The Best Sex I Ever Ate
It was the early 80s and I was living in an apartment in a trendy Chicago neighborhood called Rogers Park.
Popular with singles and families alike, Rogers Park, once a Jewish enclave, was then a melting pot of Indian and Asian restaurants, Irish bars, bagel joints, retail stores of all kinds and small, intimate “concert halls” that drew music lovers from all over the city.
Prior to permanently booking up with the guy who was to become my husband, I dated a series of “bad boys.” Dark. Brooding. Leather-jacket wearing dudes who had secrets that they were neither willing nor able to share.
There was one guy in particular, who I was wild about. He didn’t walk, he prowled.
On those nights when we met at our neighborhood watering hole, the mere sight of him coming through the door sent a shot of electricity straight to my groin.
A paramedic, my then paramour also worked security at Chicago’s popular Aragon ballroom.
Every now and then he’d let me accompany him and I’d watch the music while he bounced the assholes out of the club. I have to admit: It gave me a charge watching him drag out rowdy drunks and drugged-up concert-goers by their asses.
Somehow, he did it with finesse, and one night, while I had one eye on him and the other on the stage where Peter Frampton was performing, I got so worked up that I took a tumble down the stairs!
Luckily, I can take a fall.
Aside from his regular gigs, this guy also had his hand in some rather murky pies. I didn’t ask and he didn’t tell although I was aware that he carried a gun.
One night, I was fresh out of the shower and about to light a joint when there was a knock on my door. That damned entry door in our courtyard never did lock! Literally everyone was able to get in.
After asking who it was — I was a smart girl, after all — I opened the door and my heart jumped. There HE was, carrying a paper grocery bag.
He asked me if I’d had my dinner yet. I had not. To my complete surprise, he told me that he was going to cook for me.