Liberty Inn

Some face-slapping, some rope, a mirrored ceiling, and a lot of orgasms.

Tamora tells me she’s not ambivalent about me, but something’s going on because she cancels the vast majority of our dates. This one, though, she didn’t cancel. Thankfully.

Rose and I check into the Liberty Inn, Room 101, past the bullet-proof glass and the vending machine selling condoms and M&Ms.

A fantasy sketch I wrote the day of my date with Véronique — a little study in anticipation, control, and a blue Honda with the engine running.

Véronique was kind enough to leave out some details. I’m not that kind.

When I wrote this discussion of a GQ profile of Deen, we didn’t know him to be a rapist. Or at least, a poor handler of a rape accusation.

A budget midtown hotel where you can rent a room by the hour — and where every detail reminds you that’s exactly what you’re doing.

At the Liberty Inn, everyone you pass in the hall knows exactly what you just did — and there’s something liberating about that.