1984 was a critical year in my life--very eventful.
"Where's the beef?" commercials began and my stock in that company soared. Ray Mancini knocked out Bobby Chacon in the third round at Reno to retain his WBA boxing championship and I won $6,000 on that match. I remember my bookie at the time, Morey the Mink, grudgingly counting out the money--"Here Dean, here's your pussy money for the month."
What else? Oh yes...The Apple Mac was introduced at halftime during the Super Bowl XXVIII. I was a ground floor investor. I sold my interest in a Houston based real estate syndicate for a 1000 percent profit, getting out right before a local savings and loan crash.
My great aunt died and left to me a small, beach front motel on Pandora Island along Florida's south Gulf coast, a 1965 pink Cadillac in mint condition, a collection of Krugerands--go figure--worth $50,000.
I had started to, finally, receive some handsome royalty checks from 10 Oklahoma oil leases I had won in a poker game--don't ask--the night involved gunshots, cocaine blowing like talcum powder in the breeze of an oscillating table top fan, and topless women screaming as they ran across the parking lot.
Damn, what a night. But I sure as hell got out of there with those leases in hand.
In short, 1984 was an incredible year. I got rich. I was in a small plane crash somewhere just on the American side of the New Mexico-Mexican border--let me just say, I got out with a huge duffel bag filled with cash. Still have a propeller as a souvenir. I bought my first sailboat and took her maiden run across the Gulf of Mexico with a buddy and two women who stayed topless or naked almost the entire trip.
I met Hugh Hefner--partied and fucked in the mansion. I met Bob Guccione--partied and fucked in his penthouse. I met Larry Flynt--just had a beer with him.
But for me, the most significant event of that year was the weekend I spent bucking and fucking, fondling and feeling, groping over and grabbing at, being groped over and grabbed by, sucked on and licked at, kissing on and cuming with, the famous big boobed porn star known as Marti Mounds.
Yes, I got to bang Marti Mounds. For two and a half days! What's more, I have an hour of film footage--now transferred to DVD--to prove it!
Here is how it all came about. I had been a Marti Mounds fan for quite some time. She had come onto the scene in the mid-seventies, just in time for VHS videos and the ensuing boom in the porn industry. In a decade when so many female porn stars chose big hair, and big, silicone enhancements, Marti took a different tack--she sported a natural look, opting to jump immediately to MILF status. By 1984, she already was something of an icon. In addition to being prolific in the porn industry, she had walk on roles in a few mainstream television shows such as The A Team and Simon and Simon.
Now, I've been a breast man since puberty and by the mid-1980s I was rich enough--a man of leisure, a true hedonist—to be able to fully indulge my sexual preferences. But on this particular night--I will never forget it--I was sitting in my apartment, alone. Both my big tittied bed buddies were out of town. In addition, the bosomy fifty-something I was having an affair with was travelling with her plastic surgeon husband somewhere in Europe.
I had just slid a video into the player. My favorite Marti Mounds movie at the time was "The Butler Did Her," a spoof of Agatha Christie--yes, truth be told, I wore out two copies of that video! But the video I had selected for my first viewing of the evening was the third in the "Breast Friends" series.
One of things I could say about Marti...I could talk about her tits, her ass, her pussy, her mouth action...it was all soooo exciting to watch...but one of the things that set her apart is that in every scene I ever saw her in--she always looked like she was having such great fun fucking.
Even though I had plans on going to a late night pool party with visions of topless beauties dancing in my head, I had just come in from my office--I worked two or three days a week to manage my investments. I had settled in for a little relaxation, seated naked in my recliner, a Waterford tumbler of small batch bourbon in one hand and my cock in the other. My dick was rock-hard in anticipation of watching Marti's ass in the air and her tits hanging down when my phone rang.
I let the call go to my machine but when Jerry Rubenstein's voice came on--hey, Dean...pick up if you're there...I worked out the play for you..
Well, I set down my drink, got the remote, hit pause and scrambled for my phone.
Jerry Rubenstein--everyone called him Ruby, was a fixer—with his chewed cigars, hip flasks, plaid sports coats and neckties featuring race horse, or greyhound silhouettes—yep, he was fixer. I never used him in my legitimate business dealings--but he was good at what he did. The first time I went to his little office above Dot's Diner, it was packed floor to ceiling with shoe boxes of Converse All Star basketball shoes. The next time it was television sets and mink coats. Two or three times a year, he arranged sex tours to the Dominican Republic. He regularly set up sexual rendezvous for a couple of state senators and two or three city councilmen. Yep, if you wanted “something” put together, you called Ruby.
