The Names Have Been Changed To Protect The Innocent

No they haven't. I have just forgotten them.

The other title I thought of for this post was "Early Sex Stories"

There was a girl who worked as a waitress at a bar that I hung out at when I first moved to Manhattan. The bar was called Mike Malkan's. It had a very preppy crowd. I can see her in front of me, but I can't remember her name. I was probably about 22. One night I asked her out. Out in those meant going somewhere to fuck. I had the perfect place. My father's business, which I was running since he had gotten sick had a great office with a really large, comfortable, green leather couch. We got started and before I knew it we were ready for the main course. I, of course, was not a great lover at that point. I got in her and realized that I was ready to come. I said, "Don't move" to her, but it was already to late. So, naturally, I looked at her and said, "You moved". That became her standard greeting for me whenever she saw me after that.


Stephanie lived with her parents in an apartment in the Apthorp building on Broadway and 79th St. The Apthorp is one of the most magnificent apartment buildings in the city. Nora Ephron wrote a short essay about living there and how grand it was. Stephanie's parent's apartment was enormous. If I remember correctly it was about 4 bedrooms with a formal living room, separate dining room and the biggest kitchen I have ever seen. Anywhere. Her room was right across the hall from her parent's room in the back of the apartment so if we wanted to fool around we used her brother's room which was all the way in the front. That way no one could hear us. One day we were fooling around and I had my penis out, while still having my pants on. All of a sudden she said, "Oh no, my brother is home." So I quickly closed my zipper only there was something stuck in it. I ran into the bathroom, quietly screaming in pain still stuck in the zipper. I waited a minute or two, in amazing pain, waiting to figure out what to do. Stephie came in and said that she had been mistaken, her brother had not come home. At this point I didn't care. I was stuck in my zipper. I will spare you the details but I just want to point out that the worst part was not being stuck. The worst part was knowing that I was going to have to unzip my zipper to get myself out.

Andy Grossman lived in the Fleetwood Section of Mount Vernon, where I was brought up. One day, in our Junior year he came to school all smiles. He had gotten laid by his house cleaner. The next day invited a bunch of us over to share. We did.

I will never forget this name, The Scott. It was an apartment building on 103rd Street in Manhattan where there were hookers. I think I went there with some high school fraternity brothers in my Junior year of high school.