Many a “teachable moment” has emerged from the Madoff saga but I think the most important one we can agree on is “if you’re going to run a Ponzi scheme, don’t fuck one of your lunatic investors because she will go circus freak crazy on your ass.” Sheryl Weinstein’s anger is understandable, to an extent, but holy invisible D this woman scares the shit out of me. She continued to tell her “story” this weekend, re: what it was like to bang Bernie and while it’d probably be better to just pretend the whole thing never happened, I can’t look away. This thing is happening and I’m taking you with me. Strap in as Sheryl straps on.*
Before getting down to going down on Bernie, has anyone wondered what the awkward conversation with her husband, who until recently hadn’t known about the affair, was like? Was he totally blind-sided? Completely devastated? Not so much. He pretty much sensed all along she was an adulterous whore.
We sat down after dinner one night. I told him that I had something to share with him. Before he could say anything, I plunged in. “I had an affair 15 years ago.”
He didn’t appear shocked or angry, but he asked: “With whom?”
This was the hard part. “With Bernie,” I said.
“You’re kidding!” He almost laughed. “With Bernie? Him? What about Joey?”
Joey was my college boyfriend, whom I’d stayed in touch with over the years. “I thought if you were going to have an affair with anyone it would be him,” Ronnie said.
“No, it was Bernie.”
Okay, back to Bernie. Sheryl knew he wanted to do her from the start.
When his gaze fell on me, he blinked and looked a bit surprised. At 39, I was younger than my colleagues by more than two decades. He gave me a welcoming smile. It wasn’t lewd and lascivious, but slightly seductive and almost happy. I knew instantly that he was attracted to me.
His cardigan said “trust me,” his cock-ring screamed “I need assistance lasting longer than 30 seconds.”
Turning to look, I saw that he was wearing a cardigan. His casual attire seemed contrived in its subtlety, as if to say, I’m relaxed and in control; trust me! It was one of the only times I would ever see him so casually dressed.
Bernie may or may not have Tourette’s but regardless Sheryl is obsessed with convincing us he does.
By the time we’d been seeing each other six months, I’d picked up on a few of his eccentricities. In the middle of a conversation, he’d start blinking uncontrollably. He was constantly clearing his throat. I am convinced he suffers from Tourette’s syndrome — a neurological disorder characterised by repetitive, involuntary movements and vocalisations called tics — or some other undiagnosed illness such as obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Bernie’s constant blinking prompted me to give him the nickname “Winky Dink”. He blinked all the time when he was with me, and not so noticeably when others were around.
Sheryl is not a whore! She doesn’t fuck people who aren’t her husband except in cases when she does!
After we’d ordered our meal, he suddenly leant in towards me as if he was going to share a secret. “How about the two of us going off together somewhere?”
I was totally taken aback. The thought of taking our friendship beyond flirtation frightened me. I looked at him and started laughing. “I don’t think so. Adultery is not my thing. It’s not what I’m about. I’ve only been with two men in my life, my husband and my college boyfriend. I don’t know what you must be thinking of me, Bernie.”
Like this time she fucked Bernie Madoff. Let me tell you about that time. Want to know what Sheryl was wearing? How about Bernie’s body? I bet you want that described in detail.
We took adjoining rooms in the Willard hotel. After dinner I slipped into a sexy black negligée with slits down the side. He was in silk boxers. He had a nice build; he wasn’t muscular, but he was toned.
I felt sexy and empowered in my slinky nightgown. Sauntering over to Bernie, I perched on top of him. I was straddling his legs as I kissed his lips gently. It turned me on that he was secure enough to let a woman take the lead sexually.
I refuse to stop advancing my theory he had Tourette’s.
As I stroked his bare skin, Bernie suddenly flew into a full-body convulsion. He almost catapulted from the bed as though a tremor had ripped through him.
“Bernie, are you okay?” I asked. I was worried that he might be having a heart attack.
His eyes were blinking furiously. “Yes, I’m fine.”
As soon as we resumed our lovemaking his body jolted again.
“Bernie, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Sheryl, I’m fine.”
Okay, let’s talk positions.
We got back to business and took our time. Bernie was very sensual. I think it really turned him on when I got on top. I was turning myself on as well. Our lovemaking was slow and familiar. It seemed perfectly comfortable. There was none of the awkwardness that I had anticipated.
And yeah, in spite of the tiny penis, I had an orgasm, which is shocking but true.