In addition to often being a guest performer in strip clubs around the country, I had heard rumors that Marti Mounds from time to time hired out as a companion to a very exclusive clientele--a Greek shipping magnate, a Colorado logging and coal baron, a couple of main stream movie stars. She apparently did this rarely and only for great sums of money. I thought, well, why not me?
A month before that fateful phone call I had bought Ruby a drink at Mack’s Bar and set him to work. I said, here's what I want Ruby, I want to meet and fuck the porn star Marti Mounds. At first he had laughed. When I wrote a figure down on a napkin, he frowned, raised his eyebrows and picked it up. That amount, I told him, is for setting up a meeting with her. I will double it if I get to fuck her.
Two weeks later, he called me at my office. Listen Dean, you remember that big tit redhead named Maggie? I had to laugh. Of course I remembered her. At the time I had a party boat about half the size of the one I have now. But it was a great motor powered boat; "Bust Out" was her name. One weekend, Ruby, and a state senator and I, along with three hot little party girls spent a weekend bucking and fucking from one end of my boat to the other, as well as up and down a secluded beach on Manatee Cove.
Ruby had said: Guess what! That woman Maggie used to be a stripper at the Starlight out in L.A. Plus, she's done a few porn flicks. I've heard she sometimes parties with Marti Mounds. Do you think this Maggie will give you and your cock a good review?
I had not heard from Ruby gain until this night.
When I picked up the phone, I could hear the thump and bump of 80s disco music, the fucking BeeGees or some such, in the background. He was, no doubt, at the Club 2b, one of his favorite haunts.
Now, you have to picture this--I'm sitting naked, drinking thirty dollar a fifth bourbon, with Marti Mounds' tits flickering on my TV screen in pause position, my cock hard, about to jackoff to the sight of my porn star icon sucking and fucking, and this guy Ruby tells me in his whiskey, cigar smoke burnt voice he has set up a meeting between me and the very woman I am watching getting fucked on the screen.
He said, yeah, I got through and set up a meet--apparently you made quite an impression on that girl Maggie.
Well, after I hung up, I hit the play button. There was a great "point of view" shot--the camera looking down on Marti's gorgeous ass, her on her hands and knees and the guy is hammering away at her--those cheeks are quaking, the clapping of their bodies, their grunts and moans--her begging him to keep fucking her--then, when he pulled free to spot and spackle her bottom with cum--I joined in. Made a huge mess on my lap thinking--damn, guys all over the country jack off to the sight her getting it put to her--and in a couple of weeks, who knows...maybe I will be right there--getting my share of Marti Mounds.
Yes, 1984 was a very eventful year.
Marti, Ruby informed me, lived in L.A. He had arranged for me to meet her at a nondescript bar named The Speakeasy Lounge. It was favored by the glitterati of the LA scene who wanted on occasion to get away from the public light, a discrete rendezvous point for those contemplating indiscretions. The management was trained to detect the press, private eyes, to recognize the haunted look of a husband or wife looking for any wayward spouses. Further, they were expert at preventing any interference with their exclusive clientele. Although its interior was modest, the drinks were extremely expensive--to keep out the riff raff, I was told. A draft domestic beer was $6.00 during happy hour! In 1984!
Miami Vice had premiered that year, so I flew out to Los Angeles with my best Don Johnson look. I admit, I had a raging hard on throughout the entire flight. Ruby had connections all over--he had arranged for me to encamp at a nice little bungalow in Malibu. He told me it had a nice kidney shaped swimming pool, hot tub, well-appointed bar and living room. There was a great bed with mirrors all around. Ruby explained that the couple who owned the place often rented it out as a location for filming porn movies. We both laughed at the irony.
But my first stop was at the bank of phones in the airport. I dialed the number Ruby had provided me, my fingers nervous, my heart thumping, my cock throbbing. I waited as it rang and the message came on--Hi, can't take your call right now--guess what I'm busy doing? Leave a message and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I'm finished doing what I'm doing...Ciao!"
