Corey drank his fill from the river of life. With each new experience as a dominant came new revelations about
the true diversity of inner lives. He was a student all over again, thriving on complex power dynamics, eager to
forge new pathways to emotional fulfillment and to indulge even the strangest requests. He abandoned his
foolishly rigid notions of right and wrong about sex. There were only things that lifted a person up and things
that kicked them down. He chose to lift his clients high and to let each success motivate him to accept himself
with the same kindness he showed them.
Stan was a short, wiry guy with styled and sprayed, dyed blond hair that glistened over his bald spots. He wore a baby blue jacket and a white shirt with too many open buttons. If you were following him down the street, you’d notice that his shoe heels were unusually high. It gave his gait an odd aspect as if he was playing kick the invisible can. If you were to look inside the shoes, you’d realize there were lifts in addition to the heels.
Stan was not tall in height, but he was in tales. He was a salesman who had relentlessly honed his skills in front of the mirror in what he called “my bachelor pad.” It was a modest but tidy, boring, yet cozy apartment in an undistinguished, yet respectable white building on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. It had a lovely, glittering lobby...