Let's Get Moving

Xaviera Hollander

Let’s Get Moving

In Nahuatl, the Indian language most widely spoken in Central Mexico, Zihuatanejo means ‘place of women’ and refers to the western paradise of the Nahuatl universe as the home of the ‘goddess women’.

Zihuatanejo was for years no more than a fishing village, but in the 1970s the government began to develop a holiday resort nearby and for a while it was one of the special places for people in the know to let their hair down and live the kind of life many only dream about.

By the time Xaviera found it, in order to rent a bungalow close to the beach in Zihuatanejo it was necessary to book almost a year in advance.

Today the area is the third most visited in Mexico after Cancún and Puerto Vallarta, and its population is five or six times what it used to be.

In Let’s Get Moving, Xaviera draws on her own sensual experiences in the place when people came back year after year for their annual therapy and referred to themselves as ‘lifers’, and she and her entourage were ‘voluntary inmates in this open asylum, called Zihuatanej . . .

‘I remember an American family I saw one morning getting into a rented Volkswagen convertible to go to the beach. One of them looked around, yawned and stretched, and said, Shit, man . . . another goddamn beautiful day in paradise.’

Also by Xaviera Hollander

The Happy Hooker

Letters to the Happy Hooker

Xaviera: Her Continuing Adventures

The Best Part of a Man

Xaviera's Supersex: Her Personal Techniques for Total Lovemaking

Xaviera's Fantastic Sex

Xaviera Goes Wild!

Xaviera Meets Marilyn Chambers

Knights in the Garden of Spain

Xaviera's Magic Mushrooms

Madame l'Ambassadrice

The Inner Circle

Lucinda, My Lovely

Fiesta of the Flesh

Lucinda, Hot Nights on Xanthos

Happily Hooked

Erotic Enterprises Inc.

Yours Fatally!

The Kiss of the Serpent

Prisoner of the Firebird

The Best of Xaviera

Child No More: A Memoir

The Happy Hooker's Guide to Mind-blowing Sex

The Erotic Adventures of Sandra

Lucinda and Other Lovelies

Let’s Get Moving

Xaviera Hollander

Published by Pilot Productions at Smashwords

Copyright © 2014 Xaviera Hollander

The right of Xaviera Hollander to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN 978-1-900064-11-8

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers’ prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser

Jacket design by Berni Stevens

Cover photograph of Xaviera copyright © 2014 Xaviera Hollander

CONTENTS

Prologue

1 First Movement

2 Mazurka

3 Freudian Snip

4 Where the Wild Thyme Blows

5 Policewomen’s Ball

6 Jail Tale

7 The Gates of Heaven

8 Darlings, Doxies and Drag-Queens

9 The Camera Does Not Lie

10 Stumped

11 ‘The time has come, the Walrus said’

12 Not in Utter Nakedness

13 Time Out

14 Beautiful Dreamer

15 Falling Out

16 Going, Going – Gone!

17 The Ideal Home Exhibition

18 Marriage on the Rocks

19 Miracles for Two

20 Into the Woods

21 A Piece of Ass

22 Downfall

Prologue

At 7 p.m. local time, the Iberia flight from Madrid arrived at Mexico City airport. Vincent and Rachel departed to catch their plane to Zihuatanejo and Xaviera bade them farewell with obvious reluctance. She and John would be seeing them again in a few days, but although Xaviera was attracted to each of them individually, she clearly did not like the idea of a reaction between them in her absence.

After an interminable wait, it transpired that their baggage had missed the plane and would not arrive for two days. Disconsolately, they toted their hand luggage through customs and although their spirits were raised by finding their old friend Bobby Barsony had come to meet them, Xaviera as distraught at the thought of having nothing to wear, especially in a place as dressy as Mexico City.

Bobby drove them to their hotel, the Maria Christina, where they were greeted effusively by the staff that produced an enormous bouquet of flowers from Xaviera’s publisher, accompanied by a note informing her that she was to be interviewed the following day for television by Ricardo Rochas, Mexico’s answer to Johnny Carson.

