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Sex

On an autumn evening last October, a slight, pretty woman with a mass of curly hair fell underneath a tube train during rush hour at King's Cross underground station.

The 13-year-old boy sat in his California home, eyes fixed on a computer screen. He had never run with the popular crowd and long ago had turned to the Internet for the friends he craved. But on this day, Justin Berry's fascination with cyberspace would change his life.

NO MATTER WHAT your opinion of the now notorious online “thesis” of the recent Duke graduate Karen Owen—a comprehensive and often pornographic report on her sexual encounters with 13 athletes, most of them lacrosse players—you have to admit that it was a terrible PowerPoint. 

In its upper stories, the Flex bathhouse in Cleveland feels like a squash club for backslapping businessmen. There's a large gym with free weights and exercise machines on the third floor. In the common area, on the main floor, men in towels lounge on couches and watch CNN on big-screen TV's.

I mean, this guy, I walked in his hotel room one day, and he had on a towel.... Am I lying?" says Miss Boyd. "This man, his body. He played for the Bulls. Oh! This man had a body. Oh, my God, I'm telling you! He opened the door 

DVD sales are in free fall. Audiences are flocking to pornographic knockoffs of YouTube, especially a secretive site called YouPorn. And the amateurs are taking over. What’s happening to the adult-entertainment industry is exactly what’s happening to its Hollywood counterpart—only worse.

Last month, when the New York congressman Anthony Weiner finally admitted that he had lied, that his Twitter account had not been hacked, that he in fact had sent a picture of his thinly clad undercarriage to a stranger in Seattle, I asked my wife of six years, mother of our three children, what she thought.

They murdered a guy in here a couple of days ago," Tony Galeota says.Behind him, 12-foot-high fences topped with spools of barbed wire frame a muddy soccer field. Guards with machine guns man rusty metal towers. In the distance, La Cordillera de San Blas cuts through the Panamanian jungle like a serrated knife.

James Ellroy is sitting in a corner booth at the Pacific Dining Car, the 6th Street steak joint, brooding about women. It’s the perfect place for it. The last time L.A. fiction’s Demon Dog, as Ellroy likes to be called, recited wedding vows, he was right here in this windowless cave of a room. On October 4, 1991, he married his second wife, the writer and critic Helen Knode

The Grand Havana Room is good, if you can get past the doorman. The Oak Room at the Plaza is the easiest game in town; just go early in the week, like on a Tuesday night, because later it fills up with tourists and C.P.A.’s from New Jersey.

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