppose I was what they would call a gigolo. Picture the greased black hair, the fixed smile, the polite manners, the pseudo-intellectual dialogue. These are the things to make people sneer and call for the musty labels of bum, panhandler, roue and lady's man. Yet I am none of those things. In point of fact, I am as American looking as a crew-cut haired hero in a typically inferior Hollywood film. Indeed, I am six feet tall, broad-shouldered and quite presentable, all in all. Picture William Holden in Sunset Boulevard in 1950 and you would have a fair idea of my appearance; strange that this picture is the first thing that comes to my mind. Like the doomed hero of that tragic story, I too found my bete noire with an older woman. Of course, Sunset Boulevard was a superb movie, nothing like the junk I indicated. And yet, I myself was like Holden wandering into a world I had never known the day I first met Dorothy Di Marco.

That's not altogether true. There were other Women before her but Dorothy Di Marco was the end of the line for me.

DDM, the newspapers called her. And with very good reason. She was rich, world-famous as a sex symbol spawned by the milieu of her father's oil fortunes and a stunning woman whose birth date was as well-guarded as the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London.

But I cannot tell you of my life with DDM until I tell you more about myself. If you will but accept that I'm telling the truth.

So I am not a gigolo, in the strictest sense.

You ask any woman who spent a dime on James Blaine and you'd get a different picture of me altogether. You see, being nice to women is what made them pick up my tab. Nothing else, believe me. My word on that. But to rate that kind of treatment from rich women, one cannot be a slob or a deadbeat. Nor even an oaf whose only claim to such preferential service is an outstanding talent in the bedroom. If one were any of those brutish things, he would lose the action right off the mark. After all, rich and lonely women don't want to be seen with just anybody. It's true, in a dark boudoir nobody counts coat buttons or if you use your right hand to cut your steak in Luchow's. But before one can graduate to the lady's bedroom, he simply has to rate in the social department.

It's as simple and unswerving as that.

Let me give you some idea of what I mean.

It took me a great deal of time to reach the point where I never had to spend so much as a nickel on my lady friends. The very first time, it just happened. I fell into it—you might say.

I'd gotten into the Army at eighteen and was out of it at twenty. I was living in New York and liked to frequent the bars and sit and drink. The Army had firmly convinced me of what I had already suspected about myself. I was a loner, incapable of making close friendships, and whatever talents I had for this life had successfully managed to remain dormant. I was a poor shot with a rifle, barely adjusting to the military life and all the feeble skills I had indicated in high school and in a precocious year at college had come to nothing. I paint, but not to alarm Picasso, let alone a working cartoonist, I compose poetry but to no publishing avail. Not even of the greeting card variety. For music, I can still pick a piano by ear, but there again, I flounder on the sea of half-hearted effort. I am tremendous at amusing myself but I have no flair for amusing the public. My private writings would interest no one.

Women were something else again. That, after all, still boils down to a very private matter. And one can take women singly, and with no great haste; one's livelihood doesn't depend upon performance in the bedroom, thank God. What a sorry state some men would be in if it did? And I am not talking about the world of gigolodom or paid companions.

My mother and father were dead. I had no brothers or sisters. So the few dollars of mustering-out funds which the Army had donated to my questionable future were ready to be spent on no one but myself. I'd had some training in electronic engineering, principally in the Signal Corps, but I wasn't too serious about that, either. So at twenty, I was loose and free as a bird. There is no telling in what direction I might have gone. I, James Blaine, was a young man of Manhattan, with all the soullessness and aimlessness that the phrase suggests.

And then, I met Madelaine.

Strange circumstances can take many things out of one's hands. Decisions, gambles, choices.

Life took all my uncertainty out of my hands and dropped me into a new world. A world of women I had never known existed save for my subconscious memories of Mother, schoolteachers and spinster aunts, and for certain lovely fantasies I grew up with that were associated with them.

I wonder what really made Madelaine make the first overtures in that comfortable but garishly expensive bar on Madison Avenue. I never did ask her. Yet it must have taken all the strength and frustration she had left in the world. Her own private world where she cried herself to sleep at night, writhing for the hungry hands and feverish lips she had promised herself too long ago.

