Last week, I was at a party at the sophisticated Le Cirque restaurant on East 58th Street street for the HBO documentary Le Cirque: A Table in Heaven. I asked fabled Le Cirque owner Sirio Maccioni, a very elegant man who smelled great, what happens when his beautiful wife of 38 years, Egidiana, sees hot women all over him?
“I can tell you one thing,” said Mr. Maccioni. “For me, a world without women would be impossible. But also I’ve never been stupid. I respect myself and I respect my wife and I respect my children. When we were at the other restaurant on 65th Street, we had the most beautiful women in the world. You know what was my satisfaction? I’d say, ‘Yes, you’re attractive, I’m sorry I cannot go with you.’ As a joke, that was for fun. It’s all mental what you do. I knew that I could have done, I know that I could do.”
I could smell the animal on him. I asked my new hero what his favorite sex act was?
“I like all of them,” he said, his leonine head inclining toward me. “I have done it all. I have done it all in the right way and most of all, always with beautiful woman—beginning with my wife.”
“No, no, no,” interrupted Mr. Maccioni’s biographer, Peter Elliot, who was standing nearby. “Ending with your wife.”
It was that kind of night. What was I doing there, anyway? I had, like, five bucks to my name, and here I was, at a fancy restaurant, when, to me, food just means Burrrrp! Pffffft! Plop! Flush! But sex still works when I can get it (twice a month max, thanks to the economy).
Well, I was just doin’ my job. The whiskey was sloshing inside but I was still nervous approaching socialite Debbie Bancroft, whom I’ve always wanted to spoon. I wagered a question: We all know New York men have gone flaccid; how can New York City women get these men back to old-school boning?
“I think if the women were less selfish, and less involved in things they can acquire, they might actually pay more attention to the man they’re with,” she said. “So this may all just jibe beautifully with the recession: No money, no shopping, so look at who you’re with, talk to him.”
What does she like better, food or fucking?
“Can I put a martini first, then food? Then fucking.” She said the word as if it had four syllables; my tape recorder was inches from her lips. I asked what was the best dish she ever had at Le Cirque?
“Foie gras ravioli.”
Favorite sex act?
“Are you serious? Holding hands. Nicole, here’s your wine glass.”
Nicole Miller, the glamorous fashion designer, was before me, looking sultry and in the mood.
“Food or fucking?” I blurted, spilling whiskey on my khakis.
“Oh my gawd,” she said. “I’m happy to have both.”
She talked about the time Mario Maccioni, one of Sirio’s three pretty sons, brought her bread crusts with lard and white truffle shavings—on the house! Zounds!
Her favorite sex act?
“Kissing.”
Blech!
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.
Holy moly!
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.”
KA-BON-N-N-N-N-GGGGG!
Everywhere I looked were yummy MILF-y women but one really stood out with her mink hat and sable coat. She was Sonja Morgan, a film producer whose 8-year-old daughter’s great-great-great-grandfather was J. P. Morgan. Ms. Morgan said she’s a good friend of Sirio’s. (“He always guests me, I never pay.”) I asked her her favorite sex act.
“Kissing.”
Oh man!
I asked her how to get New York’s limp men to step up.
“Do not mention the stock market, do not mention shopping and don’t wear underwear.”
I asked if kissing really was the summit.
“Let’s just put it this way,” she said, sweeping up her fur coat and turning around. “I have the most amazing ass.”
Artist Brian Farrell was by the buffet. With his shaved head he resembled actor Billy Zane but much better-looking. Wildest sex he’s had this year?
“Three girls,” he said. “I wasn’t involved, but watching. It was a friend’s birthday party. By 12:30 a.m. I was being dragged out the door by three women, thrown into a cab. ‘You’re going to watch us all fuck each other.’ They wanted me to sit in a chair. Wasn’t allowed to touch ’em. One was 19, she’s a model. The other was 22, a model—so to speak—and the other was in her early 40’s, an Upper East Side socialite. Socialites are the worst. They’re dirty. They love it. They get in there.”
He said he also loves the monkfish at Le Cirque.
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