The Art of Men (I Prefer Mine Al Dente) (33 page)

“No, I’m good! But you wanna talk?”

“Um . . . er . . . YES I want to ‘talk,’ ” I hollered to the next room.

The wine was delivered by Kate Moss. There were two glasses. “Want one of these?” I said as he walked into my room and plopped down on my bed.

“Nah, I’m sorta tired, why? You wanna have sex?” he laughed. Gulp. He’d only said this to me 350 times during the course of our dance-a-thon. Gulp. He was just kidding . . . I think. He certainly wasn’t paying any attention to me. He was lying on the bed beside me looking at the ceiling and fiddling with his phone.

“Okay, I’ll drink them both,” I resolved. Gulp, down went the first glass. I was still buzzed from the dinner and party wine. Gulp, down went the second glass. Now I was looped.

Parker used to theorize that when I was drinking, you had a 15-minute window of opportunity to shag me: smack between me laughing hysterically and falling asleep.

After the last glass of wine I began to slur and laugh. “Hmmm, do I want to have sex? Hmmmm, do I? . . . Hahahahahahahahahahaha . . .” I was off and running . . . “Let’s see here, hahahahaha,” I nervously laughed. He began laughing out of control, a genuine laugh, not a wine-induced laugh like mine.

“What . . . what?” I continued. “Can I ask a serious question?”
Oh, fuck, here we go, now I’m out of control.

“Yes,” he said, with a smile on his little Hummel doll face. “Yes, you may.”

“Um, er, eh, am I drunk enough?” slipped out. He began laughing more, having no idea what my babble meant.

“Ohhhhhhh yes . . . I could say you’re plenty drunk.”

“Okay, here’s the real quersssstion,” I began, slurring the word “question.” “You know how chicks always tell people when they have sex with someone? I mean we alrees tell a girlfriend when we’ve slept wit sormone.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Okay, so, Puppy, if we ever had srex, who would you trell?”

Puppy thought about it for a while as I was getting a minibottle of wine out of the cabinet. I really needed it. I uncorked it.

“Hmmm, now, that’s an interesting question,” he pondered.

In my head all I could think of were my ex-husband’s words:
Dude, she was in hysterics and now she’s slurring, hurry up and answer the fucking question, you got 10 minutes to bang the broad or she’ll be out cold.

“Yeah, that
is
an interesting question. I think I know the answer.”

“Really?” I seductively asked, toying with him as I began to drink my third glass of wine while sitting delicately on the side of my Parisian bed, leaning toward him. “Who? Who would you have to trell, Puppy?” I whispered like a sultry French
chat
.

“Yep, yeah, I’d have to tell my mother. My mom is a huge fan of yours, ya know, and I always tell her who I sleep with.”

I was out like a light.

By morning Sergey was demoted to a level 0. So was his mother.

For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman over 40, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize for all of those men who say, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Here’s an update for you. Nowadays, 80 percent of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it’s not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage.

—ANDY ROONEY

Closing Notes

S
O THOSE are some of my Men stories. There are, of course, many more, but a girl likes to keep some in the vault for her next exhibition.

For the most part I chose to tell you either the funniest stories I could recall or the ones that were most poignant. To the men I didn’t write about: you are not forgotten, but perhaps you might wanna take the funny shit up a notch or create a more interesting story line.

During the course of writing this book I’ve experienced the agony and ecstasy of reflecting on a life well lived, and have had several beneficial epiphanies. For one thing, I realized that I’ve purged all of my misdeeds like some self-appointed confessional, the same way I’ve told my children all the bad things I’ve done at bedtime in lieu of fairy tales. My children never laugh so hard as they do when they learn the stupid shit I’ve done. So I hope you enjoyed the shit, too.

Secondly, I realized that there’s a lot of crap I
haven’t
done, so I’d like to summarize these “
haven’t
done” bad things:

I haven’t cheated on a boyfriend or a husband (meaning having sex with anyone else).

I haven’t dated married men.

I’ve not broken up anyone else’s marriage.

I’ve never murdered someone or stabbed anyone in the stomach.

I’ve never slept with anyone for a job.

I’ve never practiced prostitution.

I’ve never set a house on fire (intentionally) or been a polygamist or rapist.

I’ve not done heroin, crack, or crystal meth, and I’ve never robbed a convenience store (intentionally).

It gives me great solace to tell you this, as perhaps it balances out some of the sins of my past.

The next thing I realized was that women actually have had a profound effect on my life. Perhaps their influences have been more subtle, and for the most part, sans the high drama of the men in my life, but I can now clearly see the impact, for better or worse, they’ve had on my life.

But the main thing I twigged on throughout the writing of this book was how terribly lucky and blessed I’ve been to have been surrounded by some of the most powerful, intelligent, loving men walking the planet.

They have each, in their own unique way, shaped me into who I am. The memories of all of them give me something to reflect upon, to be thankful for, and to laugh about. A few have given me nightmares, but nonetheless, they’ve given me something to gossip about.

My dudes adorn the galleries of my life as do the fine paintings in the Louvre. Their brushstrokes continue to shape and inspire my own artistry, for there is no greater beauty nor larger canvas than the one we call our life.

So to all you glorious, crazy-assed, motherfucking men who have contributed to my art collection: I thank you and I embrace the opportunities I’ve experienced by loving you.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank Peggy Crawford for typing my book for me and for laughing at my stories along the way.

I also want to thank my children, True and Lillie, for supporting me writing this book, by not doing any totally idiotic things that would distract me. Now that the book is complete . . . carry on.

My husband whisked me away in a fire truck—this gave a new meaning to a “hot” relationship.

Babies who get married—love that Bob!

Shivers down my spine—ahhh, Jake!

“Funny little good for nothing Nicky” and me at the opera in 1982.

Merrit Butrick and I goofing around on the set of my first movie,
Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan
.

Tom, Tom, Tom—could you be any hotter? Too bad you were dating my roommate! Hehe