After I broke up with my sweet college boyfriend, a decent man who never ran me through the ringer, who responded to my bouts of recklessness and immaturity with compassion and sympathy, a guy who never did me wrong, I desired nothing more than desire itself. After years of slow and steady I yearned for spark and drama. Conveniently, along came Matt.
Matt was British, a very recent London transplant, and I was still inexperienced enough to equate his lilting accent with worldly sophistication. Like me, he worked in the magazine business, so we had that in common, though I’m not sure we ever went so far as to discuss the intricacies of that bizarre industry. In fact, we spoke very little, as we were highly preoccupied with having fabulous, mind-blowingly awesome sex. We did it everywhere—the Natural History Museum, a New York City alleyway, and of course in all the more traditional places such as the kitchen counter and my bed. The sheer quantity and quality of the sex should have been my first indication that something was rotten in the East Village. Keep reading »