It was a matter of time, of too much time, too much free time. Money was not a problem. I’ve never had to spend money I earned, I was provided in excess, there was always more to come and what came I put in Pfizer stock and there it stayed dividend reinvestment increased the sum considerably throughout all these years. Not that I cared. All my life I cared only about one thing, women, and when women were gone from my life, I ceased to care. What mattered now was my age, years piling up on me, pressing me down, a burden that only my demise could relieve. I had no illusions about my destination. I spent my life wallowing in the sweet juices that conceived and produced life. Finally I was denied access, for the first time since puberty, I was alone. Nature had introduced me to the garden of infinite pleasures, and now banished from it, decomposing flesh, quickly fading away.

I bought a nice little house in a quiet neighborhood, where rich people lived, planning to open up a restaurant to feed on them. Again, not for the money's sake, but for the sake of observing, if not possessing beautiful women who had married wealth. Money and beauty always go together. That too is in the nature of existence.

A small vegetarian café with a capacity of forty diners, oak paneling, candles, illumination, twilight at noon, sensual atmosphere. A special place bathed in the cheapness of mass-production and pretentiousness. It was a success from the start. Although very briefly. Gorgeous young women did like a new restaurant on the block. They would file in, following one another, for the neighborhood was a corporate community, constantly on the lookout for gossip. Here, in the semi-darkness they felt at ease, almost at home, two women talking about a third and the third talking about the original two to yet another friend, sitting at the table furthest from the window. Everything went as planned. But I made a single blunder that almost bankrupted me. Conservative and orthodox middle aged and aging nouveau riche husbands became hostile to the idea that their younger, money-vaporizing, unemployed wives were idling away the afternoon in the kind of place that emphasized rather than sublimated their darker, non-monogamous pasts. For at heart, as any experienced man well knows, every woman is polyandrous. Here in the candle-lit semi-darkness, it all came out, in thoughts, in words, and subsequently in deeds.

In the face of the impending crisis, I found a compromise. Instead of remodeling the interior and altering the decor, I initiated and advertised a take out section. I just loved the sublime exquisiteness of the café to transform itself into a conventional eatery. Well, if a wife's allowance depended on whether or not she socializes at my notorious establishment, she might just as well order food to go and have the Styrofoam clamshell delivered to her porch.

Yes, I am a stubborn old fool, I admit, I’ve lived by my own rules all my life and I refuse to give up my right to do whatever I want.

I lost about half my ‘live’ customers, but re-gained them in the take-out section. The other half with radical views and less conservative husbands would show up regularly, sit their perfect buttocks on the lacquered wooden chairs and chatter non-stop throughout dinner. To keep up with fashionable trends, those who didn’t come in would place orders over the phone, even if they were small, to be delivered.

In the autumn of their life, people become voyeurs. To support this proclivity, I had a two-way glass window installed. A mirror outside, transparent glass from the inside. In the privacy of my office, I would sit and watch beautiful women consume my food in my café where gossip and hunger held them hostage. Unfortunately I cannot satisfy their other hunger. I hover around the tables, humble as a waiter, invisible, ignored. On the other side, in my office I look at my face in the mirror. My skin sags, shriveled, discolored. Old age is a monstrosity, fading away and out into nothingness, I come from decades ago. There is no fire in my eyes anymore. There is only the wisdom of experience I have no use for, a desert of passed highways, towns, a blur.

There is no count of how many women I have known. For all women are just one. A playboy is the unlucky but successful guy who possesses variety, who flees from sexual monotony. I was successful but miserable and always alone. And then they stopped dropping by on the way between manicure-pedicure and dentist, seamstress and lover’s den. Yes, there was still pressure from jealous husbands, but the bottom line was that my place had gone out of fashion, however they did keep on calling for take out orders. Then I had this idea. I wanted to be a part of it. Of being, if not physically, then communicatively, with beautiful women. I fired the server boy and began to answer phone orders myself. Rich men's wives complain, they complain all the time, for no reason. Of course I knew how to talk. Soothingly, boldly, frivolously, insistently, persistently, sincerely, honestly, stupidly, intelligently. In order to mellow them down, I knew how to inspire contradictions, stir up weaknesses, focus on mysteries, how to pamper, to indulge, to heal. All within approximately three minutes of take-out order dialogue. The art of womanizing is like every art, a God-given gift honed by the experience of repetition. A few days later, I had my whole clientele back, this time armed with credit cards in the coziness of their homes, cuddling with the phone speaking to the invisible male voice, opening up, receiving a potion of loving via satellite. They would place small orders and linger on the phone, talking to me. For they would talk, at that point in time I would be silent, just listening to these beautiful women unburden a day-full of petty problems, gossip, hopes and desires. I was a grateful listener taking it all in, escaping from the silent tomb of my office. They trusted me, me, whom they didn’t know or recognize. Of course my identity was not important to them. No one would come to my café any longer. I closed it up and only kept the kitchen working. I placed a phone in my office, chefs would do the cooking, a delivery guy would drive around the gated community, delivering diet meals to the discontented wives. Then they call, they stop placing orders altogether. They give me their credit card numbers and beg me to charge them as much as I desire for the opportunity of conversing with me. Why? Because I appear to care, because I show warmth, attentiveness, directed solely towards her and no one else. I dismiss my staff. I close down the café, and go back to the seclusion of my little, tree-shielded house at the end of the block. I probably made thousands on those monologues, for monologues they naturally became over time. The women wanted to talk, they wanted to be heard, they didn't really want to hear me. For I was made for action, not words. When they say "the word is God," they are quite wrong. The word is woman. I didn’t check my credit card income. I didn’t care about the money. Not even out of curiosity did I inquire. I knew I would learn the amount was high, possibly very high. What is it to me now? There are female voices in my house again, they keep me connected to the past when I was the master, when I could do anything I wanted and God was always on my side. There is a myriad, an eon of angst, joy, hilarity, screams, purring in my house again. I engulf myself in the juices of life and they revitalize me, spiritualize my dying self. Those women on the phone are doing me a big favor, not the other way around. After all they are listening to themselves speak, and I am hearing my heart beat again. Extramarital affairs, mind-shattering boredom, bringing up children. I listen to women talk; they listen to the ticking of their inner clock. They are the existence, the essence, where it all begins and ends. They are the end and the beginning. They used to tell me that I was obsessed. They used to tell me that I never grew up. They used to tell me all I needed was love. Their husbands are preoccupied with business. They become their jobs, in their sterile offices twelve hours a day, including weekends. I, on the other hand, am available twenty four seven. I understand them. Connect with them. With them. For them. Even now, when I am dysfunctional. When I am not what I used to be. Not by a long shot. If you are smart enough, can follow a pattern and know how to play the game by rules you have learned and adapted, it is inevitable you will succeed. Nature provides. My hands are shaking, my eyes don’t see, I’ve gone blind, I pee in my bed, I hardly can move. A boy brings me pre-prepared food . There is a doctor who comes to check if I’m still alive. But I’m still surrounded by beautiful women. I hear their voices all the time, female voices. They speak to me, they talk about their youth, their burning hormones, ardent loves, nights of sensuality, wild explosions of ecstasy. They speak to me but I am unable to hear a word.