I left a message telling her I had just landed and was about to make my way to The Speakeasy. According to Ruby, she had agreed to keep her afternoon open to meet me, to do a "look over" as she termed it and to see if her and I could agree on the details of our prospective tryst.
I entered the bar and was promptly stopped by the bouncer Frankie. I handed him a twenty and told him Ruby sent me.
Half an hour and a couple of Glenfiddich's later, she walks in. She said hello to Frankie, who replied Good afternoon, Ms. M. She said hello to the bartender who went by the moniker Fly. Although by this time there were a number of patrons in the bar--a minor star on a sitcom sat hunkered nearby over a tequila sunrise--she identified me immediately.
Marti could have been a suburban housewife on her way to the mall. She came in sans makeup. Her hair was a little windblown. She had on a pair of white hoop earrings, a pair of tight jeans, and a denim jacket over a blouse gathered in a knot beneath her breasts, revealing a modest swathe of midriff. But for me, there was no mistaking who she was. While not many of the men in the bar might have recognized her, she walked in and there was a hormone driven wake that followed her. Every head--male and female--turned to take in the vision, the presence that was Marti Mounds. Suddenly, the subtext of the entire bar changed from drinking and forgetting problems, hiding out from the hot LA sun, dodging the responsibilities of the daytime in the dim haze of the bar, to sex. Marti Mounds stirred the testosterone pot to boiling by simply walking into the room.
I was sitting at the end of the bar, my back to the little hallway that led to the bathrooms, where I could view the entire space. Marti came over, climbed up on the barstool catty-cornered to me. Fly, I noticed, had nodded to Frankie, when they realized Marti was here to meet with me--evidently they knew they might have to run interference in case some of the overly excited patrons attempted to move in our conversation. I relaxed a bit.
Fly put a martini in front of Marti, asking how you been Ms. M.?
It was then I noticed the buttons of her blouse were completely undone, the blouse being held closed by the knot. She said Hi Dean, took a sip of her martini and then, leaned up and set her breasts on the bar. The blouse parted quite a bit and there they were. Those famous tits, bulging up, balled up and pressed together by a hard working bra. Inches of breathtaking cleavage, a great tan line with a band of pale skin showing.
I audibly moaned at the sight. No telling how many times I had shot my load to the sight of her naked body, watching her fucking, lusting after those hopping, flopping titties, aching to get my hands on her, my cock inside her, my mouth on those nipples. And here they were. Damn, I would have given half my fortune to touch her titties.
We chatted amicably for several minutes. Marti talked a little bit about how she had gotten into the porn trade—told me an amazing story involving one of the my heroes, Russ Meyer. She asked me about my business dealings and spoke intelligently and knowledgably about real estate, stocks and bonds and even the oil industry.
As she was taking the first sip of her third martini, and I was on my fourth scotch, we got down to the real business at hand. At this point, Marti was offering up some delicious glimpses of her big beauties and I was so fucking horny--I hadn't had any pussy in two days! She leaned over, smiling at my obvious lustful leers, and said, so Dean, I believe in being very candid, honest, right up front. Ruby says you want to fuck me.
She continued: here’s the deal honey. If you’ve followed my career as closely as Ruby says you have, you know that I really, really like to have sex. But doing it on a set can sometimes be a little—well, disappointing. I mean, getting directions, the lights and noise and so on—the real thrill for me is in knowing that after it’s all wrapped up that guys like you all over the country are going to be watching and getting all horny and jerking off to me. That gets me wet.
But when it comes to fucking I like to do it with someone who can keep up. And I mean that in all its various meanings. Now, last summer I got with this rich old guy—he builds ships—I mean big ass ships like oil tankers, okay? Anyway, he is a nice looking guy, but in his sixties. He’s good for a nice bang or two at a time. But then I find myself lying around on the deck of his yacht reading a novel for several hours until he gets horny again. I mean, I made a shit load of money, but hell, as for getting laid—the trip left a lot to be desired.
So, Dean, I have to be honest with you and you have to be honest with me. The only reason I’m sitting here talking with you is because Ruby set this up—I owe him a favor or two. But the only reason I’m seriously considering letting you fuck me for a weekend is because of Maggie Mae.
Maggie told me about that weekend on your boat. Said you were quite a hound dog—here, Marti paused to take a couple sips of her drink—she emitted a throaty chuckle, Maggie said she isn’t sure when you slept, that every time she looked you were either banging one of the other girls or coming for another go at her.
