Madison Goddard

In spite of the phenomenon being several years—or perhaps centuries—old, I’ve been hearing a lot lately about The Game, which is one man’s guide to chasing tail. This type of advice is nothing new.

For a long time, I thought of my sexuality as Pandora’s Box. At my small and gossipy high school in rural New England, I refused to have sex for fear that breaking my hymen would release a beast—one that would not stop until it had spilled the seed of 1,000 lovers, or maybe more like 50 or so.

Last weekend, a Manhattan hotelier followed me into the bathroom of Bungalow 8, and in a thick Italian accent, offered me $1,000 cash to blow lines off my nipples.