Catching the Wolf of Wall Street: More Incredible True Stories of Fortunes, Schemes, Parties, and Prison

CHAPTER 16

WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN

he next morning I woke up to:

Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!

I opened my right eye and, without lifting my head even an inch off the white silk pillowcase, I rolled my neck to the right and made eye contact with the phone of the future—a chrome-plated technological marvel, with two dozen red blinking lights and the world's most annoying ring, the latter of which sounded like a tiny sparrow caught in an electrical wire. The phone was resting on a fabulously expensive end table—part of a matching set, of course.

Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo! “Jesus,”

I muttered. I was so sleepy… couldn't move. My head seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.

Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!

Christ! Who was calling at this hour? The audacity! I popped upright and took a deep, troubled breath. The white silk comforter was draped over my legs now, covering my loins, and in spite of being alone, my vanity caused me to look down at my bare torso and run my fingers over my abdominal muscles. They felt good; I was in fabulous shape. That was important now, especially if I wanted to attract another Duchess, but it wasn't nearly as important as being rich.

Well, at least I still had my mansion for a while. A shabby-chic mansion could be a very powerful aphrodisiac. I looked around the bedroom. The ceiling was thirty feet above the $150,000 tan and taupe carpet, and my bed was fit for a king. Thick bleached-wood poles, carved to resemble pinecones, rose up at all four corners of the bed, where they supported a canopy of tan and taupe Indonesian silk that matched the carpet perfectly. The Duchess loved her fucking canopies! And she loved her silk too. The mansion had seven bedrooms, and each one had a silk fucking canopy!

Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!… Broooo!—Broooo!—Broooo!

Fuck it! I reached over and picked up the chrome-plated phone.

“Hello?” I mumbled, in the sort of overly sleepy tone that implies you've been called at an inappropriate hour.

Alas, what I got in return was the bright and cheery voice of my least favorite codependent. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” declared the Duchess. “It's eight-thirty! We have an appointment with the real estate broker in two hours!” Cheery, cheery, cheery!

Why, the impudence! I was speechless! At a complete loss for words! What would she say next, that she was going to wear my favorite perfume today? Christ! If I hadn't promised not to blow Debbie's cover, I would be giving the dirty Duchess a piece of my mind right now.

The Duchess, still happy: “Wake up, sleepy-boy! Today's the first day of the rest of your life!” Then: “Why don't you have Gwynne make you some coffee?”

“Gwynne doesn't get here ‘til nine,” I said tonelessly. “And I'm not in the mood for coffee.”

The Duchess, picking up my tone: “Well, someone seems awful grumpy this morning! Why don't you open the shades and let some light shine in? It's beautiful outside.”

I clenched my teeth in rage and slowly turned my head to the left, to the fabulous taupe shades. Must be twenty feet high, those fucking shades, and they must've cost a fortune! God—how I'd love to have that money right now in cash!

Suddenly—a brainstorm! “You know what?” I said happily. “You're right! I could use some light in here. Hold on a second, sweetie,” and I leaned over to the end table and grabbed the remote control of the future, which controlled everything in the bedroom, from the shades to the recessed lights to the twelve-foot-high entertainment center just across from the bed, with its forty-inch high-definition TV and $75,000 Fisher stereo system, which included, among other things, a three-hundred-CD disc changer.

First, the shades: Remote in hand, I hit a one-inch LCD square marked SHADES, and just like that, the shades slowly slid open, revealing a pair of twelve-foot-high French doors that opened onto a reddish mahogany deck looking out over the Atlantic. “Ah, light!” I said to the backstabber. “Hold on another second, sweetie,” and then I hit a button marked CD SEARCH—causing a new menu to pop up. I punched in the letters B—O—L—T—O—N, and an instant later Michael Bolton's Greatest Hits popped onto the screen. This was accompanied by a rather annoying picture of him (with his big nose, narrow face, and ridiculous ponytail), along with a list of all seventeen of his ridiculously syrupy love songs, most of which he'd stolen from other, more talented artists and all of which were meant to manipulate the hearts and minds of unsuspecting females.

My teeth were still clenched in rage when I placed my index finger over the song “When a Man Loves a Woman,” and pressed it gently. Then I moved my finger to the button marked VOLUME UP, and I pressed that too and held it for a few seconds.

The still-happy Duchess: “What are you doing over there?”

