In the 1970s, I was the poster girl for multiculturalism.
My curiosity was boundless; my lovers came from all the over world.
The Jewish cosmetic dermatologist, Alan, whose bedroom and bathroom walls were completely covered in mirrors, including the ceilings. He dated mostly models, and his sister acted as his personal maid. She cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed the living room, while we fucked in the bedroom. Alan and I met at a party given by a German doctor, whose Chinese butler hit the bottle sometimes…once he put cherry tomatoes in the fruit salad!
When he served dinner, his face turned bright red and he merrily chuckled.
Joshua, the married Zionist, who criticized the way I dressed; he said I was always so buttoned up. Too conservative.
If you want Las Vegas, go to Las Vegas! And he was so cheap!
He was involved in all sorts of political organizations and would get discounts on rooms at the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue. We were not allowed to lie on the sheets because the rooms supposedly were used only for meetings. We had to lie on top of the bedspread.
He was impotent and insisted on masturbating above my stomach. When it was time to go home, he always told the taxi driver to drop him off first (we lived about ten blocks from each other).
He would give me a few bucks for the taxi—never enough to cover the bill and the tip.
[Men who are stingy with money are equally stingy with emotion. Stay far away from them!]
Whenever we lay on top of the hotel bedspread, I thought about my former Greek husband who insisted that bedspreads in hotels were always filthy. He also had a fetish about library books; he would never touch a library book. Dirty pages! And he wasn’t talking about pornography!
Jesus, the Puerto Rican, who was an honors student at Columbia University and had won a full scholarship, lived in International House. His room was about seven feet by four feet.
He taught me how to carry my purse in bad neighborhoods. We spent a lot of time in a bar on West End Avenue and in his tiny single bed.
Gordon, the African-American professor of African studies at Hunter College. He was from Tanzania. His perfect classic features made him look like an Indian maharajah. All he needed was a jeweled turban to complete the picture.
Leon, the investment banker, who stacked towels beside the bed because he sweated so much during sex.
An ex-girlfriend called him Skunk, not because of body odor, but because of his hairy chest, which was all dark hair except for a white streak exactly in the middle of his chest, as though it were a precise guideline for open-heart surgery.
At Christmas, even though he was Jewish, he recycled the holiday cards that he’d received; he crossed out the greeting and signature of others and sent them to his lovers and business associates!
In his den, he had an oil painting of a naked man chasing another on a football field; the chaser had an enormous erection.
He was 48 years old and still desperately in love with his mother. The initials for his company were M.O.M. He was a creative and ruthless businessman. Made a fortune on Wall Street.