All of this part is scripted. All of this part — the lecture, the position, the implement — is the same every time. The content of the lecture isn’t perfect, but it’s the closest she could come to what really happened without saying too much. It took Mary some time to find a . . . professional . . . who was willing to work with a script, even a short one. But Sister Catherine seems to have some genuine affinity for the script. She says the lines with passion and intensity; she wields the implement with grim determination. And Sister Catherine seems also to appreciate the free hand that she has with Mary once the scripted part is completed.

I was used to having sex with women minutes after being introduced. As actors we tried to keep a sense of humor and fun about the situation. It was professional, not sexy. That’s why they call it acting. You’ve just got to sell it for the camera. But the interview with Daphne was sexy. She was beautiful and intelligent and I was seismically attracted her. I swear, if someone had said, “Decide right now, based on the little you know, if you want to marry her” I would have said Yes.

“Hold that there,” she said to me, yanking me away from the car and pushing me into the alley she’d parked alongside. “Now, if you can’t follow the simplest directions, I don’t think you should really be displayed in public, do you?”

“Doctor by day, dominatrix by night.” I can see the headline, the tacky picture of a discipline queen, whip in one hand, stethoscope in the other. After all, why not? I’m good at my day job. People undress at my command everyday, passive and grateful. “Whatever you say, doctor,” they say, “You’re the doctor, you tell me.” “Thank you, doctor,” they generally say sincerely afterwards, “that was a thorough exam all right.” I have them bending over and spreading for me all day. Why not take it to the night, spice it up? Probably make more money without the insurance hassles. The doctor was definitely IN. In charge, in control, in the mood.

He had a craggy face, prematurely lined, no doubt from hard living. He was wiry but muscular, like he could jump a fence, chase a rabbit and skin it for dinner, no charge. I wondered what he’d look like naked. Then I wondered why I was so sex-obsessed.

Two bottles of something cold and two shots with the beer — rear booth. No words. Not at first. Then, “Your father drank boilermakers.”

Parker nodded.

“He could put them away.” Parker fingered the lighter in his pocket. He could feel the belt around his waist. So when Clint touched the buckle under the table, he shivered.

As she rode him, she found her voice. A stream of Spanish tumbled from her lips, rising and falling with her excitement. Josh could have concentrated to pick out words or phrases, but he was happy to let the cascade of language stay foreign, exotic, mysterious. For all he knew, she was telling him her life story — her role in the civil war, her pain, her loss, her redemption in the arms of a kind stranger. But, truthfully, he didn’t want to know. Knowing so little was part of what made the whole adventure feel like an adventure.

I take a big breath for her and suddenly I’m hit by a scent of ginger and cardamom. I swear it’s coming from a few drops of sweat right between those magnificent tits I’m trying not to look at. I don’t know whether to report my new symptoms of dizziness and tachycardia.

My wife and I took our time undressing her. I’d like to tell you how strong my hands were and how the girl trembled beneath my touch. But no. My hands shook. My fingertips were cold.

He held out his hand. We left our luggage on the platform and found a grassy spot behind the station. I was painfully conscious of how much more I knew than the last time I’d had him, and how little it was going to matter. He took me on my back, wrapping a hand tight around my mouth, letting me chew on the flesh. I absorbed his heat into me. He made no sound when he came. He never did. I couldn’t even tell.

When David plucked up the courage to open his eyes he saw that Catherine was back at the easel again, resuming her work, cold and professional, as if her treatment of him had been nothing out of the ordinary. She resumed her low unconscious growl of concentration: a growl punctuated every so often by a shudder that ran through her body before she continued her work. He knew that his cock was erect before him, but he fought the impulse to look down, not wanting to see the alien object protruding from it.

And though it’s hours to go until midnight, these two are on each other as if they were only a few minutes away from the privacy of their bedroom. They stroke and pet while juggling drinks and canapes in the depths of Jacqueline’s sofa. They discreetly goose each other at the sideboard, and they sit half in and half out of each other’s laps at the Scrabble table. Lips go to ears, and toes to calves. All the while, they’re alert and gregarious, and they relish the tension of being in public and yet being intensely horny.

It’s in a dive of a bar that I find Johnny Tyger. What a stupid stage name. His ridiculously long and thick digits form chords in the most awkward ways. And yet, as I watch him play, I lose sight entirely of the vivid discussion, an emerging and innovative system for rating oral sex performances, that my girlfriends are engaged in.

Lacy was down on her hands and knees wearing nothing but fishnet stockings and marabou-fluffed heels. She spun onto her back, scissored up and writhed her way to the chair. Never got used to the smooth look, eh? Here, pal, get a faceful.

“Gorgeous!” came the voice. “Absolutely gorgeous! I especially liked the chair-schtupping, dollface. Sometimes they say we’re goin’ too blue, but I got one thing to say to that, people — ain’t no such thing as too blue. Va-va-va-voom, miss, you’re a tsatskeh if I ever saw one, if you don’t mind my saying. A maidel mit a klaidel.”