I always liked nice clothes. I dressed well myself, always had a shine on my shoes and kept my hair combed, preferring to wear it a trifle long but not in the way-out, frantic sense of the hippies. Clean fingernails were a must with me. I can't stand dirt of any kind and have washed my hands as many as a dozen times a day. I exude a cleanliness. Perhaps that is what spurred Madelaine to her great effort, to what was obviously a first in her lifetime. Picking up a man in a bar.

There was a gin and tonic before me. My second one. The bar proper was fairly deserted. Merely the quiet bartender polishing his glasses and another male customer brooding over a glass of rye. I saw Madelaine then, sitting in a booth just behind me, to the left of the bar.

It is hard to believe, even now, she was a pick-up. Looking the way she did, she should have had to beat the men away with a club. Yet I suppose her innate coolness, that sense of Arctic lady-like frost, must have put the male animal off her. There is no other explanation for the fact that I was the first man ever to sleep with her.

That very first night, too. Though sleep is not the exact word.

How strange we all are. What mysterious alchemy of time and place brings matters around to that pin-point on the clock when a tall, gorgeous woman of thirty-eight suddenly encounters a young man of twenty and surrenders for the first time in her life?

I just don't know, which is perhaps why I have this story to tell you. This weirdly beautiful, unconsciously tragic tale of myself and older women. James Blaine and the Women.

His women? Or their man? I'm not sure which.

She was tall, as I say. Her figure was seemingly heroic, in the classic mold. She was wearing a white fur coat that must have cost a fortune on the open market. And her teeth were white. Fantastically white. With everything about her that was so memorable—an abundant figure, fine eyes, severely beautiful face like a Florentine sculpture—all I take with me of her, in memory, is those teeth and the white fur coat. They are all of her. The fur somehow indicates her position in life and the wintry years that she wore so well. The teeth were all you ever really noticed about her face. You thought of Madeline and you thought of teeth. Not that she was vulpine or a predator, either.

She began, very simply, too. The pickup.

In a voice that was rather musical yet still retaining a sharp tone of authority, she leaned out from her booth, holding up a dollar bill, asking me if I wouldn't please mind changing it into quarters for her. It seemed that there were some Sinatra songs listed on the record-selector in her booth and she wanted to hear them before she grew a second older.

I complied willingly, of course. There was that sense of romance and adventure about the whole interlude. I am as passionate as the next man and a dull evening had now taken on some added, still unknown charm. Anything can happen when a man and a woman, strangers when they meet, suddenly begin the overtures of introduction. Who knows what the night will bring?

She managed to spill her purse, to help things along. Soon, I was on my hands and knees, scrambling under the booth to corral the runaway lipstick, coins and odds-and-ends that overload any woman's handbag. This in turn led to an apology and some laughter and soon I had joined her in the booth and was ordering a round of drinks for us both. Sinatra sang on endlessly but we scarcely noticed. I was looking at Madelaine's teeth, never having seen such a perfect set of dental magnificence in anybody's mouth. She in turn was talking as if conversation was out of style and that the end of the world was indicated for the next day.

Our knees touched under the table. She did not move hers away. Drink had made her bolder; either that, or it was the all-out effort of the woman who had made up her mind not to die a virgin.

Time sleep-walked away. And I learned a great deal about Madelaine. Everything except her true age.

She was from the small town of Branford, Connecticut, had gone to Hunter College here in Manhattan and stayed on to continue a career in business administration. The exact details of her job—she supervised a children's wear buying office for a nation-wide department store chain—frankly bored me, so I didn't pursue the subject. A more fascinating feature of her conversation was that she had had one marriage which had never been consummated (the man turned out homosexual); she had spent the last ten years of her busy, well-regulated life with her career.

There was high humor in her, but it was a bitter sort of thing. A gallows-flavored comedy that she constantly turned against herself. I bided my time. Even at twenty, with not too much experience in affairs of the bedroom (I had never been in love with anyone for that demands too much sacrifice) I was sure that I wasn't going to wind up with a flat glass of beer this cold November night. Madelaine, as they say, was primed for action.

Tonight had to be the night.

What I didn't, and in my youth and innocence, could not know was that Madelaine was to be the turning point of my life. The first woman who set me off on that queer, perilous journey that would transform all my days and nights into something I could never have dreamed or expected.

For one thing, she paid for the drinks. For everything.

