Whitney keeps me occupied every Sunday morning.

She lives upstairs from me, and from the moment the newspaper hits our front stoop, I am hers to use as she wants to use. To punish and play with. Those are the rules that Whitney set up when we initially got together, and I wouldn’t change our relationship for anything.

The first thing I do is make her breakfast. I know exactly what she likes and how she likes it: fruit salad, fresh coffee, a hot buttered scone. Then hot-buttered me. So to speak.

We didn’t meet in any traditional sense. There was no dinner and a movie. One morning, I simply brought her newspaper up to her door. I’d seen her in the building, but I hadn’t had the balls to make a move. She was too sleek, too pretty, too…

“Early,” she... Read More