“Yes, niggah. And because of your fine performance on the hardwood, I’m gonna give you an opportunity to express your hard wood. You feel me?”

“Oh shit.”

“Yes, niggah. Oh shit.”

Walter and I had been friends some fifteen years. With admiration and envy, I’d watched (and sometimes helped) his rise from movie novice to edgy low-budget film producer to Hollywood hack capable of making $20 million jammies. Along the way Walter developed an amazing skill for orchestrating nontraditional, multi-partner sex. Just as Walter had a knack for finding the right young director to give voice to black rage and humor, the man had a gift for plucking the inner freak out of otherwise seemingly conventional women. I’d seen him fuck models in Porto Sans in Bryant Park and entice the collegiate daughters of potential investors back to his crib. I’d also received a few three A.M. phone calls from my stoned friend in some posh hotel with the voices of many women groaning in the background.

As a pop music journalist now turned screenwriter, I’d bedded my share of singers, models, actresses, and wannabe stars. Yet, in all my years in the entertainment game, I’d never followed Walter’s lead and indulged in orgies. There seemed something, well, unsanitary about more than one person penetrating a woman at the same time. Two dicks in the bed, in my opinion, meant two testicles too many.

A couple of girlfriends had suggested we add another woman to the mix, but I’d declined. I think of myself as a one-on-one kind of guy. Yes, I’d cheated on women—sainthood was not my destination—but to me sex demanded full concentration and abandonment into the depths of a woman’s body and soul. I simply didn’t believe I could split my focus and be a good lover. But, yes, of course I was curious. And I already knew I desired Beatrice and that she desired me.

“Come correct,” Walter said a half hour later as the cab stopped in the East Village in front of Bowery Bar. “I know you’re new to this orgy game, but it’s never too late to learn. That’s why I love this city. It’s never too late in New York, niggah.”

Inside, a huge TV screen set up in the back of the restaurant was projecting the interminable pregame hype that hard-core football fans savored. A few of the mostly male downtown-hipster crowd were making wagers on the Titans versus the Rams. Thankfully, instead of sports chatter, light R & B was playing as the commentator’s words ran across the bottom of the screen. However, if you looked to the right of the screen, there was a much better show under way.