For another, I drove her fancy Cadillac back to her Tudor City apartment with her silvery-blonde head lying happily on my shoulder. Her perfume was heady, exotic Her bold knee was hungrily grinding against my own. She was humming one of the Sinatra ballads in a sleepy contralto.

I could say I drove into the Big Time.

Certainly, I did.

I was turning my body over to a breed of female that in the end devours. Devours because all its wants and needs and must have is possession, unbelievable quantities of tending and care.

The woman that waits too long must inevitably look upon the first man she surrenders the prize to as the end-all of her existence.

Come and listen as I make love to Madelaine.

And decide for yourself.

Beyond a hall gallery of fine canvases and an ornate parquet-floored living room bordered with a veritable military line of potted plants and grotesque misalliances of furniture and bric-a-brac, I found the bedroom.

It was a forty-by-forty cavern, wall-to-walled with maroon carpet and a great picture window overlooking the lights of the East River. It was a far-up kind of apartment. I didn't dare think of the rental figure. I was moving in the lap of luxury and I knew it. My only feeling was one of ordinary passion, highlighted by the thought of this beautiful, lovely woman to be mine for the asking for at least one night of her life. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow she might be the sort of woman who arched her eyebrows and said: “What, I did that with you last night? Ridiculous, my boy!

So I was out to put some good innings in, as the saying goes, and to hell with what she might or might not do when she went back to being her own idea of a pristine lady again.

She hadn't had that much to drink so she was putting it on. The sleepy talk, the mumbling, the crooning laugh. I laid her down on the darkened bed and went to draw the drapes. They were big things that shut out the world. I found a small lamp on the night table and turned that on. It cast a pale amber glow over everything. I began to undress Madelaine. She didn't resist.

It was an exquisite ordeal. As I divested her of each layer of clothing and the fine silken underthings joined the pile on the thick rug, my own heart and nerves began to beat a little faster.

There was nothing wrong with her figure. There was quite a lot right with it.

You could see the fine tracery of age lines at her eye corners and there was a slight pinch to her mouth. She kept her eyes closed and as I paused, with the panties last to leave her body, I marveled at her body. Naked, she was splendid. Her figure was truly classic.

It was long, soft and finely fashioned. There was a great flare of creamy-white hips into a superb taper of thigh and knee. Her breasts were like two large, unsullied grapefruit. Sweet and round and somehow their graceful fall across her chest made me sense how very little they had been touched, felt or played with. They had that look of utter, unspoiled harmony. The aureoles of her breasts were limp, placid, far too buttery in appearance to have ever known a man.

She matured into her late thirties from the throat up but below her chin, the flesh of her body was as soft and unmarked as any girl of eighteen. She was as fresh as wet paint. There was no mistake. Even the down of her convex was seemingly fluffy and virginal. I didn't touch her. I took my clothes off, quickly. Then I came around the bed and knelt above her, pressing my mouth down to hers. She shrank away from me, rolling to the left of the bed and opened her eyes. I felt like an idiot with my lips puckered.

She stared in horror at me. Genuine horror. I could see that. Her mouth fell open, her eyes racing to the appendage thrusting from me as obviously and permanently as my own right arm.

“No, no—” she moaned. She sounded completely sober now. “I didn't mean—I don't want—”

“Come on,” I said.

“No—James, please—I'm a virgin—”

“Sure,” I said. I reached for her breasts and she scrambled away from me, mounting high on the pillow beneath her creamy thighs, recoiling against the backboard.

“No, you don't understand. I can't let you. I'm a virgin. I want to be a virgin on my wedding night. James, please.”

“Come on,” I said again, trying to climb toward her.

Her eyes began to spill tears.

“I like you, James. I really do. But not for this. I can't let you! Not anybody, you understand. Please don't be angry....”

“Don't be angry.” I felt like a complete fool.

“I can't help it—”

“You can't help it. Are you a woman or are you a—” I couldn't go on. I was trying to make up my mind to force her or forget the whole thing. Like most men I know instinctively that once you can get the thing in and going, most female objections will fall by the wayside. But this was different, somehow. She looked scared, really scared and she was an old woman, after all. Thirty-eight!

How silly that seems, now. But when you are twenty and she is thirty-eight, no one could convince you that she really wasn't an old woman. Old enough, really, to be your mother....

