"Comin' along to the party tomorrow, aren't you?" Trudy asked, pressing her black spaghetti strapped crepe dress. Ann raised her head from the newspaper she was reading and studied her friend for a brief moment, thinking I wish I could be more like Trudy, so free and aggressive, downright sexy in her provocative approach to the opposite sex. But there had been some suspicious occurrences lately in their Boston apartment, a few too many phone calls demanding arrangements for exact times and exact meeting places – all too formal and carefully planned for casual affairs. One evening not too long before Trudy had snuck in the house unaware that Ann was still awake after a trying flight from San Diego where a thunder storm had delayed their flight twelve hours. Carefully Trudy had unlocked the door and, with her back to her roommate, tip-toed unseeingly into the bathroom. There was something strangely unnerving about Trudy's behavior and Ann put down her book and strolled into the bathroom where Trudy was running ice cold water over a washcloth for her eye – her black eye, as Ann soon discovered. The secret was out.

"Well, maybe I just might. Where is this one? Chicago?"

"God, no!" Trudy laughed vivaciously. "San Francisco. One of the pilots, he's a real swinger, they tell me. Ann, I mean really," she set down her iron to remove a roller pick that stuck mercilessly into her tender scalp. "He used to be a mechanic and he's got some tricks you wouldn't believe! Anyway, that's what Sharon tells me, remember her?" Trudy's eyes rolled back in her head in reverie. "Anyway, we'll be going for a cruise in his yacht – under the Golden Gate Bridge and everything! Oh, Ann, you have to come!"

"Mmmmm, maybe. I'll see how…" She reconsidered. "Yes, that sounds just like what the doctor ordered."

It was that evening in San Francisco that Ann was to meet the man who would change the direction of her life from a soul-searching existence to one of unequaled debauchery. His name was Mike Boston.