Chapter 9: Chicago Machine

I was very glad that someone else was driving. Despite my alleged photographic memory, I became disoriented shortly after we entered the built-up area. Gail drove. Billie sat next to the passenger side door, and I sat in the middle. The back of the station wagon had a dozen cardboard boxes, leaving little room. Contributing to my disorientation was dozing off.

“We’re here!”

Gail’s words woke me up—again. Billie and I made three trips transferring the boxes from the station wagon to the basement. I wasn’t used to high heels and almost tumbled down the stairs. The “club” appeared to be someone’s home. In the basement was a 16mm movie projector, a slide projector, two folding tables, a semicircle of eight chairs, and built-in bookshelves. A movie screen was at the end of the room. The house had at least two floors, but I wasn’t given a tour. Under the stairs was a closet.

“Miss Smith, this is Billie and Jackie. Billie has the choker.” Gail introduced us. “We’ll get the snack table set up and I’ll start the bar.”

Bar? What bar? I failed to see the bar until Gail opened the closet. There was a wet bar inside.

“Put the books in the bookshelf and the films and slides and photos on the other table,” the new woman, Miss Smith ordered.

I used my pocketknife to open the boxes and I stacked the contents as directed. I flattened the boxes and stashed the stack under the table where I put the visual media. When I glanced at the snacks the other women laid out, my stomach rumbled loudly.

They laughed.

“Don’t mind me,” I said, “I’m still learning to be civilized.”

More laughter.

Miss Smith rattled off a film number and then then specified a slide set. Gail set out some photos—nudes of Billie and me! Explicit nudes. I loaded up the movie projector and Billie loaded up the slide projector. Upstairs, the doorbell rang.

“Places, girls,” Miss Smith said. “I’ll bring our guests down here.”

Among the eight men, two were familiar. One of them I thought I recognized from a 1959 assignment shadowing fake defectors to Russia. The other was Willard, “Agent Jerk” from the Marine base in California. Willard sneered at me and took a seat. The other six men I didn’t recognize. They strutted through the room as if they owned the town. That may not have been a delusion. Compared to this eight, Patton was a shrinking violet!

“Before the movie starts, these two are going to undress each other,” Miss Smith announced. “Go ahead—Billie will strip Jackie and then Jackie will strip Billie. These girls will serve refreshments while you watch them in action on the screen.”

Clothes on, clothes off—I was beginning to see why Billie preferred naked. Billie peeled layer after layer off me. Blouse. Skirt. Some sort of undershirt. Half-slip. Corset. Those accursed high heeled shoes. Stockings. Panties.

“Where are the bitches’ tits?” Willard the Jerk cackled. It was good that he enjoyed himself.’

“They’re twins,” Gail commented as I undressed Billie to the jeers of the men. Billie stopped me from removing her collar. “Both of them have intact cherries.”

The 16mm projector held a 300-foot reel, about 22 minutes of antics. Billie and I were busy distributing drinks and getting groped. Miss Smith cautioned that we were virgins—the 22-minute silent movie showed Billie and me performing oral sex on each other and fooling around. There were comments about virginity—it took me a while to connect virginity with fruit. Sometimes I am no smarter than a box of rocks. This was one of those times. I won’t even use the excuse of having fingers jammed up my puss and butt—I was just stupid.