As the man walked closer to me, our eyes embraced, and something compelled us to touch each other’s arm. I spoke first. “Are you as lonely as I am?” I asked.

“I guess I am,” he replied, to my utter joy, “and I could use some charming feminine company.” With zero resistance from me, he took my arm and steered me from the Palm Bay Club, into a taxi, and on to a more swinging discotheque called the Penthouse where we laughed and danced and talked German together until around three in the morning.

His name was Paul Lindfeld, and he was a famous New York jewelry designer of German Jewish extraction, recently divorced. When the evening wound up he took me to the Jockey Club, where he was staying, and without too many words we slipped into his bed and made love.

We turned on to each other’s bodies so intensely and became so passionate that the people in the next room started complaining and knocking on the wall. But we just ignored them and continued our lovemaking.

Before we fell asleep exhausted I felt this was a man I could really seriously fall in love with, and before the relationship went any further I would have to tell him the truth about who I was and what I did.

I didn’t think he would take the news too badly, since he was a sophisticated kind of man. I felt he could accept my professional status for what it was.

“Paul, there is something I think you ought to know about me,” I said.

“I know already,” he said sleepily. “You’re wonderful in bed.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” I said, “but the matter is slightly more serious than that. You see, if I weren’t good in bed I would be out of business, if you know what I mean.”

“What exactly do you mean?” he asked, wide-awake now.

“I am trying to tell you that I am not exactly what you believe I am – the little interior designer on her annual vacation. I am actually a professional woman – a call girl.”

He sat bolt upright and backed off.

Before he could speak, I continued, “Please don’t think I am going to ask you to pay me, or anything like that. I wasn’t working tonight. With you it was true desire.”

And in order to soften the blow, I added: “I just do it to help support my parents.”

Paul was visibly jolted by the revelation, but talked about it a little more, and he accepted it unconditionally.

The next morning I moved out of the Tanners’ house and in with Paul, and we spent every moment of the next few days together falling in love. It was the first time I had felt like this in ages, despite all my experiences. Forget about Evelyn St. John – this was much deeper. We went everywhere together, and he was so gorgeous that I wore him on my sleeve like a croix de guerre.

Back in New York, after a long, depressing period of not hearing from Paul, I finally did get a call from him explaining how busy he’d been, and we took over from where we left off in Miami. Paul lived on the twenty-fifth floor of an apartment on Central Park South, and the winter panorama outside across the snow-covered park was pure Grandma Moses and terribly romantic. The apartment was elegant, expensive, and tastefully decorated with expensive antiques. The bedroom had an oval-shaped window from which I loved to blow my mind on the view.

Paul was nicely shaped, precious but not too big, and he was basically a square lover. But we didn’t need gimmicks of any kind. Variations are there usually if you’re getting slightly bored with the normal position. However, when it’s love, the normal position is as exciting as standing on your head and doing it.

The feelings I had at that moment for Paul were almost as deep as those I had had for Carl. I guess this was the first time since Carl I had felt this way, because I had been hurt so badly that I didn’t want to give myself any more pain. In a way, I had grown up, matured. And maturity comes with suffering, and experience in life, I believe.

I had a second telephone installed in my apartment exclusively for his calls, and his ego was flattered by that. I was working as a single then, so I could easily take nights off. Sometimes we would go to the theater and dinner, and always we would return to his apartment.

About a month after we started our blazing affair, Paul wanted me to let him make love to me Greek style. I had never done that before, and I resisted.

But Paul was persistent. “You’ve done everything in your life. You’ve been a prostitute, and before that you’ve had a lot of men, so if you love me, let me take your virginity in the only remaining place.”

I loved him, so I let him do it his way.

Paul was strangely excited by the acquisition of my ass and he got very carried away. He had a rhythm that really shakes your bowels, and he made me unbelievably sore. From that night on he would regularly want me to let him do it that way. In the beginning it kept hurting, but after a while I even started enjoying it now and then, since luckily he wasn’t too big for me.

Still and all, he gave no thought to my pleasure. His desires were the ones that had to come first, whether I liked it or not. I started recognizing in Paul traits that were disturbingly reminiscent of Carl. Along with his selfish sexuality, Paul was not at all generous – even stingier than Carl had been in New York. Even on a cold winter night, he wouldn’t part with cabfare. This turned me off in a way, even though I still cared for him deeply. I was starting to see other things in my Adonis too. Even though he wanted a steady girl friend, he wanted full freedom as well, and he was not really the type of man to be tied down by one woman. Since the road to love started becoming slightly rocky, I was finding myself with free time on my hands and started circulating among a crowd of swinging friends to distract me from my disappointment in our affair.

One evening I made a date to meet a group of friends at a bar on First Avenue called My House. My House has a front piano bar and a back room where I was to join the crowd.

As I picked my way through the place, I caught sight of a girl with blond hair and a round face who looked strangely like me. The trace of narcissism that exists in all of us attracted me to her.

As I got very close, I heard her speak in a sultry voice, and I knew I would love to make it with her.

Although she didn’t look like a swinger, the man with her did, so my strategy was to approach him first.

I went around behind him and whispered in his ear. “Hi, my name is Xaviera, and I am going to make a suggestion that I hope won’t offend you,” I said. “I would really love to be with you and your girl in a swing – preferably just your girl; is there any possibility?”

It didn’t take a Fuller Brush man to sell him the idea. He started laughing and jumping about and immediately got all excited.

Then he relayed my proposition to his girl, and she reacted with shock and retreated into her shell and said nothing.

“Look, if my suggestion will cause any jealousy or ill feeling, just tell me, and I’ll take off. But if you would like to join me and come to a party being given by a close friend, an important politician from Albany, you can think about it.

“If you like the idea, we’ll take it from there. If you don’t, then you can leave from the party.”

At the horny boyfriend’s urging they both joined me. His name was Marvin, hers was Lisa, and they had been dating each other for about two years, although both were married to different partners.

We stayed at the party a couple of hours, during which I took every opportunity to turn Lisa on. And the way you can turn a woman on, or at least tell if she is a sexual type, is to stroke the inside of her arms, or in her hair, or on the back of her neck. If you are sitting down at a table, you can reach down and stroke behind her legs. A sensual woman always reacts to this.