I've learned to be careful to conceal my flagrant sex activities.

One time, I had my sex system all powered up when the phone rang. Like an idiot, I answered it. While I was talking, my live-in girlfriend came home.

I'd forgotten about the libido-channeled electronics until my girlfriend said, "I know what you were doing."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"The monitor is on, the modem is attached, and the downloader is rolling."

"Oh, no!" I said. "What did you do?"

"I looked at the program."

"Holy heck! What did you see!"

"Women under a scramble pattern."

"Oh, man!"

Things could have been worse, as indeed they were on an earlier occasion, when I went on vacation and gave my apartment keys to a non-live-in girlfriend. She entered while I was away, rooted through my files, and found photos I had taken of another women in the throes of sexual punition. (Yes, there was evidence of corrective suspension.) So instead of meeting me for vacation, my non-live-in girlfriend left a hate note, along with her shredded airplane ticket.

Things could have been even worse, as in fact they were on still another occasion, when a male roommate commented on my proclivities while we were drinking in a bar.

"How do you know about my tendencies?" I asked.

"I went through your belongings, of course," he said.

"What did you see?"

"A lot of kinky photos."

"What did you think?"

"Not sexy to me."

I was annoyed. I was so annoyed I decided to make a life change. I rented a storage locker for my archives. When the locker was full, I leased a studio for my apparatus. When the studio was full, I found a warehouse for my heavy equipment.

Now, when friends, close relatives, prospective roommates and possible soul mates come to visit, they can snoop all they want, but they will not find a single photo, video cassette, CD-ROM, sex mailer, iron filigree, meat rack, barbed-wire roll, fork lift or hydraulic jack.

I just have to protect my privacy.