‘What am I going to wear?’ wailed Xaviera.

‘We’ll have plenty of time to buy you a dress tomorrow morning,’ John informed her.

While they were checking in, they were interrupted by an elderly American couple, who were standing at the desk arguing with the other clerk. This discussion was complicated by an obvious lack of communication and

John got the feeling that the receptionist was deliberately pretending to understand less English than in fact he did.

Quixotically, John offered his services as an interpreter. ‘Thank you,’ said the wife. ‘My husband and I can do with some help, as nobody here seems to speak English.’ She had a heavy, nasal Brooklyn accent and Xaviera found her difficult to understand.

‘You’re right,’ John agreed. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’

‘We sent them forty dollars from New York and now they say we don’t have a reservation and they haven’t got the money.’

John asked the desk clerk, in Spanish, if this were the case.

The man sighed patiently. ‘I explained to them,’ he replied, also in Spanish, ‘that I haven’t received the money yet, but it doesn’t matter. If they sent it when they say they did, it will probably arrive tomorrow. I have a vacant room for them. The problem is that it has a double bed. They want twin beds and all the rooms with twin beds are occupied until tomorrow.’

John translated this speech to the Americans.

‘I think it is disgraceful,’ said the husband. ‘A hotel without twin beds!’

‘You are mistaken,’ said John. ‘They have twin beds. As they haven’t received your letter yet, they could hardly make a reservation for you and the only room they have left has a double bed.’

‘Well, I think it’s disgusting,’ said the wife.

‘Listen to me, lady,’ John said in exasperation. ‘They have been kind enough to offer you a room. You are going to have to sleep with your husband tonight. You’ll have to put up with each other, just this once.’

He made a point of pulling Xaviera close to him and kissing her on the mouth in the hope that it would annoy this miserable pair.

‘Let’s go to bed, my darling,’ he said.

‘You’ll need your key,’ said the receptionist. ‘We have given you the bridal suite, as usual. It has been redecorated since you were here last.’ He winked at them. ‘I hope you enjoy the new king-size bed.’

1

First Movement

JOHN

I got the feeling that Xaviera was actually pleased to have an excuse to go shopping. She certainly made a great performance of getting me out of bed in the morning.

‘Wake up,’ she yelled. ‘It’s nearly nine o’clock! Let’s get moving!’ With difficulty I cracked open my eyelids and peered at my watch. It was ten past eight.

‘All I need on the first day of my holiday is to be yelled at before I’m awake and lied to about the time,’ I grumbled, but there was no remission.

‘You know how long it takes you to get your act together in the morning,’ she went on relentlessly. ‘All that straining and studying in the shit-house and dawdling over your second cup of coffee. Let’s get up now!’

She was already up.

‘Is that the royal we, or merely the editorial one?’ I asked her and grabbed at her thigh as she came close to my side of the bed. ‘Let’s have a fuck.’

‘Don’t be coarse,’ she replied. ‘You’re so unromantic. Anyway, there isn’t time. You can jerk off if you want to, but be quick about it.’ She twitched back the sheet to expose my pride and joy in its usual morning condition of rigidity, caused, I am told, by a full bladder pressing on the prostate.

‘Ssssssssss-psssssss.’ She made sibilant pissing noises, pressing on my stomach to encourage me out of bed and into the bathroom. This method she has tried and tested, and it is invariably successful. I dashed into the loo, although once there I had to wait for nature’s dual purpose organ of regeneration to resume the angle and dangle that allow it to perform its other function. This satisfactorily terminated, I washed it carefully. Xaviera, like most women, when mentally prepared for a shopping trip, is not to be sidetracked by secondary and unimportant considerations like a novio in need of nookie. But I had absolute confidence in the Mexican hotel staff. I was sure that in the period that would elapse between our ordering breakfast and its arrival, I would be able to wheedle a blow job, if not actual admission to the gates of heaven. Consequently I returned to the bedroom with pearly teeth and glowing genitalia.

My lover had her naked back to me and I was able to capture her easily. I then applied myself diligently to kissing and nibbling that most delightful of erogenous zones, the back of the female neck.

