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explains, “I love extreme orgasms. I love orgasms that never stop. I love being adored beyond limits. I love taking everything to its limits. I couldn’t pass up this experience with Jeffrey—but I had huge financial troubles and I still had to pay back Sandy’s ten thousand dollar gambling debt. I don’t think Jeffrey understood…”
    I went about my life. I had fun with Susan and Necort. I got my sex drive back. I hung out with my buddy and long-time occasional fuck, Erika, a foxy, six-foot tall self-styled “Cum Junkie” whose Friday night hobby was to gang-suck entire barrooms of men. I’d watch her get drunk, sit in a men’s room stall and give a rousing suck-off to a quickly moving line of maybe a dozen or more guys. Sometimes she’d get a little too drunk, and I’d walk her home and hold her over her toilet as she vomited a most unique collection of sperm and imported and domestic beers. Knowing what she was about to do in the evening, I’d have sex with her before we left for the bar. Even I had some limits.
    Until I could find my own place in New York, I made a deal with a client to pay part of his rent on a slickly furnished expensive flat. Lots of light woods and glass, lots of mirrors, good for both business and for impressing New York pussy. The only problem was it was a no-pets building so I couldn’t take Necort.
    A few days later I started having an affair with Becky, an extremely attractive, WASP stock analyst I meet in the elevator. (My rent money was already paying off!) She was a Virginia Tidewater Aristocrat, one of the kinky, trust fund, Protestant old-money rich.
    Becky was very tall, nearly as tall as me, and a lot taller than me when she wore high heels, which I encouraged. Some men hate being with taller women. At just under six feet and comfortable with my height, I love when the woman I’m with towers over me. It says, “I’m the guy who caught the big fish.”
    She was also slim, a Wharton grad, a middle-level manager at a very big brokerage company, a lady “suit” and my first real adult, with a hairdo, golf clubs, money market fund, a condo in Florida, a refined appreciation of art and theater, a closet full of Perry Ellis and Albert Nippon, a Mercedes, nouvelle-French cooking skills, and to top it off, as many handcuffs as the Sixth Precinct.
    She loved smoking pot, being handcuffed to her huge four-poster bed and being fucked while struggling against her bonds. I got the feeling she was consciously slumming with me, which made it sexier for both of us. I was Stanley from Streetcar.
    She liked it when I talked like a street punk and acted tough. Sadly, she was also one of those people born without a sense of humor. Worse than not being funny herself, she didn’t get my jokes.
    But Becky did have compensations: skin that felt the way expensive wine tastes, a pussy so delicious that it must have taken several generations of refinement to breed, and long, long legs. What a fuckin’ set of wheels!
    And could she ever suck dick! She was the girl who literalized the proverbial remark about orally removing the chrome from a ’55 Buick Roadmaster. I made myself think of that every time one of my witty bon mots went flat.
    She also did something that I have only heard of once before and that was in the movie Deep Throat. She came when she sucked cock. I don’t mean small mini-swells of pleasure; I mean thrashing, screaming, major-league, exploding climaxes. Quite impressive.
    The second time I visited her I tried fucking her ass but it she would have none of that. Until she said, “If you want that you’ll have to take it!” I understood. She wanted fake rape. Not at all my trip, but I’d known other women who loved anal sex but considered it a perversion and needed to be pushed over some psychic wall in order to allay their guilt.
    I handcuffed her wrists and ankles to her four-poster and