Now, Dean, can you keep up with me?
She took a napkin, withdrew a Montblanc from her bag and wrote a figure on a napkin and pushed it my way. True to my negotiating style, I raised my eyebrows, glanced away—but frankly, the amount was much less than I had expected.
Ruby says you have a place out in Malibu, he says it has a swimming pool. Which is great, I love getting fucked outdoors. Here are some of my conditions. We can play there, that’s fine. I’ll show up sometime early Friday afternoon and we can let the games begin. You have to feed me well. I like vodka martinis as you can see. I like gin and tonics around the pool. I like wine—good wine—with my meals. Saturday night you have to take me out to dinner. There is a bar out in Malibu called Chaser’s—some friends of mine own it. I want you to take me there for after dinner drinks. You’ll be the envy of the gang—if you don’t mind a little lack of modesty on my part.
A couple more things—Ruby said you wanted some filming of our action. I have a camera guy and an assistant that I like to use. That’s a separate deal, honey. She pulled out a calling card with the name of Dirk Glidden, All Seeing Video and Camera. On the back was written in ink a price for two hours of filming. With two hours—we can get maybe an hour’s worth of footage. He’s that good. He’ll need the money in cash, before he starts.
As for my compensation, a check will do—I’ve invested in a little time looking into your background. Half now, the other half when I show up. She handed me another card with a company name, “On Top Productions.” It’s a little company I’ve just started, she said by way of explanation. If you need to reach me during the day for any reason, call this number.
Oh, she added, finishing her martini and waving off Fly—the negotiations were coming to a close—one other thing. I want to have fun. And, I want you to have fun. Maggie assures me you have both the equipment and the energy to play the way I like to play.
Marti Mounds set her elbow on the bar and rested her chin in her hand. So, she asked. I pulled out my checkbook and my own Montblanc
Well, I replied, as I wrote the phone number to Malibu on another napkin—I’m a pretty horny guy Marti. I mean, I get aroused pretty easily and, uh—I get into this, what I call “zone” where I just start fucking and fucking and fucking.
She patted me on the arm and again emitted a throaty laugh, Baby, don’t worry, whenever you’re ready for, when you want me, you can come and get it—I’ll be your little fuck doll for the weekend.
With that—Marti Mounds left the bar. The disappointment among the patrons was palpable. Fly came over and put another scotch in front of me—he nodded—on the house.
I sat there for a while, my cock hard and pressed tightly against my pants, my whole being aching for sexual release. The thought of being able to get naked with Marti Mounds, to have unfettered access to her large lovelies, to roam over that body with my mouth, hands and cock set me into feverish fog of lust.
Fly came over and leaned into me. Listen, you don’t have to answer, it’s your business. But, we’re pretty discrete around here, I really want to know—did you work something out with Marti?
I nodded. He let out a whispered, hot damn, dude. One of our regulars got with her several months ago, he told me. Now, you would know this guy—big ass director—let’s just say, he has a few Oscars on his mantel—anyway, he’s married okay? But he managed to get Marti up to his ranch for a couple of days.
He came in the day before they left—looking all fit and trim, you know, tennis court suntan, salt and pepper hair all combed and trimmed. He came in the day after they got back from the ranch. Fly laughed, and continued, he looked ten years older. All gaunt and tired looking. I kid you not. He said she fucks like a machine. In-fucking-satiable. Said she simply couldn’t get enough cock.
I drove up to Malibu and after a few missed turns finally found the house. I unpacked and made a few calls to have some items delivered—additional booze for the bar, some groceries, and snacks. As the sun began to set, I poured a drink and took the phone with its extended chord out onto the patio beside the pool.
I called Ruby. His machine picked up. Hey Ruby, the deal is set. You are a magician, a true sorcerer, my man. I’ll have the second half of my payment to sent over first thing tomorrow.
Then, as the sun slipped away and darkness fell over Malibu, I dipped a cigar into my cognac and lit it, sipped my drink and puffed away for a few minutes—savoring the moment. Marti Mounds, damn, on Friday, I’ll have her naked right here, I mused. I began to rub my crotch, I was in such a state of arousal, sitting there thinking of all the things I wanted to do with Marti Mounds—it was, after all, only Wednesday and I wouldn't see her until Friday. What’s a horny guy to do?