‘Don’t make me horny,’ she squeaked. ‘The breakfast will be here any minute.’ But she did not try to escape.

‘You forget how long everything takes in this country,’ I whispered into her ear. I had hold of her breasts now, one splendid orb in each hand, and I squeezed and kneaded them as I gnawed at her neck. My cock was once more giving its well-known impersonation of a NASA rocket on the launching pad, all set for an exploratory trip to inner space; I pressed it into the crack of her buttocks and moved provocatively back and forth, rubbing the hollow between her shoulder blades with my unshaven chin at the same time.

‘Oooh,’ she moaned. ‘Stop it. I love it!’ This was my cue to get her back on to the bed, a manoeuvre that would have to be performed with great subtlety in case that woefully inefficient mechanism, the female brain, should feel its owner to be threatened with wasting valuable shopping time in carnal pursuits. With the dexterity of a Mississippi gambler and the skill of a Sumo wrestler, I gave a quick heave and, hey presto, I had her lying on the sheets facing me, my left arm beneath her, clasping her magnificent ass, her mouth an inch from mine while my other hand was free to roam or readjust any part of her body that was out of alignment with my desires. Our lips met tentatively, poutingly, then more positively, as tongue thrust against tongue, each probing the delicious secrets of the other’s mouth. To me, this is the most intimate of all bodily contacts, oral sex with a vengeance.

But there is no time to be lost. Breakfast is on its way and if I am to consummate my lust, I must go for the jackpot without delay. Knowing that Xaviera has a neural hotline that apparently connects her left nipple directly to her clitoris, I grasped that breast with my free hand and smoothly transferred my lips from mouth to tit. She gasped and arched her pelvis against mine, I released her nipple and with a barely perceptible change of position I could quench my quivering hardness in that haven of delight that lies warm, wet and wanton between my lover’s legs; and not a moment too soon, for at that very moment there was a knock at the door.

‘Momento,’ I shouted without breaking my rhythm.

Xaviera’s eyes were shining and her lips were parted as her body responded to mine. ‘It’s breakfast time,’ she panted and then her breathing quickened as we plunged into the climactic straight of the gallop to orgasm.

After the briefest of post-coital hugs she started trying to wriggle out from under me.

‘Get off me,’ she said. ‘The eggs are getting cold.’

To accompany a woman when she is trying to buy something to wear is a hazardous operation at the best of times, but when she has lost all her clothes and is shopping for garments to be viewed and criticised by the television audience of one of the largest cities in the world, not to mention the surrounding countryside, it is an experience on a par with rowing across the Atlantic or traversing the Sahara on a bicycle. Our shopping trip was exhausting, or at least it was for me. Xaviera appeared to be enjoying herself. By noon she had purchased three dresses, two scarves, a belt and a handbag. I suggested a break for refreshments.

‘I still need a pair of shoes,’ was her reply.

‘They won’t be able to see your feet,’ I said.

‘Do you expect me to-walk to the studio barefoot?’ she snapped.

‘What’s wrong with the shoes you have on?’ I asked innocently.

‘They are walking shoes and they don’t go with the dress I’m going to wear, you stupid idiot,’ she said firmly. I thought all shoes were designed for walking but I decided it was wiser not to say so.

We hailed a taxi and went in search of a shoe shop. Taxi cabs in Mexico City deserve a chapter to themselves. Seldom have I seen such decrepit vehicles. The springs stick out of the seats, their door handles and window cranks are usually inoperative, if they are present at all. One taxi we travelled in had a windscreen that was so badly cracked it was difficult to see through it, and in another the driver found it necessary to augment the foot brake with the hand brake to avoid hitting the car in front at red traffic lights.

The driver of the cab we flagged down held a long piece of wire in his hand and, as he drove, he waved it around like a conductor’s baton, occasionally using it to scratch the back of his neck. It was, I realised, a wire coat-hanger that had been straightened out, except for the hook at one end. I asked him what it was for.

‘The gas pedal,’ he replied, ‘does not always come up from the floor. I use the wire to pull it up if I need to stop in a hurry.’ He gave us a demonstration.

