I admire people who peel the world with their fingers, like a glowing orange dripping juice. Imagine my delight when Mrs. Evans performed a seductive dance for me to Lou Reed’s ode to sado-masochism.

“Won’t you please treat me like a slut?” my married lover asked, after discarding all clothing.

I mentally fondled the question for a second.

“Yes,” I said, and quickly abandoned my dark blue suit jacket and removed my leather belt.

The inimitable, 40-something British expatriate always made me aroused, regardless of her state of dress. The full-figured brunette had great legs and exuded sex appeal and unpredictability. To me, she was a beauty but I was initially smitten when I talked to her. She possessed an inventive and disordered brilliance that never turned on itself.

I met Mrs. Evans a few months ago at a Tokyo gallery opening on the chic Omotesando Dori, a road in Harajuku often compared to the Champs-Élysées. It was early that evening when I watched her husband plant a platonic kiss on her cheek. “I love you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a departures announcer at Heathrow airport.

As a fugitive from boredom, I knew Mrs. Evans was weary of respectability and welcomed some classy debauchery. Who wants to go through life in marital dishonesty with a scholarly subspecialty in Anais Nin?

My paramour’s wealthy husband was notoriously and fantastically unpleasant. With a heedless wit dipped in vitriol, the porcine man just plain sucked the air out of any party. Considered by many to be a filthy shitweasel, he was often reduced to adolescent self-pity and rapt, neurotic jabber.

At the end of day, after a heroic consumption of whiskey, this fatuous character wheezed on the leather sofa of their ritzy third-floor Hiroo apartment in Shibuya-ku, while zebras leaped across the TV screen.

In Mrs. Evan’s company, my raison d’etre was to excavate the decadent soul that lurked beneath a decorous facade. Her husband made love to her, but I fucked her.

Our private time together was rationed carefully; we wanted to countermand the ennui beyond our closed society. To help set the tone, we listened to jazz from the golden age of brothel music. Her husband had an extensive collection.

“You like it dirty,” I said, as I squeezed her taut nipples.

“Stop teasing,” she said, “and fuck me.”

“You know what must be done first.”

“Yes.”

So my married lover dropped to her knees obediently and performed fellatio before a large exposed window. The chaotic cityscape of Tokyo was compelling; besides, I wanted other degenerates to enjoy our spectacle.

Whether writing, falling in love, or pursuing furtive sex, I like doing it with intensity because I’m always looking for the next hit.

Continued …

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