The Best Sex I Ever Ate
Some meals you never forget.
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.