We got out thankfully in a street market, which looked a most unlikely area for smart shoes, but we were lucky.

Behind a vegetable stall, we found a new boutique and in a gratifyingly short time, Exy became the possessor of a pair of silver sandals in which it was so obviously impossible to walk that I assumed they were just what she wanted.

‘That’s it, I hope,’ said I. ‘Let’s have a drink.’ I had already noted a pleasant-looking bar with a terrace shaded by tropical trees in pots.

‘I just want to buy some herbs, while we’re here,’ she announced. ‘You know how difficult they are to get in Zihuatanejo.’ I was tired, hot, thirsty and irritable. I was about to express these feelings violently, but I think she must have realised that I had reached breaking point, for she suddenly kissed me on the cheek.

‘You’ve been wonderfully patient, my darling,’ she said. ‘Go and have a beer and I’ll join you as soon as I’ve finished.’

I needed no more urging and in about one minute flat I was sitting in the shade with a foaming glass of Bohemia in front of me.

I had quaffed two beers and was awaiting the third before Xaviera reappeared. She had loaded me with her previous purchases, but now she was carrying a small jar in one hand and an enormous plastic bag in the other.

‘Look at this,’ she said, holding up the jar. ‘It’s tarragon. It cost a thousand pesos.’

‘They saw you coming,’ I replied. ‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Oh, oregano, thyme and marjoram,’ she told me. ‘They were very cheap, so I bought lots.’ I looked inside the bag.

‘My God, there must be about a kilo of assorted spices in here,’ I said. ‘What are you intending to do? Open a health food shop?’

The television studios were about an hour’s drive from our hotel, but we had been provided with a car and a driver, so we had no problem getting there. Xaviera looked stunning in a creation of cascading silk, which she described gaily as a Mexican peasant costume. It was, in fact, a designer dress with puffed sleeves and a frilly hemline, black, but set with panels of turquoise, yellow and pink.

If there were a Mexican peasant with flowing blonde hair, eyes of flashing emeralds and a wallet stuffed with golden credit cards, then Xaviera looked the part. She seemed very pleased with herself, and exuded self-confidence.

‘Do you love me an incredible amount?’ she sparked at me, ‘or just a lot?’

We were introduced to Ricardo Rochas and we chatted with our television host while the cameras were being set up. He was obviously glad to size up his opponent before they crossed swords, even though the interview would be recorded, and edited, before being broadcast.

He congratulated Xaviera on her command of Spanish, but it was agreed that she would be more at ease and better able to express herself if they were to speak English and it would be broadcast with a Spanish voice-over. The questions would be asked in Spanish and then translated. The interview was fascinating to me, as it gave me an insight into the Mexican language, which, although it is Spanish, is very different from the Spanish spoken in Spain. The relationship of American English to the English spoken in England is similar. As an example of the pitfalls, one of the most common verbs in the Spanish language, coger (‘to get’), means ‘to fuck’ in Mexico.

I also observed, from the linguistic contortions of the interviewer, that several perfectly respectable European words were clearly unacceptable in Mexican. One of these in particular, masturbation, gave Mr Rochas a lot of trouble. He referred to it as ‘onanism’.

After the interview, we were invited to dinner at a nearby restaurant, owned and managed by a well-known Argentinean football player.

Xaviera smiled prettily at her inquisitor and said: ‘You must be tired after interviewing someone as difficult as me.’

‘Far from it,’ he replied. ‘In fact my day’s work has only just started. From midnight on, I am the compere of a new weekly show, En Vivo (Live). It’s a talk show on television with a direct telephone line to the public. It goes on till five o’clock in the morning.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘Would you like to be on it?’ he asked spontaneously. ‘I think your Spanish is fluent enough.’

Xaviera’s eyes lit up. She adores appearing on TV and the thought of a live broadcast obviously thrilled her.