Before Bernie, I’d been with only two men. Still, I knew this man was not well-endowed. All the same, much to my pleasant surprise, I was able to achieve an orgasm.
Seriously, I thought the sex was going to suck. Not so much!
To me, sex with Bernie turned out to be surprisingly exciting. I felt so totally alive! It was a feeling that had been missing in my life for years. My affair with Bernie provided an outlet for the passion that had been dormant for so long.
Key, of course, to achieving my orgasm was properly priming myself.
We settled into a pattern where I arrived first for our “soirées”, as he referred to our affair. I’d pour myself a vodka on the rocks from the minibar in the hotel room, and then smoke a joint to relax.
Ruth knows what I’m talking about.
“Oh, you smoke?” he said. “Ruth does, too. She buys her grass from someone at the firm.”
Also key to climaxing was me being the dominant one.
Our lovemaking sessions were more dynamic when I took the lead. Bernie did not take the role of aggressor in bed, although in the outside world he was very much the aggressor.
Not sayin Bernie asked me to call him a slut and pull his hair, just sayin.
Occasionally, Bernie expressed a macabre desire to be punished. He preferred “painful” deep-tissue massages to relaxing Swedish ones, and made references to sadomasochistic sex, something we never explored in our relationship.
Basically, I was amazing.
One night, as we lay in bed warm with afterglow, Bernie said in his low, rasping voice: “Sheryl, your sensuality is God-given. It doesn’t come naturally to everybody.”
He had Tourette’s.
I continued to notice behaviour that I found disconcerting. He always blinked with that nervous tic. But when we made love it wasn’t just his eyes that twitched. There were times when his entire body shuddered. Once he settled into the lovemaking, it wasn’t as severe, and it no longer startled me. Still, it was odd to have someone’s whole body hiccup like that while making love.
I swear on my possibly huge vagina, he had Tourette’s.
We were in a cab one evening when I raised the issue. I asked if maybe he had Tourette’s or some other type of neurological problem. He was indignant. “No, I don’t,” he insisted. “I probably jumped because you hurt me when you touched me.” I knew I hadn’t. But I didn’t want to argue with him.
In sum, after we ended the affair, he offered to set me up with some happy ending massages. I ultimately said no, but I thought about it.
The downside of stopping our physical affair was that I had so much pent-up passion — such raw emotion and no outlet for it. One evening while Bernie and I were having dinner at the Park Lane hotel, I talked with him about how frustrated I was.
“How do you deal with that lack of passion? Don’t you miss it?”
Pulling a little book from his jacket pocket and smiling, he turned to a page. The first entry that caught my attention was “MIA”. It had a phone number beside it. I thought he had found a girl named Mia to be his new “outlet”. As it turned out, MIA stood for Miami.
“Every time I go to Miami, I have someone to call. She helps me out with that ‘lack of passion’.” There were at least 10 or 12 abbreviated city names with numbers beside them. “I also have someone who comes to my home a couple of times a week for a massage. I can arrange for someone for you, too.”
*Kidding though it’s highly probable she’s just saving that story for later this week.
The poor woman is angry because she is just realizing that everything her mother said about such matters is true.
You are taking us there. And I didn’t want to go but I . . . felt . . . like . . . I . . . had . . . to. I may have to stop if she actually does reveal anything about a strap-on.
It’s frightening.
Why is she doing this?
that was like watching a car accident…
This preview thing gives me a chance to screw up my spelling twice!
Did I ever tell you about the time I climaxed?
amazing tags
A point of semantics. Is it really fucking (in the ass or otherwise), sucking, or more generally, an affair at all, if the D is so short and thin that it leaves no impression at all, beyond perhaps a cocked eyebrow?
Larry Kudlow looks like he’s going to die happy. I mean, live – on the air – minutes from now. Right now he’s harder than Dennis Kneale at the Westminster Kennel Club.
I hope when he B’s his L it stays below the table. It could be messy otherwise.
@7 it DID leave an impression. I CLIMAXED!!!
-sw
@7: Are you saying Bernie made her cock-eyed??????????
~The Point Belaborer’s Friend
I’m smiling because I’m not wearing any pants.
- Larry “Big Lar” Kudlow
what’s wrong with requesting to be called a slut and having your hair pulled?
-curious in stamford
“with him? Bernie? what about joey?”
awesome
She’s got that 1000 yard stare….of course she’s nuts!
