“All art is the result of one’s having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke
My mother’s wedding night was a threesome: My mother, father, and Joe, an Episcopal priest, who was my father’s favorite lover. They were in Fairhope, Alabama, an artsy town on the Gulf.
No family members attended.
It was 1949.
My mother told me this when I was twelve years old. We were having dinner at Britling’s, the local cafeteria, in Memphis. I really liked their shredded carrots with raisins.
Weeks later in New York City, I lost my virginity to Noah—a not nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn—on a large, heated waterbed behind blood-red padded leather doors in a closed wing of Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital on First Avenue.
I was terrified, but just wanted to get it done.
My college roommate had nicknamed me: LVOC (last virgin on campus).
After fucking, Noah complained, “I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder.”
He had an amphetamine-addicted roommate who shared his East 24th Street apartment. Both were dental students at New York University and had easy access to the closed wing at Bellevue, the spooky, dark, gothic hospital for crazies.