I’ve never thought of myself as a masochist. Before Tad, I simply considered myself used up. My metamorphosis began the night I met him, or rather, earlier that evening, at Peaches, a gentleman’s steakhouse and strip club on the Upper East Side.
Darrin, a Princeton friend and owner of Colliers, the successful boutique architectural firm where I worked, liked rare meat and big t**s. I was early for our dinner, so I stopped at a dive bar. I needed a scotch. My gut told me Darrin would fire me before dessert. Despite some early success as an architect, my work had becoming increasingly uninspired and at times downright sloppy. He kept me on out of friendship, and pity. After two scotches, I was ready to face him.
Peaches was down a narrow alley-like jag of 59th Street between First and Seco