No outlet for your passion? I can’t think of any husband who would turn down an extra roll or two in the sack with his wife.
Holy whoredom Batman!
why doesnt she buy herself a nice big black dildo and stfu
was that Joey Buttafucco?
This chick is a real slut we already know she banged Dwight Schrute and Andy Bernard. Now we find out she was fucking Madoff too, unreal.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGjElvt4nP8
Anyone else find that this new comment system doesn’t work at all in Firefox (PC)?
@20 dont be such a hipster with your firefox – just use ie
Greatest post ever?
@20 – Anal_yst
Can you explain what part of the commenting system doesn’t work? Or send a screenshot to nick@breakingmedia.com?
PLEASE TELL ME SOMEONE ELSE HEARD AMANDA DRURY JUST STATE SHE READ THAT PRISON GANGS ARE TRYING TO RECRUIT BERNIE b/c THEY FEEL BAD FOR HIM… PLEASE
@15
hello, it’s Greg’s absentee dad here – if you would have ever stuck your dick in that flesh eating plant that my ex wife calls her vagina you would know better
Anal – it works fine for me. 3.5.2.
@24
get
a
life
It’s a shame Glenn CLose is now too old to play this woman in a movie…Wait a minute – maybe she already has.
@27 SMD 24
Holy Shit – The Wall Street Journal has hired the Heat Miser to go after Goldman! Lloyd had better watch his ass now.
TOO MUCH INFORMATION!! The writing is terrible, the subject is nauseating, and the “show and tell” aspect is despicable. I’d rather be poor than make a mint as the author off a book on Bernie’s sexual prowess or lack thereof.
Never have sex with anyone crazier than you or poorer than you.
Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton and many others have found of late that you can leverage “sex” into big money and celebrity. And celebrity is really what we all want in our own way and on our own terms.
~Sigmoid Freud
God I pity the ghostwriter who had to work on this shit. I would’ve pulled my eyebrows out hair by hair first.
Comment box appears in Safari ok, but not in firefox 3.5.2 (using Mac Power Book Intel). And I’m not EP.
The comment box appears as a grey bar in my firefox.
I’m posting this using Safari.
Sounds like the plot of a bad Woody Allen movie.
We sat down after dinner one night. We both were wearing our 4-fingered white gloves. I told him that I had something to share with him. Before he could say anything in his cute little high pitched voice , I plunged in. “I had an affair 15 years ago.”
Mickey didn’t appear shocked or angry, but he asked: “With whom?”
This was the hard part. “With a feathered sailor who is a member of our group,” I said.
“You’re kidding!” Mickey tee-heed, covering his mouth with his white glove. “With Donald Duck? Him? What about that other guy?”
“That other guy” was my very best friend, whom I’d stayed in touch with over the years.
Mickey frowned and said, “I thought if you were going to have an affair with anyone it would be the other guy because I always thought you were fucking goofy!”
@29
ask your mother, she did mine well..
@37 nice
We sat down after dinner one night. We both were wearing our country-club golf clothes. We had played 36 holes and were very tired. I told him that I had something to share with him. Before he could say anything, I plunged in. “I had an affair 15 years ago.”
He didn’t appear shocked or angry, but he asked: “With whom?”
This was the hard part. “With Arnold Palmer.”
“You’re kidding!” he said, covering his mouth with his golf glove. “That is making me horny as hell! Arnold Palmer tapped it?? Let’s fuck right here, right now!!.
He slammed into me for a good 15 minutes and finished with a shout like he had hit an eagle at Lochnivar. As he rested I told him, “Arnold quickly rallied for a second “round”. He grabbed his putter and furiously stroked it into playing form and challenged my “rough” again.
After slicing into the fairway, he shouted as though someone talked during a put. Finished, he wheezed and relaxed. I quietly told him, “Arnold was able to do it again very quickly and…..”
He said, “Just a minute. I have to make a phone call.” He got up and fumbled for his cell phone. “Who are you calling?”, I asked.
“Arnold Palmer…” he said quickly. I have to find out what the “par” on this hole is!!
@40 amazing
do you think he had tourette’s?
After he brought dinner to my room I asked him to sit down because I had something to tell him.
“Oh honey, don’t talk….your condition is getting worse and you must rest..”
I plunged right in. “Fifteen years ago I had an affair……”
He stopped me. “Darling I know. Honey, you need to rest…your condition.”
