I grabbed another free Johnnie Walker Red. Over by the bar was comic actor Robert Wuhl. Dude’s been married to the same woman for 25 years. His favorite sex act?
“Getting some. Any. I just said I’ve been married for 25 years.”
Over by the buffet was Monica Crowley, the foxy Fox commentator. For the record, I have thought about her sexually.
She likes pasta. Her favorite sexual position? No dice.
During a recession: sex or food?
“Sex, because it doesn’t cost anything most of the time,” she said.
Eeegads! I did not want to think about this nice girl paying for a bone dance. So I moved on: What did she make of the fact that New York men are just whacking it to Internet porn?
“I think that holds true as long as the Internet porn is free and it’s not a pay site,” said Ms. Crowley. How can New York women get these limp cheapskates boning again?
“A visit to La Perla to replenish that top drawer,” she said. “It’s not socks, George.”
Favorite sex act?
“A great, passionate kiss.”
While in the missionary position?
“A great passionate kiss on the mouth—where the kiss moves to the back of the neck.”
Ms. Crowley caught me checking out her outfit: Ralph Lauren vintage silk wrap, Armani pants and Jimmy Choo black leather boots.
“And La Perla underneath, from the top drawer,” she purred.
I was saved by Vanity Fair writer George Wayne.
“Fucking always works, honey,” he told me. He was wearing Oliver Peoples shades, Calvin Klein bespoke suit and Valentino pumps. He smelled like a saddle. How can women get N.Y.C. men boning again?
“Put a half a Viagra in the mojito. Get a push-up bra, a nice pair of hot pants and no underwear.”
Did he think Internet porn was ruining sex lives?
“I just discovered Internet porn and I didn’t know what I was missing. Before I go to bed, I have a good wank.”
Mauro Maccioni, another of Sirio’s strapping sons, told me his favorite food at Le Cirque was: His wife! And then the crème brûlée. He said he’d had sex in the private room upstairs at one of the family’s other restaurants—Le Cirque 2000. His favorite sex act is smearing crème brûlée over his testicles and then presenting them to his wife.
I nabbed Mr. Elliot, Sirio’s biographer, and asked him if there’s much boom-boom in his biography of the great man,
“The woman in question, his wife, is right there,” he said, swiveling his eyes. “There were lots of allusions in my book to the beautiful women who love Sirio and Sirio loves—but he always goes home. Because you know what, she’d fricking kill you with a pan. If Egidiana ever thought that her husband was ever actually really fucking around on her, she has a frying pan like this.”
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