“Nothing,” I said, staring at my shabby-chic entertainment center and hearing a few clicks and clacks as the CD changer did its thing. “I'm just putting on some music to start my day.”

“Really?” she said, a bit confused. Then: “Okay! I'm heading out to the beach soon. I figured we'd spend the day together.”

“Well, before you get in the car, Nadine, I think you should know that I'm having second thoughts about the Hamptons thing. In fact, I think you should stay put for a while in Old Brookville.”

Not so happy suddenly: “What are you talking about? I thought we already discussed this.”

Just then I heard the opening notes to the song. I took a deep breath, determined not to tip my hand. “Yeah,” I said icily, “but you're already set in your ways out there. You know, you've got all your activities lined up—all the Mommy and Me classes, the cooking classes. And I know how much you like having Alex as your personal trainer. Alex…” I paused for a moment, letting the Romanian dirt-ball's name hang in the air. “I couldn't imagine Alex spending an extra hour and a half driving out to the Hamptons. Know what I mean?”

“He doesn't train me anymore,” she said nervously.

“Oh, really? What happened?”

“Nothing; we had, uh, a little bit of a falling-out.”

Well, that's what happens when you fuck your personal trainer! I thought. But I couldn't just come out and say that, because that would compromise Bo. So I said, “Well, that's what happens when you fuck your personal trainer! You have a falling-out!” Sorry, Bo!

“What are you talking about?” she said defensively.

With venom: “Oh, you're gonna deny that you fucked that slime-bucket of a Romanian?”

“I… I didn't.”

“Oh, save it, Nadine! I know that smelly fuck was sleeping in my bed. I heard all about it.”

Just then I heard the repulsive voice of the ponytailed bastard: “When a man loves a woman, can't keep his mind on nothin’ else.”

I help up the phone to the ceiling for a second—to the 80-watt Bose surround-sound speakers—and then I put it back to my ear and heard the Duchess say, “…you please turn down the music!”

“It's not that loud,” I snapped, and I held the phone back up to the speakers again. Then I put it back to my ear and heard her scream, “… with you, Jordan! Stop! Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?” I asked innocently. “Blasting Michael Bolton or talking about the Romanian slimeball? Which one?”

Calm panic: “Who's telling you all this?”

With a hiss: “Oh, please, Nadine! Who do you think you're dealing with? I've known about this shit for months!”

The Duchess struck back: “Yeah—well—who the fuck are you to throw stones? Like you've been a fucking angel out there? You slept with that disgusting Jewish girl who gave you all the blow jobs!” A moment of silence, then the Duchess continued, “I also know about all those crazy Russian girls. You'll never change! You're a whoremonger!”

“Yeah, you're right,” I snarled, “and you're a fucking codependent, who fucks her fellow codependents—like that washed-up golf pro from Pennsylvania. What did he offer you: free golf lessons with every lay?”

The Duchess, incredulous: “I… I don't know what you're talking about.”

Through clenched teeth: “I'll never forgive you for what you did, Nadine. You left me on the courthouse steps, you fucking bitch!”

Right back at me: “And you kicked me down the stairs, you fucking drug addict! I hope you die in jail!”

“Oh, yeah?” I snapped. “Well, I hope you die of codependency!” And I slammed down the phone. “Fucking whore!” I muttered to the phone of the future. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Then the phone rang: Broooo!—Broooo! I picked it up in a millisecond: “What the fuck do you want now?”

“Well, fuck you too!” snapped my attorney. “What, are you having a bad morning over there?”

“Oh, hey, Greg!” I said happily. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “What's going on with you?”

I thought about that for a second. “Oh, nothing really. Just a little spat with my soon-to-be ex-wife.”

“I see,” said Magnum. “And can I ask why you're blasting Michael Bolton at eight-thirty in the morning? The guy sucks!”

“Oh, shit! Hold on a second.” I pressed pause on the remote control. “Sorry about that. I'm not a Michael Bolton fan; trust me. In fact, I'm gonna toss that fucking CD right in the microwave, just as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“And why is that?” asked my attorney.

“Is this conversation privileged?”

“All our conversations are privileged.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Well, I just found out that the Duchess was fucking Michael Bolton. Can you imagine?”

“Really?” said Magnum. “The guy's a loser! She could do better.”

