I have been a DJ for a Cleveland classic-rock station for eight years now.

I like the job, I like the city — it also helps that I like classic rock.

My first paid radio gig began a few years after college, and for the most part I’ve been at rock stations — classic and alternative. But for two years, in my early 30s, I hosted a Cleveland show I helped create called “Night Thoughts,” which aired on a talk-radio station.

Listeners didn’t call in like on the station’s other shows. People who wanted to be on “Night Thoughts” sent emails, and I read the ones I selected on the air. The show’s premise was pretty simple: people would share intimate feelings, dark secrets, existential woes — stuff too hot to divulge by phone. It aired midnight until 2 A.M., three nights a week.

To create enough content, and add variety, I also worked in relevant tidbits from pop culture and history, stuff having to do with confessions and indiscretions and kinks and other kinds of revelations. We aired brief audio clips from TV and movies revolving around same. I remember playing Bobby Vinton’s version of “Blue Velvet,” which went to No. 1 in 1963, and then talking about the David Lynch movie Blue Velvet. I even tried to get Dennis Hopper to call in and discuss his role in that movie (his character, Frank Booth, was the one with the fetish for touching blue velvet while inhaling nitrous oxide), but got nowhere.

At this time in my life I was having a lot of fun, partying when I could, not feeling ready to settle down. Around me, friends I’d known since high school were getting married and buying houses, but the idea of eyeballing carpet squares with my wife for an hour while a baby drooled on my shoulder just did not appeal.

One Wednesday afternoon, while reading through a bunch of show submissions, I found a confession from a woman who used the pseudonym “Lisa.” People submitted anonymously, using a box on our website, and we asked them to pick a pseudonym. I liked what Lisa had written, and I added it to my “Yes” pile.

That night, halfway though my shift, I read her submission on-air. I have a pretty mellow voice and personality in general, and it seemed to work for this show and its late hour.

“Okay, folks,” I said into the mic, “next up, a woman calling herself Lisa, and she — well, she’s taking us inside her boudoir. Lisa writes, ‘I love my husband, but it’s gotten so stale in bed. We’re college sweethearts. We got married in our early twenties. We have three kids and a great life, but lately, it’s felt more like good friends that share a bed. There’s no spark. My husband doesn’t know this, but I’ve started masturbating to other men. I think about other guys all the time. I feel guilty for it, but I also understand why this is happening. I’m even thinking of maybe looking beyond my marriage for some passion.”

Letter over, I said, “Hey, you wouldn’t mind a little” — and here I pushed one of my go-to sound-effect buttons, which made a sizzle sound — before adding, “We get it, Lisa. We get it. And do not for a moment think you’re the first married woman in need of a little” — I cued another sizzle. Then I said, “Good people of ‘Night Thoughts,’ we have our winner for a pair of tickets to see Def Leppard on the 23rd. It’s tonight’s top prize, winner selected at random, and I’m happy to say Lisa who needs some” — sizzle — “is headed to the Q!”

Two days later, on Friday afternoon, on my way out of the station building to grab a late lunch, I walked by the lobby desk just as a stunner of a woman, mid-40s, tight T-shirt, tight jeans, and wedge sandals, said to the receptionist, “Hi, I’m here to pick up some station tickets for NT114.” We coded the prize envelopes to preserve anonymity.

I had no idea who she was. I just knew she’d won something. But she recognized me, and caught up to me a few seconds later. “Hey, Jeremy,” she said. “I love your show.”

There was a brief pause, she looked at me with gorgeous green eyes, her expression turned mischievous, and she whispered, using air-quotes, “I’m Lisa.” A moment after that she held up the sealed envelope and said almost as softly, “Def Leppard. I’m excited.”

“Oh, wow, very cool. Thanks for listening. Good to meet you, Lisa,” I said, air-quoting the name. That’s all I had. Her breasts in the black tee were amazing, perfect cantaloupes. She had caramel hair that fell past her slim shoulders. Her legs were long, her waist small.

Then I just stood there, silent. Here I was, a professional yakker, at a loss for words.

“Hey, I don’t know how busy you are,” she said. “Any interest in a drink?”

I had interest. My next show was the following night, and I’d gotten most of my prep done already.

We went to a bar next door and ordered vodka sodas. I wouldn’t have minded if one of my station buddies had run into me sitting with this gorgeous MILF. I was single at the time, and I’d have had a story for them later, the way I met her. But it was just the two of us in a back corner, the light pretty low.

Her tongue was on my cock, her ass in my face, and we ended our marathon doing 69.

I heard about her marriage, about a lawyer husband who was in Atlanta for some kind of corporate merger, about her three boys, the youngest nine, all three at summer camp. It was obvious the husband raked it in, as they lived in a gated suburban community called Birch Hill.

As we talked about our lives, I thought of her listening to my late-night show — it was clear she did listen — in bed with the husband away, or curled up in a chair when this guy was home, asleep in their bed. I also thought about being in bed with her.

After she finished her third drink, Elizabeth — that was her real name — placed a manicured hand on my thigh, held my gaze, and said simply, “Do you want to come over?”

Barely 30 minutes later we were entering her large brick colonial at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac, the driveway entrance gated just like the entrance to Birch Hill. We’d held hands for part of the cab ride, but that was it. Still, I was out of my mind with anticipation, and had basically been hard ever since she touched my thigh.

Elizabeth led the way into a grand living room and asked if she could fix me a drink. “Sure,” I said. “Scotch on the rocks.” She came back with the whiskey and a glass of wine for herself, sat beside me on a couch, and we sipped our drinks as we talked and laughed, both of us pretty relaxed, considering the situation.

Then, without a word, she set the wine down, got on her knees before me, opened my jeans, and began to suck my dick. My head spun. Her mouth felt perfect. I touched her soft brown hair. I reached around her narrow ribcage and caressed her firm, fantastic tits. She cupped my balls, and her velvet tongue circled the head of my throbbing cock.

As I began to thrust into her mouth, she straightened up and in a few quick moves pulled off her snug T-shirt and large black bra, revealing round, lightly tanned D-cups that to me in that moment were the most beautiful breasts I’d ever seen.

She went back to my cock, driving me mad with her mouth, and then, as I got close, she looked up at me through her thick black lashes and said, “How do you want to fuck?”

I said the first thing that came into my mind: “Every way we can.” And that’s exactly what we did for the next hour.

Elizabeth was insatiable, and the rest of her body was as perfect as her tits. I can still play that hour back in my mind like a movie: her sexy flat stomach, her amazing ass as I screwed her from behind, those long thighs that I dipped between when I licked her shaved pussy, and that squeezed my sides as I fucked her on the couch.

Afterward, we lay side by side on the floor, wiped out, grinning, staring at the ceiling. More than once my hand drifted to those tits, and once again my cock would start to stir. I was so blissed out, I closed my eyes, and then moments later her tongue was on my cock again, her ass in my face, and we ended our marathon doing 69 until Elizabeth came with a wail.

We showered together, got dressed, and she called me a cab. I said, “So what are you doing tonight?” She smiled. “It’s a girls’ night, actually. More wine. Cheese. Talk.”

I said, “I’d love to go to the concert with you, but....” She’d already told me she wasn’t looking to have a full-blown affair, and couldn’t risk any more public meetings. But it turned out she was a legit Def Leppard fan, and she was going to take her best friend.

A few weeks later, on the 23rd, I was at the office, prepping for getting on the air at midnight. I pictured Elizabeth in black leather pants, stilettos — that’s what she said she’d wear to the show. I played some Def Leppard, and I remembered that heavenly time at the house in Birch Hill.