‘I’d love to,’ she said, ‘as long as John can be there too – in case he has to help me with the language.’ I had been quietly sipping my coffee, digesting my dinner and looking forward to a night of peaceful lovemaking or maybe just sleeping, when, without warning, I was to be precipitated into a live national TV broadcast to a nation of fifty million people in a language other than my own. Although I am fluent in Spanish, my uncertainty of Mexican usage gave me the feeling of walking through a minefield, but how could I disappoint Xaviera? I accepted.

Soon we were back in the studio, made up and waiting expectantly for our call. We watched the programme monitor and saw how the first guests handled themselves. There was a fiery Mexican actress, the survivor of various divorces, still beautiful but no longer in the first flush of youth, describing the more intimate details of her home life with her 22-year-old boyfriend. It all seemed very free and easy, with no holds barred.

Finally it was our turn. We were introduced, Ricardo mentioned Xaviera’s books, and in particular the one that had just been published, and suddenly we were in the middle of an animated discussion on what it was like to have a celebrity as a lover, the pros and cons of oral sex, the ins and outs and the ups and downs of our own relationship. Xaviera was interrupting me, I was disagreeing with her and we both argued with the host; it was just like home.

Then the phone calls started. I had not realised how popular Xaviera was in Mexico, a land of aggressively macho Latin lovers, who made sure that their wives kept their place. It seemed that she had attained the status of a feminist folk-heroine in the hearts of Mexican women. One lady caller was so excited to be actually talking to her idol that she was totally incoherent, and did nothing but pant into the phone.

‘What can she be doing?’ queried Ricardo.

‘What do you think she is doing?’ replied my outspoken lover. ‘She’s masturbating.’ In case there was the possibility that anyone had not understood her, she illustrated her text with an exaggerated rendering of a woman playing with herself. We were unaware of it at the time, but apparently a delighted camera operator chose this moment to zoom in on Xaviera’s crotch and hands.

Ricardo Rochas seemed suddenly ill at ease as Xaviera continued unashamedly.

‘She’s obviously a . . .’ – she paused and, turning to me, she asked, ‘Can I use the word tortillera (lesbian)?’

‘I doubt it,’ I said, but it was too late. The show was live and there was no bleeper, or delayed control.

At last it was over. Ricardo congratulated us on our performance, although he still appeared to be slightly pink around the gills, and we made our escape. I was curious to know how many people sat up all night to watch a talk show, but afterwards I was told that it was immensely popular, partly because it was new and controversial, but also because of a Mexican characteristic: a great reluctance ever to go to bed. After an evening out, they get home at midnight or later, and they sit around wondering’ how to entertain themselves. They pour another drink, feed the cat and switch on the television and only when it closes down do they contemplate sleep. Unsurprisingly, they have a problem about getting up in the morning.

As I slowly opened my eyes in the darkness, I had a feeling that all was not well. I raised my head slightly to look around and I realised that I was alone. I was just able to see the hands on our small square-sided alarm clock; it was four o’clock in the morning. Suddenly I was dazzled by a ray of light. The door to the bathroom had been flung open and as my eyes accustomed themselves to the brightness, I saw Xaviera’s naked body silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Quick!’ she whispered urgently. ‘You have to mend the cistern!’

‘My darling,’ I replied patiently. ‘We’re not at home.

We are in a hotel. Call room service.’

‘You only call room service for food and drinks. You mean I should call the desk.’

‘Whatever you say, but there won’t be anyone there at this time of night.’ My curiosity got the better of me. ‘What’s wrong with the cistern?’ I asked.

‘It was dripping and keeping me awake, so I tried to stop it. I think I’ve broken something inside.’

‘Oh God,’ I muttered. ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘and you’d better hurry up. The water is rising in here. Soon it will flow into the bedroom.’

Unwillingly I dragged myself out of bed and found that it was all true. I was unable to find a main stop-cock in the bathroom: however, with the aid of a pair of pliers and a screwdriver, which I always take with me on vacation with Xaviera, I was able not only to repair the damage, but to silence the sound of running water. As I worked I pondered on the capacity women and children have for breaking things. Those dainty little hands can wrench door handle from cars, wreak havoc amongst delicate electronic equipment and effortlessly destroy artefacts that to the male eye are constructed to