Confessions of a Sexaholic

What if Italy's Silvio Berlusconi asked America's most famous sex columnist for help...

I have a problem. I like to think of myself as a pretty powerful guy: Let's just say that, in my current gig, I have at my disposal the seventh largest GDP in the world. And it wasn't just handed to me: I worked my ass off for it. Built my own media company from the ground up, and charmed and networked and elbowed my way to the top of my field. Along the way, I've been known to indulge occasionally -- OK, often -- in my fondness for extracurricular women, the younger the better. (Still in high school? Don't mind if I do.)

The peccadilloes in my work and social lives always fit hand in glove: borrow a little money from the business account to woo a pretty young thing (ladies don't pay for themselves, you know?); then bring her into the office to win the admiration and respect of my colleagues and clients.

But I'm starting to lose my magic. It started when my wife left me a year ago. She didn't go quietly -- it was public and messy. Then the Feds started auditing my business after years of looking the other way. (Morale at the office is low -- I was nearly fired a few weeks back.) And to top it off, the women I've been with are either trying to extort me for even more money than I've already given them, or they're gabbing to the cops about our pay-for-play arrangements.

So here's my question: Why can't I get away with it anymore? I remember what they told us in Catholic school about sins of the flesh, and I'm starting to think they were right -- that my years of risky romantic escapades are catching up with me. Judging from all my other powerful friends, you don't have to be a saint to be successful in this world, but maybe it's just a matter of time.

Or maybe it's just the fact that I'm getting up there in years? (Though I doubt that: With the procedures I've had, you wouldn't guess I'm 74, trust me. And I've still got my natural charm -- hey, back in the day I was a singer on a cruise ship.)

Well, at least I'm not gay, right?

—Confused Italian Approaching Obsolescence

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