Memoir | Sex Slave: The Bank of New York

1988

It’s Saturday and Ira insisted we go to his new office. It is somewhat of a relief and somewhat of a put off because I know he wants to show off and possibly even have sex there. It’s like I don’t have any say in this game of his. I am on a moving train and I don’t even know who, if anyone, is behind the wheel. Is it Ira? Is it me? Is it someone else? I am clueless. Adrift somewhere in another dimension. I am free floating on the outskirts of his life. His office. His wife. His children. His business. His trips.

“I want, ahhh, your opinion on how it’s decorated. I love the conference table, but, ahhh, you tell me what you think.” We have been whatever it is we are since he found me last year and I have become accustomed to the way he peppers his words with “ahhs” as if he is catching his breath or thinking of what to say.

The elevator doors swing open on the 16th floor in a narrow commercial building along 57th Street not far from his old office at Trump Tower.

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