Chapter One

You wonder how these things begin… how getting innocently drunk for a weekend and a day could land me in a man’s beach house, unknowingly, or at least half knowingly, married to a stranger. I suppose some events take flight, have a life of their own that surpasses any conscious choice or specific plans. In my life, I’ve merrily made major decisions without thinking of the consequences—lose one lover, fuck the next, floating from job to job—taking off on my whim of the week. Change was bred into my nature at birth, as though I answer the call of some pagan cycle of seasons, or respond to the planets. My bones cry out for something new and I reply, without realizing what I’m doing till I’m in the middle of a new life I’ve only half-consciously created.

This time, however, I was sideswiped by the devil, or perhaps he is a saint… or maybe he is just an ordinary guy who I met under very extraordinary circumstances. Whatever, the result is still the same. I got caught intoxicated, forced to face a whole lot more than I ever envisioned my life to include. The way I lived with such loose standard operating procedures, I should have expected something this bizarre to take hold of me… at least I could have had fair warning about the twisted subject matter of my latest escapades. But I didn’t.

I can trace the beginnings of this great charade to Walker Livingston Cameron, III. If you think his name sounds snooty, you’re right on target. Walker Cameron perfected button-down and wing-tipped, as though it were a science. Could put his nose in the air faster than a tea-totaling librarian. There was always a comb in his back pocket just in case of windy days. I always thought his hair looked better blown apart by a good ocean breeze, but Walker had no use for the invigorating effect of ocean breezes, or the ocean for that matter: too windy, too foggy, too wet, too dirty, too risqué. He never said so in so many words, but every nervous twitch of his firm jaw suggested the fact every time I suggested we go to the beach.

Walker was supposed to be an in-between lover—in-between Rock Hartaway and whoever was next. But our sojourn together lasted much too long to be considered a brief fling. As a lover, you can’t say that Walker was boring. What his button-down life lacked in real adventure, he made up for with his creative sexual juices, which were always on alert for some kinky way to spend a night.

He was the first of my lovers to talk me into the trench coat fantasy—I dress in garter belt, stockings and bra, a pair of impossible high heels and wear nothing but a trench coat over my body when I pick him up at a busy airport. I giggled when he suggested the scheme. He was on his way home from Dallas, stopping in Denver, a pretty circuitous way back to L.A., but he didn’t have much choice. I was due at LAX at midnight to retrieve him from the hellhole of that sleazy airport. In Walker’s mind, airports were as bad as slums for seedy atmosphere; but LAX seemed to piss him off the most, probably because it was his final destination at least twice a week.

Walker’s sexual suggestions were more like orders, especially when his voice was hushed and low, and his call took on X-rated overtones. With the next breath, I expected to hear him panting heavily. I visualized his hand placed over his fully erect penis, j