Extracts from the book


published by Emery Dalton Books
1110 Camino del Mar, Suite C, DelMar, CA 92014

Bill loved to jog in the morning, and it was an easy way to get out of the mansion without arousing suspicions. He would jog just over a mile to my place, spend a half hour or so making love to me, then have his driver drop him off a block or two from the mansion, and he would jog the rest of the way. Then he would show up at the home properly out of breath. I liked to joke with him that after running all the way to my place he wouldn't have the energy to make love; he gladly proved me wrong again and again.

Laughter was always a big part of our relationship, so we had fun creating pet names for our private parts as well. I called mine "Precious," and his penis was "Willard." "Why Willard?" I asked him. "Because I always liked that name," he said. "You know, Willard for Willy!" And you know, it kind of had a Willard-like personality. Talking with each other so intimately and with gentle humor only added to our sexual pleasure.

When Bill would call me on the telephone, I knew immediately if other people were in the room with him, because the first thing he would ask was, "How are the girls?" I would laugh, knowing he was referring to my breasts. And I would respond in kind, "Fine. How're the boys?" referring to his testicles. It was our way of saying something intensely private to each other in a very public setting.

Just about anything Bill did was okay with me. I wasn't about to criticize him for fear of creating distance between us. so when he casually put his hand in his pants pocket and puled out a joint one night, I was startled but kept silent. I thought how foolish it was of him to carry marijuana around, but it was typical of his bulletproof attitude. He felt comfortable enough to continue smoking marijuana occasionally when he was with me. I didn't object. By the way, he most certainly did inhale.

I never saw him use cocaine, but he talked about it. He complained about how cocaine really had a bad effect on him. It didn't stop him from using it, though. He told me about a party he had been to, and said, "I got so fucked up on cocaine at that party." He said it made his scalp itch, and he felt conspicuous because he was talking with people who were not aware drugs were at the party, and all he wanted to do was scratch his head. He was afraid if he continued to walk around scratching his head, people would think something more serious than dandruff was going on with him.

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