“All right. So, you're a virgin. You wish to remain one. So what do we do about this?” I gestured vaguely toward myself. Her eyes followed the motion and a look flashed across her face that I was too unskilled and uninformed to understand at the time.

“Don't worry, James—it will be all right—you'll see —that's easy to take care of—just promise you won't try to enter me.”

“For Chrissakes,” I blurted. It was a stupid way to put it.

“Don't be angry. Just lay down. Madelaine knows what to do, you'll see. You'll be happy, James. I promise. Madelaine will take care of you—”

Frustrated, unhappy, I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My dream of a happy, perhaps resolute and full-fledged session with a virgin who had waited too long had gone up in smoke. There was nothing to do except wait to see what she had in mind. I had made up my mind I was not going to fight her for her virginity. It was not my cup of tea. Or red wagon.

I had no idea what she was talking about. I had assumed she would perhaps masturbate me, and then wipe me clean with one of her expensive linen kerchiefs and then send me home like a good little boy to my other toys. Maybe even with a twenty dollar bill in my pocket. At that point, I had her hopelessly confused with my misconception of aged female seducers who do perverted things with young boys. My mood was bitter and sullen, in equal parts. I had already begun to experience a fatal loss of passion; I could feel myself snaking down to normal size.

Yet, I did not know Madelaine. How could I?



“You do like me?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You'll like me better soon. You'll see.”

She was above me now. Looming. Her breasts falling toward me in a lovely spill of womanhood.

I lunged; she drew back. Recoiled, is the word.

“You promised,” she whispered. “Hands off. Just let me do everything—”

“All right, but hurry, for God's sakes—”

She hurried.

I had no idea of what was coming. I had read much of fellatio and cunnilingus but in all my diversions with teenage girl friends, prostitutes, waitresses in army towns and the occasional middle-class female that life plants in your road, I had never had the desire or the opportunity to use the information. Romance when you're young, at best, is a furtive, rush-rush, chancey thing and one is inclined to act as fast as possible to clear out from desire and complications. But Madelaine found me unprepared.

How to describe the sudden tremendous engulfing of one's very core with two sensitive, highly skilled lips? How to properly detail the million and one vibratory, incredibly joyful sensations of fierce suckling and gnawing? Those marvelous teeth of hers aided and abetted the performance. I could not have moved if I wanted to. I was one insane center of desire and fulfillment. And when her mouth and hands had done with me, stroking and manipulating me whichever way she wanted, I let go with all the freedom and exuberance there can be in the bedroom world. Yet, Madelaine simply did not draw back, did not run from the stream of my being. She took it all, devouring, sucking, storing it within her until I literally could see the life force of James Blaine ebbing from her red lips.

In my juvenile lack of knowledge, I thought this was the end. It seemed like a reasonably happy conclusion to what had begun as a traumatic experience of refusal. What fools we mortals be is what the immortal Puck said. Perhaps Shakespeare intended a subtle joke all along and Puck is indeed spelled a different way.

I couldn't fight Madelaine. I didn't know how. When she made her next move, I was far more helpless than she had seemed to be.

Suddenly, as I lay there, ebbing with lovely relaxation and loss of tension, she had mounted me. With swift and indelible precision, my face was surrounded by the yawning abyss of her thighs. She had scissored my head between her hips, her hands urging my lips toward her vagina. I felt a moment of that terror of the unknown, instinctively knowing what she wanted and abruptly coming face to face, smack-dab with that mysterious world of womanhood that is part of male consciousness from the very first day when he wonders where babies come from. The exciting smell of her skin, the scent of her jungle of flesh and hair, the awesome spoor of her secret fissure, assailed me. Within seconds, she had pressed down on me, arcing her back, flexing her legs, elevating up and down, as I fought back. I bit, I licked, I gnawed, and her cries now filled the hushed walls of the room. I have no idea of how long it all lasted. It was all a blur of time and movement; a frantic medley of noises of panting and heavy breathing and liquidy, syrupy sounds. And when she finally heaved one last tremendous gyration from her rotating buttocks, she dropped back, almost lifeless. And for myself, there was nothing but the terrible sensation of having been invaded, beaten and worn out all over. My mouth was raw, my nostrils and...


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