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Arnold was in psychoanalysis at the time, as were most of his comrades—lapsed communists with successful fur businesses, screenwriters who yearned to write novels, and admen who wished they were artists. These were the days before pharmacological fixes, so no one had any choice but to talk and talk…

[...] This is how the memoir describes our first vacation:

We traveled from motel to boggy motel, each a damp block or two from the gray Pacific. Most of the rooms had yellow blinds or yellow curtains, a trick to make the weary traveler believe every morning is filled with sunny skies and brig…

When I was not learning about fellatio from Arnold, I was sleeping on my father’s side of the bed. The memoir never mentions the unresolved Oedipus complex or any other daddy issues. To mention the Oedipus complex, I believed, would have been stating the obvious, an insult to the reader who might n…

A forty-seven-year-old art teacher mailing a love letter in the guise of an educational solicitation to his teenage student is creepy—more than creepy, sinister. Yet the memoir treats the episode comically, a missive between star-crossed lovers.

(Sinister or amusing? There are three Jills weighi…

I was the only sugar baby I knew who lived with a sugar daddy without sugar.