Fifty years old and often on the cover of blacks on cougars, a basic force in world finance, as forbes called me once, the terror of boardrooms and a mover and a shaker on Wall strett, and there I am in Isabel's little New York kitchen clanging the grying pan against the steel sing because I'm pissed and jealous. Because she's more interested in a play than in me. Because I can't get it up with her and haven't in the months we've lived together. Clang goes the pan as I set it back on the wood-burning stove, scruubed. And from here in my self-imposed exile on Belson I can see I was angry with Isabel because she was a beautiful, smart, erotic woman who wanted me to fuck her. The very idea, I was saying in my heart, as I scrubbed bacon grease off that morning's breakfast plates. Who in the hell does she think she is ready for blacks on cougars? said that scared child in my mossy old rib cage.