I was there Saturday night. (No, I did not pay the 5,000 bucks for my seat that some did. My buddy Jilly invited me.) Took the subway up, took the subway back. Longest game in World Series history. Came draggin' home around 2:30 in the morning feeling like somebody who's been screwing nonstop for five hours and then finally comes and it feels so good. In case you didn't hear, the Yankees won.

How good was it? As we arrived, brilliant light drenched a mob scene in center field. The night air was a summertime sultry. Cameras bobbed, cops and security guys squinted and the Mets, dressed in their away black jerseys, lobbed practice balls into the stands. The place was jumpin' like a convention of speed freaks. Everyone watchin' everyone else while the field guys raked and fluffed the trippy green grass and unsealed the pitcher's mound.

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In the darkness, I can reach over and touch her warm skin, running my fingertips over the fuzz of her arm, the satin of her belly. She won't always be warm and neither will I. If it all works out as planned, we will spend eternity about 4 feet apart, locked in a box and buried. I won't be able to reach over to her then.

Aging and the arrival of children have hurtled us into the future. We hang on to each other in awe of the unfolding drama. But there are other things, too, that prove the passing years: the accumulation, the frenzy of nest building in the early days. Lamps and rugs and appliances. Knickknacks and apparel and books.

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Oh, I dunno, maybe two, three, sometimes four times a week. Before we go to bed.

Nah, never. Only queers jerk-off.

Well, usually we watch a little TV. Have a little snack, some Hdagen-Dazs or Sara Lee. Watch Jay Leno. Then we uh, you know, do it.

Well, usually I get, you know, undressed, brush my teeth. Wash my face. I think it's important that you, you know, try to make an effort. And then, you know, since she's a woman, she spends about a half-hour in there putting on all those lotions and things, while I lay around in the bedroom. Sometimes, I'll put something sexy on the VCR. A porno. Gets me in the mood, you know?

What kind? The kind where they screw each other's brains out. I like the ones where the chick is on the bottom and her boobs are shaking up and down. I'm not really into any of that kinky stuff. Boobs, I like boobs.

Then? Then we do it. Well, she comes into the bedroom, usually with a sexy smile on her face like she's happy to see me. I got her this great nightie for her birthday and sometimes she wears that. Or just nothing, you know? And she lies on the bed and I you know, play with her tits for a while, kiss her, all that shit. Sometimes she blows me. If it's New Year's or something like that, we might be a little shit-faced. And then we do it.

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Now my book had come out and I was doing the book-signing tour. And here they came, the true believers, standing patiently in line as if trying to show their devotion to the cause of romance. Blond ones, brunets, redheads. All the little pretties I could never get back when I was 50 pounds overweight and lacked contact lenses. They had read my book, they knew my soul, or thought they did, and now they were lined up, breathlessly waiting to meet me, the author of their deepest fantasies. One by one they approached, barely able to meet my eyes. Passing notes, shyly asking for inscriptions, fluttering, biting lower lips, patting their hair.

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Redheads are always a little crazy. But that makes sex even more upside-down and inside-out. Which is a good thing. She had a habit of kicking my buns with her heels when I was in her, as if nudging me in a little deeper. She had a habit of scratching and biting.

Some people scream, some people shout, some people don't say anything. She would simply whisper in my ear, "Fuck me. Your dick is so big!" I'd look to see if she was laughing, but she wasn't.

The laugh was what made it all great. The laugh, that never departed, no matter where we were. It said "Joy. Joy. Joy." And joy is good. I live for joy.

I don't ski Black Diamond. In fact, I don't ski at all. And if I were ever able to scale a rock face with my bare hands, I'm sure that halfway up, I would freeze and they'd have to call in the medevac helicopter. Even if I were only 20 feet off the ground.

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I was in the library, slumped in one of those oversized chairs designed specifically for napping. I was trying to cram "Weimar Culture" into my numb brain and couldn't do it. I kept looking up at her, across the way, looking so perfect. If I remember correctly she was pre-med, studying large molecules. We had run into each other in class a hundred times, had talked at parties. And now here we were, breathing the same dead bookish air.

I suggested we take a break and get coffee downstairs at the dumb vending machines. As we sipped the sour fluid, barely speaking, we could smell the spring air leaking in from a propped-open exit door. Spring was out there, beckoning. And I had my own apartment. We walked out, young enough to convince ourselves that we were seriously planning to go to my place and hit the books.

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On occasion I have had girlfriends. Girls can be very persuasive, especially where I work. They ask me first of all if I'm married. Then they check out if I'm gay. Then if I've got a steady girlfriend. And then they move in on me.

I find myself, you know, on dates. Going to movies and things. And you'd think that a nervous, semi-impotent, premature-ejaculating guy like me would never get anywhere with women. I'm not even particularly good-looking. I'm too skinny and a little too tall. I don't have any muscles and my pot belly has gotten pretty big. But they don't care.

