It was a refreshing August evening, the night I had sex with Carly Simon. Her album Film Noir had just bombed. I’ll admit there was a sense of desperation in the air. I was 17 and she was old enough to be my mother, hell, she was older than my mother. Her children were away at college, Dartmouth and Pepperdine, if I remember correctly. We lay under the covers and just talk for what seemed to be hours. It was very cosmic. We didn’t really know each other, but we had a connection. I can tell she was a damaged, a sore loser. I was there to make her feel like a winner. I told her she was taking my virginity, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.