It was a terrific restaurant in a spectacular location – New York's Grand Central Terminal, on a terrace overlooking the grand main waiting room. They had delicious shellfish and an ambiance that couldn't be beat (as compared to their competitor forty feet below, The Oyster Bar, which had – and still has – great shellfish, but the dank, timeless airlessness of a cavern – and waiters who seem to have been there forever). Metrazur also had something rare in New York: floor-to-ceiling doors in the stall in the men's room. (Don't be fooled by the link – it's closed now, soon to be replaced with a controversial Apple store.)
I had met her on OKCupid. She seemed to be playing out a sort of Catherine Millet-like fantasy of not saying no, to anyone. We had a torrid affair that stretched over a couple of months, and provided the first venue for me to examine – mindfully, under close observation – the impact of jealousy on me. Because I liked her, but I didn't love her, didn't need her – the stakes were low.
And our relationship incorporated her reports of her dates with others. She would forward me their OKC profiles; she would e-mail me descriptions of the things they had done. And I would simply burn. I would know when she was showering, primping for a date. When she was en route. When they were meeting for a drink. And when, likely, she was being plowed on a rooftop by some guy not me. And it was utterly consistent with our relationship. It was excruciating, but phenomenal. Oh, and the sex was awesome, too. She is multiply orgasmic, and often would cum eight or ten times at a time. There was nothing she wouldn't do (or at least, nothing I wanted to do that she wouldn't do).