Most of us like to think highly of ourselves. We imagine that we’re really “nice people,” or something to that effect. Maybe Stalin truly enjoyed being evil, but that’s not the way I imagined myself to be.

In the fall of 1975, I was twenty-nine years old. By that point, I had been separated from my wife Lydia for about four months. My take on the marriage was that our problems were mostly her fault. One of these negative events happened right before our separation.

Among other issues, for a while I had been itching to spank her as a “naughty wife.” It seemed to be my right to do that. She, however, had been spanked a number of times by her dad and she hated the idea.

One night we were both drinking vodka and tonics when we started an argument. That seemed to give me a pretext to finally discipline her. It was about a check she had bounced that caused our account to be overdrawn and more checks to be rejected.

Of course, it was partially my doing because I wasn’t keeping track of our joint account either. Yet I was angry enough to grab her and pull her across my lap. I started whacking the seat of the tight skirt she had worn to work. I was just about to pull down the zipper in the back and lower her pantyhose and panties when she slithered off me.

She wasn’t a big girl, but I’m not that big a guy. When I stood up, I said, “Come back here Liddie, you bad little cunt, and take your ass-whupping.” She responded by going to the dining room table and picking up a steak knife.

That killed any plans I had for her. I put up my hands and said something dumb like, “No harm, no foul.” Except, that’s not the way it went. Three days later, she moved out and left me behind in our Bronx apartment.

One Thursday evening in October, I was feeling extremely restless and decided that I had to go to Manhattan. There seemed to be nothing for me in The Bronx, so I got into the green 1971 Dodge Coronet that Lydia had left behind. Rush hour was over, and the subways were rolling slums back then.

I had no idea where I was going or why, and I eventually parked on the roof of the Port Authority Bus Terminal on Eighth Avenue. There were a lot of ramps to get up there, but I assumed it would be cheaper than using a private garage.

I thought I would get a sandwich at a nearby Blimpie Base. Yeah, I wasn’t exactly big on fine dining and their tuna sandwiches were pretty good back then.

I came down on an escalator. Somehow I wandered through the ticketing area towards the Ninth Avenue side. My attention was caught by a young girl just standing there next to her big, battered brown suitcase.

I knew right away that she wasn’t a New Yorker. I stopped, and as discreetly as I could, I checked her out. She was a fairly tall girl with shoulder-length brown hair. I inventoried her clothes: a green and white striped blouse, a colorful short skirt, an unbuttoned tan raincoat, white sneakers, and white ankle socks.

What really topped it off was her straw hat with a band around it. She was such an anomaly in this place that I couldn’t help but stare at her. I had no intention of trying to pick her up or even talk to her.

I probably was closer to her than I realized. She looked over at me and I held eye contact with her. Then she beckoned me over; I only had about ten feet to go. I did a double-take, who me? Then I approached her.

She said, “Oh, mister, could you help me out? I just got into town and I’m supposed to be staying with my sister in Queens.”

She was violating several cardinal New York rules: avoid talking to people one doesn’t know, never tell anybody your business, don’t let strangers into your life. I pitied her naïveté. I also knew I must have looked pretty harmless.

If this had been some guy, I would have turned and walked away. But I said to this cute girl, “Sure, what can I do?”

She explained it in some detail, “You see, I was going to take the subway out to her house, but now that I’m here I think it would be better to take a cab - this suitcase and all - I was wondering if I could borrow money from you? I promise to pay you back.”

I heard myself say, “I can do better. My car is parked upstairs; I’ll give you a lift.”

“That would be super. I wouldn’t be taking you out of your way, would I?”

“Nah, not at all.”

Of course, I had no reason to go out to Queens. But something else struck me. She looked to be about nineteen or twenty, but I thought, didn’t your parents teach you never to get into a stranger’s car?

She was very friendly, almost bubbly, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Sherri.” She actually took my hand and shook it. “The full name is Sherilynn but nobody calls me that.”

“Well, you can call me Bob.” That came out wrong, even though that was my real name. “Here, let me help you with that.” I hefted the suitcase, which was heavier than I had expected.

She noticed that, “Well, I need a lot of stuff for a week here.”

On the escalators up to the roof, she told me she was from Maple Heights, Ohio, that she was a sophomore at Ohio State University at Columbus, and she was a cheerleader for the football team. I had a feeling of unreality about the situation. Why am I doing this? I was well aware that her youth and looks were influencing my decisions.

I asked her, “Where is Maple Heights?” It sounded like the name of a town in a television show, Green Acres or Petticoat Junction, perhaps.

“It’s about an hour south of Cleveland.”

As we got to the car, I asked her the usual student question, “What is your major?”

She was studying to be a pharmacist. Unlike me, with my history degree, she might actually get a job out of her studies. After we were in the car and I had it started, I said, “Ever been to New York before?”

“Once, five years ago, with my parents.”

“You know it’s not safe for a young girl to go around the city in the evening by herself - and with luggage yet.”

“I know, that’s why I’m so grateful to you.”

“Did your father know what you were doing - not having money for a cab?”

“I guess I lied to him. I didn’t want him to think I was a helpless young girl.”

Some unsavory thoughts were emerging in my mind. I didn’t necessarily want them, but I had known myself to have them before and had even occasionally acted on them. It was inappropriate, but I blurted out, “That was just wrong, not telling your father. You’re not too old for him to give you a good spanking.” I expected her to get offended and maybe ask to be let out, but all she did was frown at me.

I tried to walk it back a bit, “Ah, sorry. Anyway, unless you’re in a big hurry, let’s take a little drive around town.”

She was in a good mood again, “That’s great; let’s see Times Square.” I drove down the ramp and was soon headed east on 42nd Street.

She said, “There sure are a lot of porno theaters here.”

“This is only some of them; you should see Eighth Avenue.”

“Could we go there?” I had to go around the block to double-back to Eighth. She gaped at the scene as if she had never seen it before, which was probably true. I doubted that she had been over here during the earlier trip with her parents.

“Do they really have live sex in these places?” She had noted some place, probably a peep show, that had a sign saying, “Live Girls.”

“I suppose so, I’ve never been in one.”

“Are there streetwalkers around here?”

“Yeah, they’re most visible further west, but they’re here too.”

After about fifteen more minutes of aimless cruising around, I headed for the 59th Street Bridge. Sherri was a bit vague about where we were going, merely saying “Kew Gardens.” She talked quite readily about life in Maple Heights and then Columbus and what it was like being a student at OSU.

I was barely listening to her; I was getting into my own fantasies. This girl, if she gets into strangers’ cars and talks about porno theaters, must be some kind of slut. I bet she’s leading me on.