Last week was pretty typical. I end up going to see the "Star Wars" prequel with this girl from shipping. And she's nice. I mean, I wished I wasn't so nervous so I could stop worrying about what a lousy sex partner I am so I could enjoy her company. But it's like clockwork. I don't have to do anything. She invited me over to her house after the movie. And even though I broke out in a cold sweat, one thing led to the next.

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Nursing a Dr Pepper, I wander. Every room I go in, people are fucking. Or they're just naked and talking, like they just fucked. Some are slow-dancing, cheek to cheek. I'm thinking, I only have one or two loads here, better find somebody I like. So I'm sniffing all over the place.

Which is cool with everybody, because they're all exhibitionists. I mean, why would they be at an orgy if they weren't, right? And then I see this skinny chick with kind of saggy large breasts walking through the kitchen. Not the kind of person I would date or chase, but I like her eyes. I wouldn't mind finding out what she feels like. So I start following her around from room to room. She's playing hard to get, but I know she's interested. And then I lose her.

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In the swarming streets, people pass me over. Tall white guy, they know who I am. They've seen me or someone like me a thousand times. I'm as predictable as a macaque monkey, with double the sex drive. Getting near me is nothing but trouble.

I drop a coin in the bowl of the beggar squatting before a large Buddha decorated with bits of gold leaf and spent incense sticks. Sewage gas threads the haze of the leaded exhaust fumes, the sky darkens. Like angry bees, the mopeds buzz past, driven with the determination possessed by those who have nowhere to go.

Me, I'm in no hurry. I'm going to get what I want. I take dinner down by the water under a string of colored Christmas lights. No waitresses, only waiters. I perversely ask for chopsticks, because the locals never use 'em. While I wait for my food, I notice another occidental at a corner table and he's got his lady already. He's lecturing her and she's nodding, because of course she doesn't understand more than two words of what he's saying. I sip my beer and he glances over without any concession that we are members of the same club.

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So I'm hanging out in this shithole nightclub. Dark, smelly, everything stinks of stale alcohol and tobacco products. The college morons are sniffing drugs and trying to pick up girls wearing Wonderbras and thongs. And I'm just wandering through. Not even wasted, just immersed in my self-loathing.

I pass this gaggle of idiots who are teasing two model wannabes, or maybe they were models -- who can tell anymore? I don't even glance at the girls, not a sliver of a glance. I had already checked them out from 20 feet away and fuck me if I'm going to give them the satisfaction of looking at 'em. But I knew one of them was checking me out as I passed by.

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I suck a little red flower back into the milky barrel of the works so I know I'm in the right place, and then I slip the tie off my arm and push the plunger and, wow, I'm coming, you know? Not really. I don't come in my pants, I come in my mind. All over. It's so strong, I almost think I'm going to throw up, like when you go over the top on the Ferris wheel. I can taste the dead poppies in my mouth. Behind my knees and in my stomach for sure.

After the first rush, I boot it. Pull that blood back up into my works, and then back out into my vein again. Back and forth. Don't know why it feels so good, but it's just like I just came and I still have a bit of a woody and I'm sliding on the love juice. Boot back and forth until I start to nod. Sometimes I nod with a syringe full of blood. It's so much like coming, you don't have to come anymore.

Read No. 23

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It turns out that her shoulder muscle's tight and I have this special massage I learned from somebody, who learned it from a shiatsu master. Uh-huh. So how long does it take to go from A to B? Five minutes? We're kissing, rolling around on the floor on the gym mat, and she's got that funky aroma from working out all morning. Which I like a lot. I lick her armpits; she bites right into my neck. I'm rubbing her so hard with my crotch that the zipper of my Levi's is digging a blister into my dick. Finally, that's enough. I pull up my T-shirt and pull her leotard top down, so we're skin to skin, nipple to nipple. The film of sweat makes the electricity between us tingle. She has sweat pants on over her leotard, so I just pull off the pants and push the crotch of the leotard to one side.

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But the best ride of all was this black lady in a big fuckin' Caddy on the turnpike outside New York. When I slid into the front, she tossed me a bag of grass and said, "We roll." And I was hip. Two hours later, we're sailing down a no-name country road in Pennsylvania -- signs all over the place saying things like "Real Amish Homestyle Cooking" and "Dutch Antiques." We found a dead road that snaked into a tangle of old woods and parked.

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I was on a mission. Find something longer than it was wide. Door handle, no good. Bicycle pump, too painful. Small vase, too wide. And then I remembered: old faithful ... vegetation. I mean, you really have to wonder why God made all these vegetables in the forms they take. And indeed, I was in luck: A bag of organic carrots was nestled behind a six-pack of soy milk on the bottom of the fridge. I selected a nice thick one and I was all set. A little vaseline daubed on for comfort and uhhhhhh! rock 'n' roll!

