The Man Who Dined at Le Cirque

The memory of my wife faded. The past ceased to exist. Against my better judgment, I went online, hoping to fill the void in my life. I met eleven women, twelve if we include Sandra, the schoolgirl. That was a mistake, of course, but I couldn't help myself. She was exquisite, mature beyond her years, and completely and utterly without scruples. The extent to which she would go to exercise the outrageous fantasies buzzing around inside her small brain, an attribute that (at the time) I found irresistible, was astonishing. I shall make no excuse for my lapse in judgment, except to tell you that the interlude during which we were in flagrante lasted barely a moment in time. But, as Nabokov suggested, while it lasted the candle burned ever so brightly.

Of all the women I met in chat rooms and on threads, however, while there were the usual fringe benefits, most were less than expected, less than advertised, and well below the standard I had set for myself. Nonetheless, while it lasted, it was fun. The great restaurant had become the dues ex machine and the focal point of my adventures. I spared no expense. The women I courted stuffed themselves with the best food money could buy and repaid my hospitality on credit, and a good time was had by all. But it wasn't enough. And then I met Donatella, and everything changed.