“Oh, thanks a lot, Greg. Maybe you're not catching my drift here: Michael—Fucking—Bolton was porking my wife!”

“While you were together?”

“No! Not while we were married! Afterward!”

“So what are you so upset about? You haven't exactly been sitting on your hands out there. Anyway, can you come into the city today?”

“Why? Did something bad happen?”

“I wouldn't say bad,” he replied, “but it's not the best news in the world. I worked out your deal with Joel.”

“How long can I keep the houses for?” I asked quickly.

“Well, it's different for you and Nadine,” he answered cautiously. “But I'd rather discuss it in person. Take a ride into the city, and we'll order up some sandwiches and have a working lunch. I'd like Nick to be a part of this too.”

I thought for a moment, deciding whether or not to press for more details, but then he said, “And I have some good news for you too, and it concerns your friend Joel. So keep your chin up and I'll see you in a few hours, okay?”

I smiled into the phone. “You got it!” I said heartily. “I'll be there by noon.” And I hung up the phone of the future, knowing that Magnum could mean only one thing: The Bastard was leaving the U.S. Attorney's Office.

My towering attorney was sitting behind his desk, the starchy Yale-man was sitting to my right, and I was sitting directly across from Magnum at just the right angle to sneak peeks at a photograph of him and Judge Gleeson, which had been taken when they worked together at the U.S. Attorney's Office. And as the three of us engaged in idle chatter about the deficiencies in our golf swings, I found myself tuning in and out—focusing on the picture of Judge Gleeson instead and praying that when the time came he would remember that Magnum and he were good friends.

“… causes me to shank the ball,” Magnum was now saying. “That's why I keep my right elbow close to my hip.” He shrugged knowingly. “It's the key to any good golf swing.”

Who gives a shit! I thought. “Yeah, that's true,” I said, and can we please get down to my case, for Chrissake?

The Yale-man chimed in. “It is,” he added, “but that's not your problem, Greg. It's your grip. It's much too weak; that's why you keep hitting off the hozzle.” He shrugged. “It's simple geometry, really. When you cut across…”

Oh, Jesus Christ! Save me! I tuned out again. I had been in their office for fifteen minutes, and so far so good. As I'd suspected, the Bastard was planning to leave the U.S. Attorney's Office. Just when, Magnum wasn't so sure, although he'd heard from “reliable sources” that the Bastard would be gone before the year was out. The good news was, that meant someone else would be writing my 5K letter, and, chances were, they'd be more benevolent than the Bastard.

The bad news, however, was that the Bastard would want my cooperation made public before he resigned. There were a multitude of reasons for this, Magnum explained, not the least of which was that my guilty plea (and subsequent cooperation) was a big-time feather in the Bastard's cap, which he would use to secure a partnership at a major law firm. In addition, there was an emotional component involved, inasmuch as the Bastard wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, where he would get to hold a press conference and say: “Not only have I brought the Wolf of Wall Street to justice, but I've also turned him into a world-class rat—thereby making unprecedented leaps toward the eradication of small-cap securities fraud in America.”

What the Bastard wouldn't say, however, was that small-cap securities fraud was more prevalent now than in Stratton's heyday. In fact, with the proliferation of the Internet, stock scams had been elevated to an entirely new level, and God only knew how many millions were being lost each day as a result of puffed-up e-mails, fraudulent message boards, and dot-com mania.

Still, there was no denying that the Bastard's departure was good news for me, so the three of us had felt entitled to spend the last few minutes congratulating ourselves. My lawyers seemed to be chalking it up to some clever legal strategy on their part, although I was convinced that it had more to do with my long-term value as a rat exceeding the Bastard's patience to work for the federal government at near slave wages. Whatever the case, this information was strictly on the QT, and I was not to breathe a word of it to anyone.

Now the Yale-man was saying, “… inside-out swing plane, above everything. That's my secret for keeping the ball in the short grass.” He offered Magnum and me a single nod, to which Magnum nodded back accordingly.

I smiled and said, “You know, my problem with this conversation is that all three of us suck in golf “—I raised my chin toward Magnum—”especially you, Greg. So, if you don't mind, I would appreciate it if you guys would stop fucking torturing me and tell me when I have to forfeit my houses.”

My towering attorney smiled. “Of course: Your house has to be forfeited on January first, and Nadine's the following June.”

“That sucks,” I said. “What happened to four years from now?”

