High life
Go for it, James
Taki
nlike the tabloid press, I am not about to heap abuse on James Hewitt. His speciality may be unhappy married or divorced women, but nowadays this could pass as altruism. After all, somebody has to look out for the poor dears. Mind you, they're hardly poor. Hewitt's present squeeze, Kate Simon, looks good, but doesn't look like a big spender. So here's a tip, Hewitt: Lilly Safra. She's a billion- airess, she's quite nice, has lotsa grand houses and she's mature. More mature than Kate, say 15 years more. Although Lilly is still in deep mourning over Edmond Safra's death, Hewitt has a chance. As they say, luck favours the bold. Go for it, James.
When I read the Daily Mail story about the galloping major and Ms Simon, I noticed that the word gigolo appeared nowhere. It was obvious the lawyers kept the operative word out. But, as usual, the shysters got it wrong. To be a gigolo — a dancing partner or escort of an older woman — is a hell of an honourable pro- fession. Or used to be. In fact, some of my best friends were gigolos. Starting with Por- firio Rubirosa, the legendary playboy, pis- tolero, polo player, diplomat and lover of beautiful women. He was my mentor and best man when I married my first wife. Rubi was a modern Robin Hood. He took from rich women and spent it on younger poor ones. Now what could be fairer than that? Even those envious types of the scummy Guardian would have to agree. Rubi practised socialism in countries where it was a very dirty word. Like the Domini- can Republic, or Ciudad Trujillo, as it was back when he ran off with Flor de Oro Tru- jillo, daughter of strongman Raphael Leonidas Trujillo.
After Flor, and a permanent diplomatic post to Paris, Rubi married Doris Duke. He got Paris as a goodbye gift from Flor's father, but no cash. La Duke provided walking around moolah, plus a string of polo ponies. Soon after he married Danielle Darieux, France's most beautiful film star. It was true love, and it lasted throughout the war. When the cash ran out, Rubi married Barbara Hutton, and in 73 days got an aeroplane, 55 suits, $3 mil- lion — this was 1953 — and more polo ponies. His last wife, Odile, had not a penny but was among the sexiest and most beautiful girls in Paris. She was to become his widow. He died on the morning of 6 July 1965, having won the polo French Open and having spent the night celebrat- ing with a member of the losing team, yours truly. He hit a tree while driving home in his Ferrari. A perfect death for a gigolo-cum-sportsman-cum-playboy.
Space prohibits me from listing all my other gigolo friends, but I will mention two, both of them dead. Juan Capuro, a South American diplomat permanently posted to Paris, known as the best-looking man of his generation, and Aris Nyad, an Egyptian playboy and sportsman. Capuro, who played polo on the same team as Rubi and myself, died driving a Porsche from a night- club. He had just married a Porsche heiress. Nyad I met as a 12-year-old in Palm Beach, at the Breakers hotel where I was staying with my parents. He was the only man I ever saw dance with my mother. On New Year's Eve. When later I teased her about it — she never danced and never went out — she said it was because 'unlike your father's awful friends, Aris had exquisite manners'.
Rubi, Juan and Aris may have been gigo- los, but they were also dangerous men. In the good and romantic sense of the word. Which brings me to the present. Gigolos today sure ain't what they used to be. First and foremost they're not men. They're wimps, bisexual or out and out poofs. They are dangerous only because of the HIV viruses they may be carrying. The most suc- cessful of them all, Thierry Roussel, has received more than 150,000,000 greenbacks by now from the Onassis fortune, but he's the one who has given gigolos a bad name. He `gaslighted' Christina, humiliated and mentally tortured her, and shamelessly went after her money pretending to be investing it for her. Something no self- respecting gigolo of the old school would ever stoop to. Rubi made it plain to both Doris and Babs. You shall always be treat- ed like a lady in the drawing-room and a whore in bed, and you will provide for my lifestyle — or words to that effect. And he kept his word.
Ironically, Hewitt would have been per- fect for Christina Onassis. He's much bet- ter looking than the bleached frog Roussel, he has fought for his country, he can play polo and, knowing how hungry he is, he'd probably give the performance of his life in the sack. Alas, it is not to be. Too bad for both of them. The trouble with women today is they don't part with it the way they used to. James, take the advice of someone who knows. Lilly Safra is the name of the game. You'll both be very happy.
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