#Me Too! It happened right here, in Gstaad, last week. A man in his mid-50s, around six feet tall and about 165 pounds, forcibly grabbed me by the neck, pushed my head down, and then slid his hand between my legs. He continued to do that in a very dominating and aggressive way—he could have passed for Kevin Spacey, but with his own hair—pulling at my thighs, clawing at my chest, always pulling me closer and closer while breathing heavily on my neck. I could not move my head so I finally surrendered and lay back. He then stretched himself on top of me and held me tight. I had to give in.
Yes, dear reader, however horrible it might sound to you—after all, I’m 81 years old—at times a boy has to give in to superior force and enjoy it. Part of the description of the struggle you read above was plagiarized from Kate Upton’s depiction of a Hollywood type doing to her what Hollywood types do to models and actresses. My attacker was Richard Amos, my karate sensei, with whom I was doing judo after a very spirited karate session. I am a former world champion—70 and over—in judo, but Richard has done enough to once in a while embarrass me on the judo mat, as he did last week, although I never tapped out. Mind you, Richard is no Harvey Weinstein. With Harvey on top I most likely would have tapped out; he’s too heavy a load. Last week was the best one yet. No, not because of the wrestling scene I’ve described above, but because of the twice-a-day sessions of karate that took up the best part of the week, ending with the mixed drill of 15 seconds fighting, 15 seconds wrestling to round it all up. While Richard and I were writhing on the ground trying to choke each other out, my mind wandered back to Hollywood. Wouldn’t it be better—nicer, really—if the men tried to do it the old-fashioned way, by whispering sweet nothings in a girl’s ear, instead of using the Eichmann method of procrustean sex? I think it would, by far. If the girls are telling the truth, that is. I remember seeing a cartoon when I was very young—before I learned the facts of life, which was actually quite recently. Two Neanderthal women were walking and one of them had a great big bump on her head. Two males were watching them and one says to the other, “That’s no virgin,” pointing to the one with the bump. It seems to me we’ve regressed—if the girls are telling it like it is, that is.
Never mind. Life up here in the Alps is beautiful. The snow keeps falling, and I went to a party recently to enjoy some caviar that a friend brought back from China, where he lives. Everyone was my son’s age, hence the dinner was fun. One remark stood out in the rather drunken evening, by a pregnant lady married to Andrea Casiraghi, Princess Caroline’s son. “What kind of woman goes up to a man’s hotel room and stays there while he goes to take a shower?” “The kind that comes to Gstaad to find a live one,” answered yours truly before the booing began.
Hangovers are easy to get over in the thin air of the Alps. Both of my grandchildren are attending the JFK school in the next-door village of Saanen, and they’re up at 7.30 a.m. each day except for the weekend. They ski in the afternoons and mostly lunch at the Eagle Club with their father. They race every Saturday and Sunday—they are 12 and 10—but the big race will be the one sometime in March, when their father will set up a slalom course and they will race against yours truly. I have predicted victory by 30 seconds, something as likely to happen as me being raped by Kevin Spacey. My boy J.T. tells me that little Taki will win by half a minute, but the little shit doesn’t yet know it. The kid keeps practicing like mad in order to humiliate me, but I have a few tricks up my sleeve, too. Mind you, skiing is not for old men. I don’t know why, but one’s scared shitless to fall after 60, something I could not fathom when I was young. I used to take spectacular falls while showing off, and even had a horse die on me while galloping full-out during a polo match. Nothing ever happened to me, except a broken leg and a torn rotator cuff and a broken ankle and two broken thumbs. It might sound like a lot, but it’s not. Now I’m too scared to fall while doing less than 10 mph.
It’s the same with women. I used to have a good pickup line but wouldn’t dream of utilizing it now. An oldie trying to pick up a young woman reminds me of overwrought N.Y. Times columnists—the males are bald and the women are hairy—hysterically trying to reverse electoral outcomes. Both seem very pathetic, but at least the oldie has an excuse. Finally, I am told that my sexual-harassment lawsuits against Keira Knightley, Jennifer Lawrence, and Rebecca Hall are progressing. My American lawyers Epstein, Epstein and Goldfarb are confident of victory. “You are the male version of a Harvey Weinstein victim,” is the way they put it to me. Yippee!