Magnum shrugged. “Like I've always said, Joel is not an easy person to deal with—especially now, while he's getting ready to leave the U.S. Attorney's Office. He wants to extract as much blood as possible before he departs.”

The Yale-man said, “In fact, things were even bleaker yesterday.”

“Indeed,” added Magnum. “As of yesterday morning, Joel wanted Nadine to forfeit the Old Brookville house on the same date as you, but we convinced him to back off because of the children. So, in that sense, it was somewhat of a victory.”

“Yeah,” I said sarcastically, “a victory. And it still sucks!” I took a deep, troubled breath and let it out slowly. “And how much money do I get to keep?”

“Eight hundred thousand dollars,” replied Magnum, “plus you each get to keep a car, your furniture, and all your personal possessions, and you get to keep the IOUs you listed. Are any of them collectible?”

I took a moment to run them through my mind. There were three, the biggest of which was with Elliot Lavigne, who owed me $2 million. Back in the day, Elliot had been my primary rathole, kicking me back millions of dollars in cash. At the time he had been a garment-center legend, ascending to the presidency of Perry Ellis while still in his thirties. But he'd also been a world-class drug addict, a degenerate gambler, and a serial whoremonger (which was why we'd gotten along so well), and ultimately he had lost everything, including his job. We hadn't spoken since I'd gotten sober, and there was no way, I knew, he could ever pay me back. He was completely broke.

The second biggest IOU was Wigwam's, which was a quarter of a million dollars. Alas, Wigwam was even broker than Elliot, and there was no chance there either. And then there was Dr. David Schlesinger, a Long Island ophthalmologist, who'd married the Duchess's childhood friend Donna. David was a pretty good guy, although Donna was, for the most part, a wench. Nevertheless, he could pay me back, and I had no doubt that he would. After all, I had lent him $120,000 to start his own medical practice, and now he was raking it in.

Still, the greatest shame in all this was Elliot Lavigne. If he still had money he would definitely pay me back! We'd been like blood brothers, the two of us. I had even saved his life once, after he almost drowned in my pool. Ironically, OCD and the Bastard had never shown much interest in Elliot, despite the cash kickbacks. But that was fine with me; if they didn't press the issue, I wasn't about to bring it up.

I said, “I think one of them is; but it's only for a hundred twenty thousand dollars. The rest are worthless. Anyway, it doesn't really matter. At the rate I burn through money, I'll be broke in six months either way.”

“Well, you gotta cut back,” snapped Magnum. “And you gotta tell Nadine to cut back too! This is no joke, Jordan. It's time to hunker down.”

I shook my head no. “I'm not breathing a word of this to Nadine. As much as I hate her, I don't want to worry her. Anyway, I have more than a year to figure out where she and the kids are gonna live, and, believe me, by hook or by crook I'll make sure it's somewhere beautiful.”

Magnum pursed his lips and nodded, as if he were an oncologist about to give a patient a terminal diagnosis. “Well, unfortunately, you're gonna have to let her know a little bit sooner than you'd like. You see, Joel wants her to sign off on this.”

“Well, that sucks too!” I snapped. “In fact, everything about today sucks!” I shook my head in disgust. “When do I gotta tell her?”

With a hint of a smile: “Today.”

When I first called the Duchess and told her that I needed to stop by to talk to her about something, I was shocked that she didn't just tell me to go fuck myself. She was a Brooklyn girl, after all, and given the nature of our last conversation, to tell me to go fuck myself was the Brooklyn equivalent of saying, “I think it would be best if we communicated through our lawyers for a while.” And then, a few hours later, when I walked through the front door at a little before five and the kids came running into my arms, screaming, “Daddy's here! Daddy's here!” I was even more shocked at how genuinely happy the Duchess seemed over our children's love for me.

She was a complicated woman, and despite all my grudges and resentments, there was a part of me that would always be in awe of her. She had educated herself, improved herself, and, for better or worse, had aspired for perfection in all aspects of her life. In many ways, she was everything I could never be: perfectly gorgeous, utterly self-confident, and shrouded by an impenetrable cloak of emotional armor that protected her from hurt; in other ways, I was everything she could never be: street-smart, financially self-sufficient, and emotionally vulnerable to a fault.

