When I pulled "Lady Chatterley's Lover" from my boyfriend's bookshelf I thought I was about to have a look at my first D.H. Lawrence novel. But what I was about to see was much more alarming. Behind the book was a videotape. It had no labeling and no packaging. "Could it be?" I wondered. Was this the "Katie" tape?

I knew this tape existed. Early in our relationship my boyfriend and I had had a conversation that involved the question "Have you ever videotaped yourself having sex?" He'd answered, "Yes, once, with Katie."

Katie had caused him equal amounts of pleasure and pain. He had described his relationship with her as both volatile and passionate. He told me he craved Katie from the moment he met her, while later admitting that it had taken him three or four dates to even notice what I looked like.

Though I'd never seen a picture of Katie, I'd imagined her to be beautiful and vibrant. In my mind she was the kind of woman who could stop traffic with her glowing skin, perfect body and flowing hair, the kind of woman who could bend any man to her will with ease. She was the kind of woman I would never be.

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