Sometimes I think it all begins and ends with alcohol. Like, when I met Jeffrey it was at this bar aptly called, believe it or not, "The Pick Me Up," and when I kicked him out it was in a martini-infused rage that was like something out of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Which isn't to say I condone the use of alcohol to enhance/numb your feelings (take note, you adorable minors out there) but I just feel the need to make a point. In a minute, you'll see why.

Yesterday, Jeffrey shows up at my door. It's the afternoon, like two or three, pouring rain outside, and of course I'm alone on the treadmill and watching reruns of "Law and Order: Movie Has-beens Turned TV Cops" when the doorbell rings and rings and rings and I'm like, "Who is this moron?" and I'm thinking I should have gone with my BFF Annabelle to the shooting range in Beverly Hills to learn how to "pack one" like she told me to. And then, suddenly, the door opens and there's Jeffrey, standing, soaking wet, and dripping water on my brand new floors.

Now the fact that Jeffrey still has a key is a big, fat, obvious problem. He was supposed to surrender it and I was supposed to change the locks when he didn't and neither of us did what we were supposed to do. And he just stands there, looking at me and of course I can tell immediately that he's drunk off his ass and he's kind of swaying from side to side and then he says, "Esme, c'mon — for old times sake. Get on the fucking pole."

Okay, Annabelle said I should have mentioned this right off the bat but honestly, I was kind of mortified, not that I should be, but now, in the interest of full disclosure — well, here goes. I have a stripper pole. In my garage actually. I have a stripper pole in my garage. Next to the elliptical and the propane. It's titanium. Very shiny.

The stripper pole was Jeffrey's idea. And I'm not going to lie to you, at first I thought, well, maybe it was a good one. He came home from work one day, all bouncy and excited and told me not to leave the house tomorrow ‘cause something was being delivered. So I don't leave and voila, the next day, there it is. And I'm thinking, "Ouch, kinky — good on you Jeffrey," and like I'm gonna be one of those really hot moms who slides up and down the pole after she's cooked dinner, and fed the kids and done all the laundry and put the house to bed and after all that she's gonna turn her husband on by getting good and greasy and sliding around like a monkey. I thought, "Hell, I can do that." I mean, for a while, in our neighborhood, the pole was really in. It was like, the new pilates reformer but better because in theory, you could do it naked.

Okay, so first lesson — can't actually do it naked. Because you'll stick. And then there's the problem of all your jiggly bits. This is what I quickly learned. I tried it. I honestly gave it my all. I had Jezabel, this pole guru that all the moms swear by come to the house and she gave me and Annabelle lessons and you would've thought Annabelle would be really good at it but frankly, her boobage got in the way.

I wasn't bad actually, because I went at it with a really gung-ho, positive attitude. And I'm thinking, I'm all hot shit and flexible like when I was in my twenties and Jeffrey's gonna jump my bones way more now.

So like a week later he comes home and I've got his whole thing planned. I'm wearing lycra which is a good way to start, because you can glide a little and then the idea is to strip down to something sexy plus you have more traction. So I do that and Jeffrey's kinda just standing there, in his "Ho Ho Ho" boxers (his idea of a joke, one can only assume), his jaw on the floor and I'm wearing this hot La Perla number I got on sale and I can tell he's really turned on. And hey, did I mention this pole is supposed to burn like, nine hundred calories a dance or something? Which is an added bonus if you ask any aspiring pole dancer over the age of 35.

So Jeffrey is like practically salivating and I'm feeling the power and gyrating all over the place and did I mention I've oiled myself really well with this smelly Jo Malone body butter Annabelle has sent over from London and I've got Jeffrey in the palm of my greasy hands. And then it happens. Full disclosure here. I fart. I fart a really big one because, well, hey — because frankly, I had two kids and my digestive system's never been the same. And seriously, you try having a couple of C-sections, having your intestines taken out of your abdomen and rearranged twice, I might add, and you try that and pole gyrating without farting once and a while. And maybe, who knows? Maybe as far as Jeffrey is concerned it was karmic retribution. (When I'm not feeling mortified, I like to think so.)

Well, needless to say, that ruined the moment. Oddly, it didn't seem to bother Jeffrey as much as I thought it would, but it bothered me and obviously, I couldn't look at the pole the same way after that. Once in a while I'd jump on it, for old times sake, but it was never really the same.

And now here's Jeffrey, drunk as a skunk, in my living room, looking at me, totally with that kind of lust, like I haven't seen in a really long time. And he tells me the concubine has thrown him out for some infraction or another, he's all teary and like, "Esme, you've always been 'The One'" and what do I do? You're not gonna believe this. Or maybe you will. I mean, I was married to the man for over fifteen years. Once upon a time I even loved him. So what do I do? I'm lonely, I'm sex-starved, I'm bored, I'm an AMNESIAC. I fucking let him in.

To get up to speed on Esme's musings and "Hot Flashes," check out "In the Beginning".