As a sexologist, he'd explored all this. I was willing to try. He was, he said, nonmonogamous, and a totally committed practitioner of safe sex, a nonlying, not deceitful, full disclosure kind of lover. He was looking for a serious relationship with someone who was as committed to sexual pleasure as he and willing to accept his, ahem, lifestyle of multipartners. I didn't think I could go that far, but as vulgar as I found his bragging, I admit I was more than willing to sample his wares.

Our first time together, though strained (he hated cats and wanted me to lock them away, which I did, but their pitiful wailing definitely got in the way of my pleasuring), was more than promising in the pleasure department, and so I agreed with alacrity to come to his digs, where we would not be interrupted by domestic animal concerns.

I arrive at a townhouse in the burbs, all beige and boring, until we go upstairs to his bedroom suite. One wall is lined with mirrors (as well as the ceiling over his water bed). Another whole wall is lined with videotapes -- yeah, most of them porn or instructional, he said. The drapes are blackout thick and make me feel claustrophobic. I notice in front of me is a heap of straps and leather on the floor -- yards of it -- with hardware. It's the kinkiest-looking contraption I've ever seen.

What's that?

A tantric sling. It hangs from there. He points to a substantial hook hanging from the low-slung ceiling. "Didn't want to intimidate you," he murmurs unctuously as explanation for why he hadn't hung it up.

I am bold. Sling it up. I want to see it. It hangs like an egg drop off the lip of a spoon, ovule in shape, but open because of the filigree leather. He explains: "You lie back in it, your feet in leather stirrups. It's very, very comfortable for you, you're completely supported. And I can fuck for hours like this, just pull you back and forth."

But we ignore it for now. We move to the bed. We're on the bed. His tongue is forever. But everything of mine hurts -- hips, back, shoulders. I've left out the part about me swimming in the bay each day, training for a New Years Day swim in frigid waters that leaves my joints aching after training. I'm a schwimmer, and everything hurts.

I ask again how comfy it is, hanging there across the room.

You get in first, I tell him. He gets into it, a mesh of broad straps that cocoon the body. Slips his feet, heels down into the stirrups.

It looks fetally comfortable and I am overcome with excitement and curiosity to try it.

I am all spread-eagled with my zorch reflected across the way in the mirror, mocking me with its open mouth. I can barely stand it -- except, as promised, it's totally comfy. I close my eyes, but not before noticing his dressing up of his schlong: first the condom, then the cock ring. Oy vay. Such utensils, I think.

He's done my clit on the bed. Now he enters. Slowly, he pulls on the straps above me, and the tilt of me in the sling rubs and presses my urethra from underneatha. I'm panting. I'm clenching. Breathe out, he says. Push out. He's my coach.

It is a constant erotic irritant, this brushing of that ridge. But part of the thrill is mixed with a competing urgency to pee. I tell him so between gasps.

"Let it go," he instructs.

Whaddyamean, let it go! Pee, on the floor?

He grabs a towel and pushes it down into the sling, under my ass.

"Pushing out is how you have this orgasm. You're ready to ejaculate."

I don't mean to quibble, but I'm sure it's pee. Worse, it feels almost painful, as if I had cystitis. I want to stop. He does, and helps me down out of the sling.

I pee. Come back. We start up again. And once again, I'm out of my mind it's so exciting. He plays with me as he says, "I can take you higher." And then he backs off. I am strings in his hands, and he frets me as he pulls on the leather strips of the sling.

And so it went for hours. But always, I have to pee, and despite his urgings to let it go, I cannot. I wasn't raised to be incontinent by choice! I'm tight-sphinctered, I admit it.

On the last bathroom pass, I look at the time and gasp. I'd been there since noon and it was pushing 5 o'clock. I'll have to try the pee shoot another time.

"Omigod," I wail, "I'm due at my best friend's house for a cocktail party I promised I'd attend!"

"I have a party to go to myself," he owns, not to be outdone.

"I must go. I'm late already."

I fly across the last bridge, the Richmond, on my way to the Berkeley hills. She'll never forgive me, I think, as the hour nears for the end of the party in honor of an English guest whom I knew and liked.

I go straight up to her house at the exact hour published as the party's close. I'm breathless. She opens the door and I see people still there, thank God.

"Susie," I gush, "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"What happened to you?"

"My ass was in a sling."

"Well, the important thing is, you're here now."

"No. Really."