Once upon a time — and by “once” I mean the 70s, 80s, any bar bathroom before Giuliani ruined New York, and my post-divorce forties — America was a land of abundance. Not of wealth or civility, mind you, but of action. Sex action. A nation where a man could walk into a Times Square peep booth with a pocketful of quarters and leave dehydrated. Where teenagers lost their virginity in the back seat of a rusted Buick the minute that joint was done, or that bottle of peach schnapps empty, and the radio played that slow song. Where “hooking up” didn’t require apps, algorithms, personality tests, emotional disclaimers, or lighting that made you look good on TikTok.

Then one day — poof.
Like Blockbuster Video, phone sex lines, or affordable rent — it all just vanished.