To be a rock star — or to even want to be a rock star — you have to have an exhibitionistic streak. Let me make it clear right off that I am not a rock star. Once I was in a band, but we never signed with a label, never put out an album. We were purely a local club band, playing garage-level rock.

But we were pretty good, and I got some great sex out of it.

One night stood out in particular. It was after a set at a club, and we’d all tumbled back to somebody’s house for a party. I went upstairs with a feisty woman with a pink mohawk and a studded dog collar. She’d seen us play and really wanted to show me how much she’d liked our music.

The bed in the room was so covered with coats that we stripped and hit the carpeted floor. She was a hot thing, wriggling and writhing... Read More