Back when we used to sleep around, we really got to know the city. Heading for a party, we'd throw into our leather bag the contact lens case, wetting solution, diaphragm or packet of Enovid, clean underwear, and money for cab fare home. Who knew where we'd spend the night? Who cared? If a guy was cute, funny, articulate, and had his own place—or at least his own room—we took a gamble. Morningside Heights, Greenwich Village, or the areas below Houston that didn't yet have names all harbored rumpled beds, instant coffee, and men—boys, really—with fuzz on their cheeks, little aluminum-foil packets of hash in their pockets, and irrepressible penises... More >>>