Barry Arbiloff

The Man Who Dined at Le Cirque Barry Arbiloff

The memory of my wife faded. The past ceased to exist. Women came and went through the revolving door of the blogosphere. I met many women online, including a precocious tart by the name of Sandra. That was a mistake I shall probably live to regret, of course, but I couldn't help myself. God forgive me, she was the best of the lot: exquisite, mature beyond her tender years, remarkably precocious in her sexual proclivities, and as dumb as the day was long. You would not believe the extent to which she would go to exercise the outrageous fantasies buzzing around her infantile brain, an attribute that I am ashamed to say I found irresistible. 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, 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. I cannot complain, though, for my "ladies-in-waiting" went out of their way to satisfy my needs, which had become, for lack of a better word, excessive. The great restaurant had become the deus ex machina and the focal point of my adventures. I spared no expense, and a good time was had by all. But it wasn't enough. And then I met Donatella, and everything changed.