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toes, hairy toes, blue eyes, long hair, or whatever. The list could go on and on. And you know what? I was able to provide them with precisely what they wanted. Soon enough such a varied and eclectic group of people were flocking to the gas station to get their name into my little black book of contacts, or “tricks,” that I was able to get anyone the person of their dreams. My little book listed only names and numbers. I wanted things to remain discreet. Everything that people liked, including the type of person they wanted to do it with, was committed to memory. I kept all those details in my mind, safely hidden from view.
    Most of the folks who made themselves available for tricking were very average, ordinary people. The majority of them were unmarried. Few, if any, of them were starstruck. If I arranged a trick for a guy or a girl with a major movie star or celebrity they invariably couldn’t care less. They were in it only for a quick trick and a bit of cash. Money was tight in those days. Young people between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five would do anything to earn some extra cash.
    Eventually, lesbians also began dropping in. I could get them exactly what they wanted, too. Word quickly spread within the lesbian community and I managed to make them all happy. As an aside, I must admit that I was disturbed about the way square, bigoted, and homophobic members of society nastily referred to a lesbian as a dyke. Many people simply tossed the derogatory word around with the express purpose of humiliating, criticizing, and demeaning certain women. At first I disliked the term but I eventually had to get used to it, especially when I heard it being used so often in conversation among members of the gay and lesbian community itself. “Dyke” seemed to be as commonly used as “queen.”
    When it came to my own sexual liaisons, I was always more than happy to pocket the tip that anyone offered me for a night of sex. But I never charged for my matchmaking services when hooking up other people. I would set up the trick and then the two of them went off together and money changed hands between them. It was only fair. My operation—if you want to call it that—was not a prostitution ring. I was simply providing a service to those who wanted it and, as recorded history has shown, throughout the ages there has always been a need for good, old-fashioned, high-quality sex. As I’ve said before, I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. I never thought so and I still don’t.
    Everyone I chose to introduce to my gas station customers was someone I knew from my circle of contacts. They were people I trusted, and it was a circle that widened all the time. I never took in total unknowns from the street. I was wary of anybody who simply walked in and offered himself or herself as someone “for hire.” Those in my black book were all young, honest people who, in the vast majority of cases, really needed the money that a little fun in the sack could provide. There were thousands of young guys and women who found themselves at loose ends after the war. Some were looking for jobs while others were trying to get started in new careers. Many were earning pittances as waiters, waitresses, barmaids, and the like. As far as I was concerned I was doing them all a favor.
    I was very fond of tricking people myself, and could always make good use of the twenty bucks that was handed over to me afterward. I jumped at the opportunity to go off with either a man or a woman who was attractive and who wanted to make whoopee with me, just as long as it didn’t interfere with my normal working hours.
    I was blessed with a very healthy sexual appetite. I wanted sex every day. I was proud of my dick and I was happy to share it. Not once did I ever have trouble getting an erection and I always came. Always. I was proud of the size of my load, too, even after I had already come two or three times earlier on the same day or evening. I was