Perhaps in a different time and place we could have made beautiful music together, for, in the end, it wasn't a lack of love that had gotten the best of us but all that had preyed upon it—the money, the drugs, the jet-set lifestyle, the false friends. And, of course, there was Stratton, the poison tree from which only poison fruit could grow, including the fruit of our marriage. Only the children had made it out unscathed, a fact for which I would always thank God.

We were sitting at the kitchen table, and I had just finished giving her all the horrific details about the forefeitures—the dates, the amounts, and everything else.

Her response shocked me.

“I'm really sorry,” she said calmly. “I know how much that beach house meant to you. Where are you gonna live now?”

I stared at her, astonished. Could she really be serious? I mean, after everything I'd just told her, she was worried about where I was going to live? What about where she was going to live? And what about the kids?

I was about to lace into her when suddenly it hit me: It wasn't irony; she had simply walked through life's raindrops for so long that she assumed she always would. Everything would end up okay for her, she knew, and, odd as it seemed, I knew she was right.

I forced a smile and said, “Don't worry about me, Nae, I'll be fine. And don't worry about yourself and the kids either.” I looked her dead in the eye. “You'll always be taken care of—no matter what.”

She nodded in understanding, although just what I'd meant by that I don't think either of us knew. With the utmost sincerity, she said, “I know you'll take care of us the best you can. Do you know how long you'll have to go away for?”

“I'm still not sure,” I said. “Joel is leaving the U.S. Attorney's Office, which is a good thing for me, but I'll still have to do a few years, I'm sure.” I shrugged my shoulders, trying to make light of it. “And this is the end of the line, Nae: You're gonna move on with your life and I'm going to fucking jail.” I smiled and winked. “Feel like changing places with me?”

“Nope!” she answered, with a few exaggerated headshakes. “But I promise you that the kids will always know that their father is a good man.” She reached over and grabbed my hand, the way a friend would. “Your kids will always love you, Jordan, and they'll be waiting for you the second you get out.”

I squeezed her hand gently, and then I rose from my chair and walked over to a floor-to-ceiling window at the back of the room. I leaned my shoulder against it and took a moment to relish the beauty of my property. It was gorgeous this time of year. The lawn was as green as any rain forest, and the pond and waterfall looked like a painting. How different things could have worked out. If only I would've done things right.

After a few seconds the Duchess joined me by the window and stared out. “It's beautiful,” she said. “Isn't it?”

“Yeah, it is. It's hard to believe another family's gonna live here one day, you know?”

She nodded but said nothing.

Suddenly a pleasant memory: “Hey—remember what we did the day we went to contract on this house?”

She started giggling. “Yeah! We snuck onto the property and had sex in the backyard!”

“Exactly!” I said, laughing. “Those were some funny days back then, right?”

“Yeah, but they weren't my favorite.”

I looked at her, surprised. “Oh, really? Which were?”

“The first days,” she answered casually. “In that tiny apartment in the city. I loved you so much back then. If you only knew, Jordan. But you never let yourself trust me, because of how rich you were when we met.” She paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “I want you to know that I was always faithful to you when we were together. I never cheated on you even once! And, well, what happened this morning on the phone”—she stopped and shook her head quickly, as if she was disgusted with herself—”well, it was a bad showing on my part, and I'm sorry for it.”

“So am I,” I said quickly. “It was a bad showing on my part too.”

She nodded. “And I want you to know that I wasn't trying to manipulate you with the Hamptons.” Yeah, right! “I mean, yeah, maybe at the end I was, but not at the beginning. When I first came up with the idea, I thought there was a chance for us.” She paused for a moment. “But then over the last few weeks, well, I knew there wasn't. Too much had happened: too much hurt, too much pain, too many bad memories. I'm not gonna offer you any cheap clichés here, but I think we definitely broke the record for insane relationships, you know?”

I smiled sadly, knowing she was right. “Yeah, I guess we did,” I said, “but it was definitely fun for a while, at least in the beginning.” I perked up my tone. “Anyway, we got two great kids out of the deal, and I'll always love you for that.” I offered her my hand, palm upward, as if she were truly a Duchess. “So, come on, Duchess; why don't we go upstairs and give the kids a kiss? Then I'll get going.” She smiled, then took my hand and off we went— out of the kitchen, through the dining room, through the grand marble entryway, and then up the sumptuous spiral staircase that led to the mansion's second floor.

