For the first few trips with my older, wealthy boyfriend—the Stetson man—I had always insisted on us having separate hotel rooms. Apart from the obvious rationale of not wanting my husband to call and have the front desk accidentally reveal anything incriminating, there was another reason: I never again wanted to share another home, room, or bathroom with a man. There is something about the daily functions of life that takes the excitement out of a relationship, and I didn’t want that to happen to us.
So, when the Stetson man and I would travel together, I would insist on my own room, where I would shower and do whatever else I needed to do on my own. His room was where all of our excitement happened. I felt like this helped to keep me on a pedestal in his eyes. But did it really?
Around the time that I was newly separated from my husband, my best friend and I took a lot of trips to Las Vegas. In fact, we spent nearly the whole month of July in Vegas. I was running away from the shortcomings in my failed marriage, and so the two of us did a lot of partying. The Stetson man would fly in and join us every chance he had, which was pretty often.
There was one particular trip when I was on a mission to see just how much I could get away with. I was dating a man that didn’t indulge in alcohol, and I had so far been successful in hiding the fact that I needed Betty Ford on speed dial. The truth is that my minibar tabs were more than the nightly rate at the hotel, and my favorite saying was that “rehab is for quitters and I am no quitter.” On this trip, my best friend was getting especially frustrated with my drunkenness: I had told a few people off and had fallen out of several limousines. She was looking forward to the Stetson man’s arrival so that I would be his problem.
On the day of his arrival, I was at the pool bar making friends with everyone. My best friend kept coming down to the pool to try and get me to go back to my room to prepare for the Stetson man’s visit that evening, but I wouldn’t listen. I continued to party with my new friends, and I actually orchestrated a multi-person insult on her. I had everyone give her the Hitler salute when she came down for what would prove to be her last attempt at getting me back to my room. The salute did it for her—she was done trying to make me listen. She left me downstairs where I continued to party with the other guests. I was completely oblivious to the fact that the Stetson man would be arriving in just a few hours…