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I've figured it out, from the size of this facility there must be about 300 of us here. And from talking to the guards I've estimated there are about 20 places like this around the world. But that's it. Twenty times 300. That's all that remains. Six thousand men remaining in the whole world. Of course they could always make more of us if they wanted. But they don't. Only if one of us dies do they let another baby boy evolve. And they've got enough sperm frozen and saved to handle the next 50 years. So they don't even need us. Any time they want they can grow a new group of dicks to milk. But I guess it's a tradition they're fond of. So here I am, a sperm cow. Twice a day, every day, morning and night. I don't even fantasize anymore. I just get hard the minute they screw the metal clamps around my penis. My body just wants to get it over with. The faster the better. Spew the load and unlock. Go back to my Internet chess game and jigsaw puzzles. And sometimes I wonder. What would it have been like to actually do it with a woman? Not that I'd ever want to.

Read No. 19

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Next morning we get up and I say, "That was nice." And she says, "What?" And I say, "You know, last night." And she says, "I don't know what you're talking about." And that was it. She left about two hours later. Never saw her again.

Read No. 18

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Around 4 in the morning, my buddies are getting into it. They've discovered craps and they're all geniuses. So I'm off to one side, drinking a Virgin Mary, feeling like an idiot, chewing on the celery, wondering if it's too early to call my wife in Toms River, N.J. And this girl sidles up to me. I have to admit, it took me a second to figure it out. I mean, I'm not ignorant, I know there are hookers in Vegas. But she looked so, I don't know, collegiate. Young.

She had no mascara on, no sequins, no feather boa. I guess I thought that's what hookers looked like in Vegas, you know, showgirls. But this girl was simply beautiful in a Victoria's Secret kind of way. I could hardly look her in the eyes. I don't know how else to explain it -- she was like someone I could fall for.

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Place is dark and empty. They're getting ready to close and there's a woman at the bar, long blond-y kind of hair, I can't see her face. I order a whiskey and slide in next to her. In the shadows I still can't see her face, who cares. By the very fact that I'm sitting next to her at 3 a.m., it is understood by both of us that I am picking her up. We don't even have to talk. We just drink the hooch, sitting next to each other. I pull out my smokes, she has one. That's the extent of the courtship. Fuck it. It's 3:05 in the morning. I still haven't looked at her, I just say out of the side of my mouth: "Let's go." So we do. I get out my key with the diamond-shaped red plastic tag and shuffle over to my cubicle and fumble it open. As I go through the door, I can feel her shadowing me. In the dark, still no talking, we start groping and jostling, clothes kind of getting pulled off and saliva around the edges of our lips and grunting and we're stumbling around because we're both so drunk we can't stand up straight. I'm so numb I can't smell her breath or taste her. I'm thinking, I don't care what she looks like, let's get it over with and crash. So I grope my way into the bathroom to piss. Lunge into the wall, my face scrunched into the icy ceramic tile, pissing straight down into the bowl. One of those pisses where you black out while you're pissing. I come out of it and I haven't closed the door and the light is falling out of the doorway onto the bed. She's nude, lying there on the bed and she looks different somehow. Softer. I focus on getting my clothes off, almost barfing on my shoes as I hold myself steady at the end of the bed and for the first time I see that she's old. Real old. Like 80 at least. I thought she felt kind of bony and shaky back there. I thought she was just out of shape. Not only is she old, but she's turned on. She's up for this. And I'm standing there, looking down on her balding pubic mound, fuck it. And I start to pull on my dick. Figure I'll just jerk off or something. Maybe I'll actually fuck her, a new experience. But as my dick grows harder (believe it or not) her eyes grow bigger. It's like she hasn't see a hard-on for the last quarter century. And she starts breathing real hard. She gets really turned on. She's rubbing herself staring at my dick. And I'm talking to myself, "Get me out of here, God. Please. I'll never do anything bad again, just get me out of this. I really don't want to have sex with grandma." And just at that moment, for some reason, I start to come. Long ropy spurts, all over her and she sees what's happening and starts to fidget more frantically, like some kind of Saint Vitus' dance and this orgasm or something tears through her and then she stops moving. I'm barely standing. But then I look up and see that she's completely immobile. And I think, oh great, she's dead, I came and she went. I wiped myself off, then I checked her pulse. And she was dead. And I was so out of it, I passed out next to her. In the morning, I woke up, and she was all stiff. I felt like someone had taken an electric can opener and was cutting my brain up with it. I left.

Needless to say, I don't pick up people in bars anymore.

Read No. 16

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And now here I am in the bathroom in the middle of the night, pondering my penis. I look around like I'm not sure where I am. There's the wrinkled-up tube of Crest. There's the melting bar of soap, and the little crocheted toilet paper cover that doubles as a dress for a little Barbie doll. And there's this stuff on my hand. Is this it? Is this cum? Am I a man now, finally? Yech! Better wash it off. Phew. Guess I should go back to bed. Maybe I'll have another dream like that.

Read No. 15

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So to make a long story short, I get up in the morning and my balls are so blue I almost can't walk. And she's sleeping and I want to just slip it into her right there and not even wake her. But let's face it, that's not going to happen. So I do what I have to do. Get in that shower, soap it up and pound it. Pound it fast and pound it sure. Get that release. Squeeze those little critters out of my third leg and onto the wall. If you catch my drift. It's like blowing my nose, or like getting an enema. I mean it's something I have to do in the morning, or I'm no good at work all day. It's a health thing.

Read No. 14

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