My particular mansion, which would soon be owned by OCD and the Bastard, was a sprawling gray and white affair, built in the Cape Cod style. On the rear deck, a pool and Jacuzzi looked out over the Atlantic; on the front lawn, an all-weather tennis court looked out over the Shinnecock; and out in front, a row of immaculately trimmed box hedges rose up twelve feet in the air, concealing the property from view.

At this particular moment, I was sitting on a shabby-chic couch in the mansion's shabby-chic living room, staring into the doelike eyes of Sarah Weissman, ^*self-proclaimed Jewish blow-job queen. She was sitting less than two feet away, wearing a black cotton turtleneck and black knit leggings, accentuating a tight little body that reeked of past beauty and present-day bulimia.

Nevertheless, the Blow-Job Queen was still a looker. Only twenty-two, she had a pleasantly narrow face, gleaming black hair, jet-black eyes, olive skin, a first-class nose job, ortho-perfect teeth, and a lower lip lusher than the Nile. And despite knowing her only fifteen minutes, I thought she seemed like a reasonably good egg. We'd met this evening at a local AA meeting and had hit it off instantly. She was newly sober (less than a week, actually), battling a triple addiction to crack, booze, and self-induced vomiting, the latter of which I found rather disgusting. But she was on the rebound now, fresh out of detox and back in the Hamptons, ready to resume her life.

Up until now we had made mostly small talk—trading war stories about our drug addictions—but apparently she was ready to get down to business, because she was in the middle of saying, “… that it's Jewish girls who give the best blow jobs in the world. Did you know that?”

“Uh… no,” I answered. “I've never dated a Jewish girl before.”

“Well, they do,” she said proudly, “and if you want, I'll prove it to you.”

“Yeah, that would be great!” I answered, and the Jewish Blow-Job Queen quickly went to work—rising into a crouch and kneeing her way toward me with a lubricious smile on her face. Instinctively, I leaned back and rested my head on a soft, circular throw pillow, as the Blow-Job Queen reached forward with her tiny hands and unzipped my fly. Then, with remarkable efficiency, she pulled down my jeans to my ankles, climbed between my legs, and twisted her long black hair into a ponytail.

Suddenly she paused.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing, silly,” she said, as she removed her gold necklace, on the end of which dangled a diamond-studded Jewish star. She put it in her pocket. “I don't want it to get in my way.”

I nodded in understanding, and I closed my eyes, hiked up my legs, and prepared for the blow job of a lifetime. It would be just what the doctor ordered, I thought. One hummer from the Blow-Job Queen and I would forget about the Duchess forever!

“Oww!” snapped the Blow-Job Queen. “There's something jabbing me in my butt!” I looked down and— Christ!My ankle bracelet was jabbing the Blow-Job Queen in her bony butt.

I lowered my legs with the speed of a jackrabbit. “It's nothing,” I said. “Just a beeper I wear for work. It's okay; keep going.”

The Blow-Job Queen narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “A beeper, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, “a beeper.”

A few moments passed as she continued to stare. “All right,” she finally said. “I'll take your word for it,” and she slowly leaned over and started blowing me… and it was one of those long, sumptuous blow jobs, the sort a man only gets from his wife during the courting period.

I started moaning in appreciation: “Oh, God,Sarah! It feels sooogood. You were right: Jewish girls dogive the best blow jobs!”

“ Uhm-hum,” she mumbled, unable to speak.

“Ahhhh…” I moaned, and I closed my eyes and let my nervous system dissolve… letting my problems drift further and further away… until nothing mattered anymore… just the Blow-Job Queen and her blow job… and my mind started to wander…wander to the Duchess…. What was she doing right now? Was she at home with the kids, or was she out with another man? It was a weeknight, so she would probably be home with the kids… although I was hearing rumors that she was having an affair with her personal trainer, some Romanian dirtbag named Alex… although that was unimportant now…. It was the kids who were important … they were everything to me….

Just then— a cool sensation!I opened my eyes and the Blow-Job Queen's head was popping up, a concerned expression on her face. “What's wrong?” she said. “It doesn't feel good?”

I looked down— oh, Christ!My penis looked like a strand of overcooked spaghetti! How very fucking embarrassing! “Oh… uh… no,” I mumbled, “everything's fine. I mean, it's the best blow job I ever got. It's just that”—desperately I searched for the proper words—”uh, it's just that you're the, uh, the first girl I've been with in like, uh, ten years. I mean, not including my wife, of course—I mean, my ex-wife, or my soon-to-be ex-wife is more like it.” I paused for a second, asking myself if the fact that I'd slept with close to a thousand hookers while I was married to the Duchess meant I was now lying to the Blow-Job Queen.

I sat up straight and took a deep, troubled breath and let it out slow. “I'm really sorry,” I said softly. “Maybe it's too soon for me. I'm not sure.” I shook my head sadly.

The Blow-Job Queen took no offense; instead, she offered me the warmest of smiles, an altogether maternalsmile. “That's okay,” she said. “I think it's sweetthat you're nervous. It makes me want you even more.” She smiled again, and I noticed that her teeth were very white. That's good, I thought. The Blow-Job Queen has very white teeth.

“Now, lie back down and relax,” she said warmly. “And stop worrying! Everything's gonna be fine.” And, with that, the Blow-Job Queen placed her tiny hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me back down. “Just relax your mind…” she said, in a tone normally used by a hypnotist, “relax your body… relax everything… it's all gonna be okay….”

I nodded dutifully and closed my eyes, thinking—Jesus H. Christ! The Blow-Job Queen really has her shit together! I mean, here she is, three days sober, a crack addict, a bulimic, an alcoholic, most certainly a pill-popper, and probably an anorexic too, yet she's completely taken control of the situation. I felt lucky to have her.

And indeed I was. In no time flat, the Blow-Job Queen was humming away, with the sort of unbridled relish you usually see in porn videos. A few minutes later, I screamed, “Oh, my God! I”—I held back the words love you,which was what I truly felt like screaming, and screamed—”can't take it anymore!” And a split second later I was done. True to her word, the Jewish Blow-Job Queen had gotten the best of me, and my body was now limp.

Just then she popped up her head and wiped her chin with the back of her hand. “So how do you feel now?”she asked provocatively.

“Amazing, Sarah. I feel truly amazing.”

She smiled broadly and kindly. “I'm glad,” she said happily. “I'm really glad,” and she started looking around the living room at the towering sandstone fireplace behind her, at the dozen pieces of shabby-chic furniture surrounding her—all the couches and armchairs and ottomans and coffee tables and end tables and the throw pillows and flowers and vases and paintings on the walls and, just off the living room, the shabby-chic dining-room table, which was larger than a horseshoe pit. Then she looked up at the thirty-foot ceiling, and then, finally, she looked at the plate-glass wall that ran the entire length of the back of the house and looked out over the Atlantic.

“You know,” she said, “this place is really beautiful. I mean, I've been around money before, but this place reeksof old money! You know what I mean?”