When we reached the top of the stairs, I turned east, toward the kids’ rooms, and she turned west, toward the master bedroom. We were still holding hands, so we looked like two sailors leaning into opposing winds. I smiled playfully. “What are you doing?” I asked.

She just stared at me, with her lips compressed into a tight line, as if she were a child thinking about doing something naughty. Then she gave her head a tiny jerk in the direction of the bedroom. “Come inside with me,” she said mischievously.

My eyes popped opened like a pair of umbrellas. “What? You want to make love to me now, after I just told you I lost the houses?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yeah, it's the perfect time. I was never really in it for the money! It just seemed…” I narrowed my eyes suspiciously; she backtracked. “Okay, I won't deny that the money definitely helped, but I could have married a lot of rich guys. I chose you because you were cute. And you still are cute!” She winked. “So, come on! Let's do it one last time before we get divorced, okay?”

“You lead, I follow!” I said happily, and a second later the bedroom door was slamming behind us and we were jumping onto the fabulous white silk comforter, with its thousands of tiny pearls.

We began kissing deeply. Such wanton passion! Such sexual ferocity! Like never before! The Duchess smelled so good it seemed almost impossible. I wanted this woman, to literally possess her, for all eternity.

“I love you,” I groaned.

“I'll always love you too,” she groaned back.

Bitch! I thought. “Me too,” I said lovingly, and we began wriggling out of our shirts, and—yes—the Duchess was braless! And I pushed my bare nipples against her bare nipples and my bare stomach against her bare stomach—and such softness I felt! Such heat! The Duchess was a raging inferno! Overcome by passion! Couldn't even think straight!

Suddenly she broke off our kiss and looked at me nervously. Through tiny pants, she muttered, “I hope”-pant, pant-“you don't think”-pant, pant—“you're sleeping over tonight.” Pant, pant. “I just can't”-pant, pant-“bear the thought”—pant, pant—”of waking up to you tomorrow morning!” Pant, pant.

Bitch! I thought. “Of course not.” Pant, pant. “I have a meeting in Southampton”-pant, pant—“first thing in the morning!” Pant, pant.

“Oh, good!” she muttered. “Make love to me”—pant, pant.

And off came our pants, and the Duchess's legs-perfection! So soft they were! So supple! Like never before! Those luscious thighs, those slender ankles, those heavenly hips! My nervous system was on sensory overload, and I loved it.

“Kiss me softly,” moaned the Duchess. “The way you used to…”

Yes, I thought, I would kiss her softly, just the way I used to, and then I would make love to her, just the way I used to, with myself on top and her luscious legs clamped together, for added friction. The Duchess loved it that way!

With great tenderness, I placed my hands on her cheeks and put my lips to her lips, and I kissed her softly, breathing in every last molecule of her. Her lips smelled utterly delicious, utterly frisky-just like they used to!

So we just lay there, kissing, for what seemed like a very long time.

Finally I broke off our kiss and looked my gorgeous Duchess in her fabulous blue eyes and decided to give it one last college try. “I still love you,” I said softly, praying that she would return my words.

She nodded quickly. “I love you too,” she said. “Now make love to me, sweetie!”

She still loved me!

Then—a shock, as she said, “Wait a second: Let me turn around so we can do it from behind.” Faster than it seemed possible, the Duchess had wriggled out from beneath me and was crouching on her knees now, with her back to me. Then she crossed her arms over her breasts and arched her back, like a cat, pushing her butt out. She said urgently, “Hurry up and grab my arms and hug me from behind!”

Bitch! I thought. She had learned a new trick in my absence! Of all the insults! Who had taught her this… doggie-style cross-armed maneuver? Was it the ponytailed bastard? Or the sleazoid golf pro? Or even worse—the Romanian slime-bucket?

Just then she swung her blond head around and stared at me quizzically. “What are you waiting for?” Pant, pant. “Take me now or lose me forever!”

I stared back at her, speechless.

She smiled coyly. “Oh, come on, silly! You'll like it this way!”

Bitch! I thought. And then I smiled.

We ended up making passionate love that Thursday evening, and, in retrospect, I think we both knew it would be for the last time. Just why it had to happen I would never know, although I suspected it had something to do with closure, which both of us desperately needed. We had been to hell and back together, and now it was time to move on. In some way, I knew, we would always love each other.