"Now this -- this is for next summer. It's a linen blend. See? Very light. I'm doing a line of women's suits in this -- it doesn't wrinkle but you can't tell it's a blend."

I was charmed by the obvious love Nat still has for his business after so many years -- the man is obsessed with fabric, with its nuances, especially those of the blends. If someone can find a way to sneak in a bit of synthetic without coarsening the entire effect, he takes a personal pride in the affair.

He took my finger and rubbed the tip against the pale fabric as I nestled half-naked in his lap. "Now feel the difference between this," he said, showing me a plaid wool square, "and this," showing me another. "It's much softer, isn't it?"

"But this is not," I said playfully, pressing my hip against his erection.

"With you in town, a guy doesn't need Viagra," he remarked. "Look -- no tan lines!" He pulled his bikini briefs down to demonstrate.

"I hope you're not taking Viagra," I said, frowning. I suddenly remembered a news report -- apparently, a working girl in Taiwan shot a Viagra-crazed john just to stop him from fucking her! But I didn't mention this to Nat, who had put his swatches aside -- to display his outsized raw material. If there's one guy who should NOT be pumped up with Viagra, it's Nat. He is so large, he would be a menace if he lasted for too long.

"So far, so good," he told me. "Knock wood!"

I led him by the hand to his bedroom, where I had placed a small tube of K-Y and a lambskin condom under his pillow. Lambskin is the only kind that fits him.

When Nat had reached his hardest, I slid the condom on and placed his cock between my thighs, up against my pussy lips, where the slippery material helped considerably. I never can figure out whether Nat knows he's not inside -- he comes so fast that it's hard to tell, and this painless accommodation of his oversized erection has become a local tradition.

When Jasmine first sent me to Nat three years ago, she said: "He's really big but you don't have to put it in. He just comes between your thighs." Once, in a retrospective mood, Nat began talking about his marriage. "I can't understand how I managed to father three kids," he told me. What exactly did that mean? Not enough sex? Or did his wife practice the same technique, perhaps?

"Is it supposed to be in?" has become one of the many impolite questions that never gets asked. At 75, Nat reminds me of a child who might, for all we know, be pretending to believe in Santa Claus -- but might not.

Liane has asked me to see Bert again -- that guy from Boston who thought I was turning my first trick. "Now just remember -- this is supposed to be your second time," she reminded me. "Don't wear anything obvious and remember you should still act nervous."

Tuesday, September 21

Last night, after leaving Liane's, I took a short stroll up Madison. The avenue was a ghost of its daytime self, reminding me of my first months in Manhattan when I worked mostly at night -- not like now. For the first year, I never saw Central Park in daylight -- I liked having a reason to taxi through the park late at night, and I often did ...

It was startling to have these bittersweet thoughts interrupted as I neared the darkened headquarters of Ralph Lauren. Exiting from the church next door, Jasmine was talking in a low voice to a tall, fair man in his 40s -- quite good-looking, in a corduroy jacket. The sort of guy who makes you look twice, despite yourself. He glanced at me with a twinkling eye, then turned back to Jasmine, who gently touched his arm and drew him closer, ignoring me. Could this be ... it must be! -- a sexaholics meeting? Was that a male sex addict's compulsive flirtation I had just experienced?

I took note of the bland faces spilling out onto the pavement. Jasmine and her mystery date were clearly the best-looking ones in the group. As I passed, Jasmine avoided me -- I was sure she spotted me, though -- and I couldn't help being struck by her gentle movements. In her efforts to snag a sex addict from the right ZIP code she was -- well, not exactly kittenish, but getting there. In deference to her discreet scam, I picked up my pace and kept walking.