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I was a kept man

To the beautiful woman at Bar 13, I probably looked like any other Brooklyn, N.Y., scenester in the winter of 2004: tight jeans, shaggy hair and a pale complexion. She sidled up beside me on the black banquette and chatted me up over blaring rock music. Self-deprecating flirtation turned to drink buying as we made grandiose pronouncements about politics and punk rock. She had majored in literature but was now living in Williamsburg and commuting to New Jersey three times a week to strip. She certainly looked the part. I was instantly attracted to her, and she knew it.

We had our first kiss in a dark corner. Before long, we were flying down the stairs of the club and climbing into the back of a cab. Within 30 minutes we would be back at her house for hours of groping and tussling, but when I asked the cabbie to pop the trunk, she asked, “What is that big, green bag you’re carrying?” I looked at my feet and confessed.

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