In the summer of 1968 I worked in a Boston phone exchange. There were hundreds of cable banks corresponding the working numbers. My friend and I would eavesdrop on thousands of conversations. Few people said anything of importance, but one couple practically invented phone sex and spoke at the same hour every day.
One afternoon my friend wrote down the address and we drove over to Dorchester to spy onto the woman. She was an attractive brunette. She hailed a taxi.
We followed her to a motel off the Southeast Expressway. She went into second-floor room.
We drank a beer.
Ten minutes later a Valiant pulled into the parking lot. A tall man in a suit climbed the stairs and knocked on the motel room door. She opened it and they went inside.
My friend turned to me and said, “I like it better on the phone.” “Me too.” We drove over to the Hi-Hat Lounge. They served anyone with money.
Even sixteen year-old boys.