“Going to the Wall,” we called it, and there quickly developed an entire protocol of behavior for how to do it in company. Never look at anybody else’s screen. Never hoot if no cash was forthcoming. This last part did not ever, ever happen to me. Previously, when dinner was over and all the money was gone, we would just head for home, get in the limo and glide back to our beds. With the advent of the ATM, there was never an end to cash and, instantly, never an end to the list of skinny guys in walkups one could call to pick up a gram or two. Sometimes, a party would gather. On other, better nights, beautiful women and wonderful boys would follow me home in about equal measure, for lines on the mirror and up the nose and eighteen-year-old single malt down the throat and eventually, bed at dawn, our beautiful, naked bodies sliding softly against one another, powdery and dry. Death hung over us all, and sex was heaven, eros and thanatos in equal measure.
