Short story, woman has something that directly stimulates the pleasure centers in the brain, man finds her

Question

I'm looking for the title and author of a short story involving a woman who has a device on/in her brain that directly stimulates the pleasure centers and a man who finds her and probably saves her life.

What I (think I) know about it:

• I would guess it was written in the 1970s, maybe late 60s.
• I was sure it was Larry Niven, what I remember of the setup and style just screams Niven, but I can't find anything looking through lists of his short work.
• I first read it in the late 70s or early 80s.
• The woman had a socket in her head that connected to something that directly stimulated pleasure centers. There was a term for it, something like wirejacking.
• When he found her she was in a chair in her apartment completely zoned out, hooked to some kind of feeding/hydration thing that (I think?) wasn't working anymore, dehydrated, etc., probably not far from death. She was nude with vomit down her front.
• He pulls the thing out of the socket and she goes berzerk.
• He nurses her back to health.
• They talk and form a bond.

At the end of the story (I'll put this behind a spoilers tag for anyone happening across this who hasn't read the story):

...we learn that the reason he was in her apartment and found her was that he was burgling her apartment. She laughs and says "take what you want!"

Answer 1

God is an Iron by Spider Robinson.

The short story was originally written in 1979, and was then incorporated into his novel Mindkiller in 1982.

It starts:

I smelled her before I saw her. Even so, the first sight of her was shocking. She was sitting in a tan plastic-surfaced armchair, the kind where the front comes up as the back goes down. It was back as far as it would go. It was placed beside the large living-room window, whose curtains were drawn. A plastic block table next to it held a digital clock, a dozen unopened packages of Peter Jackson cigarettes, a glass jar full of packs of matches, an empty ashtray, a full vial of cocaine, and a lamp with a bulb of at least 150 watts. It illuminated her with brutal clarity.

She was naked. Her skin was the color of vanilla pudding. Her hair was in rats, her nails unpainted and untended, some overlong and some broken. There was dust on her. She sat in a ghastly sludge of feces and urine. Dried vomit was caked on her chin and between her breasts and down her ribs to the chair.

And ends:

"What did you come here for?" I was angry enough to be honest. "To burgle your fucking apartment!"

So it isn't Larry Niven, though Spider Robinson uses the same term wirehead that Niven uses in his Ringworld novels:

I knew about wire heading, of course - I had lost a couple of acquaintances and one friend to the juice. But I had never seen a wirehead. It is by definition a solitary vice, and all the public usually gets to see is a sheeted figure being carried out to the wagon.

The transformer lay on the floor beside the chair where it had been dropped. The switch was on, and the timer had been jiggered so that instead of providing one five- or ten- or fifteen-second jolt per hour it allowed continuous flow. That timer is required by law on all juice rigs sold, and you need special tools to defeat it. Say, a nail file. The input cord was long, fell in crazy coils from the wall socket. The output cord disappeared beneath the chair, but I knew where it ended. It ended in the tangled snarl of her hair, at the crown of her head, ended in a miniplug. The plug was snapped into a jack surgically implanted in her skull, and from the jack tiny wires snaked their way through the wet jelly to the hypothalamus, to the specific place in the medial forebrain bundle where the major pleasure center of her brain was located. She had sat there in total transcendent ecstasy for at least five days.