I plunged on. “It was with Bernie……”
His expression didn’t change. He looked straight at me and said, “I know you had an affair with Bernie. I know. You need to rest…you’re not well…”
My eyes widened in shock. “You knew???” I gasped, feeling worse every second. ” You knew I had an affair with Bernie???”
He held my hand and gazed into my eyes. “Yes dear. That is why I poisoned you….”
The Willard Hotel???
That is cracking me up!
~Cody
“Turning to look, I saw that he was wearing a cardigan and a welders mask. His casual attire seemed contrived in its subtlety, as if to say, “I’m relaxed and in control; trust me! I could weld a man’s nutsack to his thigh and he’d never feel the heat.” It was one of the only times I would ever see him so casually dressed in tube socks with an arc welder in his trembling hands.”
“I continued to notice behaviour that I found disconcerting. He always blinked with that nervous tic, like a peephole inspector checking an occupied peep booth through a small hole and he hollered like a trader who was long Mirant stock the day they filed for bankruptcy when his nipple clamps were too tight.. But when we made love it wasn’t just his eyes that twitched. There were times when his entire body shuddered. Once he settled into the lovemaking, it wasn’t as severe, and it no longer startled me, not startling like finding out that there wasn’t a seat on the bicycle when you jumped on it but startling just the same. Still, it was odd to have someone’s whole body hiccup like that while making love. Maybe it had something to do with the pneumatic jackhammer he installed under our room’s bed since they didn’t have that “25 cent shakey-bed” like they did at the cheap motels in the Poconos.
“We settled into a pattern where I arrived first for our “soirées”, as he referred to our affair. I’d pour myself a vodka on the rocks from the minibar in the hotel room, and then smoke a joint to relax. “Do you smoke after sex?” he asked me once. “I’ve never looked..” I said as coyly as possible. He got the message. Soon he shivered and convulsed uncontrollably. “Are you OK?” I asked. “Fucking Chinese-made buttplugs….” he muttered.
Occasionally, Bernie expressed a macabre desire to be punished. He preferred “painful” deep-tissue massages to relaxing Swedish ones, and made references to sadomasochistic sex, something we never explored in our relationship. Once he asked me to wear a leather zippered full head mask and read the “Enron Code of Ethics” to him. Another time he asked me to read “lack bonus complaints” from disgruntled AIG traders while wearing NY Mets attire. I asked him about possible masochistic tendencies and he replied with a shrug, “Beats me.”
Somebody has too much time on their hands. And we’re benefitting from it – thank you!
I couldn’t understand the strange kinky-ness he brought to the table but it excited me. I wanted to explore the boundary of kink. He was more than willing and told me of a special room he had created just for such occaisions. We took a cab to a small non-descript apartment building and went inside. He opened the aprtment door and the entire room and fixtures were painted primer black.
I exhaled with excitement. He knew it. “Are we ready to have strange kinky sex now?” Not yet he said. Wait.
He switched on a black light and all the hippie posters and lint glowed white under the light. “I can see your bra now under the black light…” he muttered guttorally. I quickly disrobed.
Seeing a round bed I jumped upon it. “I am ready for our strange kinky sex…” “Not yet…wait….” he said.
He went into another room and came out naked except for some freshly ironed tube socks and a giant industrial tank of some sort strapped on his back. It had a nozzle and hose like a flame thrower. Suddenly he was sending huges jets of whipped cream all over me!!!! I was as turned on as I had ever been in my life!!
“Now, now..take me!! My breasts call you!!! I must have that strange kinky sex!!!!”
Suddenly the lights went on. In the naked light of a dangling buld th black room was drenched in whipped cream.
He stood by a doorway, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey!” I shouted. What about me? What about the strange kinky sex promise? Aren’t we going to have some strange sex?” I asked incredulously.
He took a long drag on the cig, exhaled and said, “We just did have “strange kinky sex. I shit in your purse.”
“Key, of course, to achieving my orgasm was properly priming myself.”
I knew she was using the south or the border handbridge.
@50 FTW!!
@49 et al…. it was mildly amusing until the purse comment- You really closed hard.
@40: Nice. Could you create a version with Gasparino as the protagonist? I think Charles would appreciate it.
I am familiar with the joke @49 presented. In the early 1980s it was a popular joke among male physicians and migrated familialy to the energy trading community. A veritable “knee-slapper’ among males, the joke found less popularity among females who enjoyed a bawdy story from time to time. That lack of popularity primarily came from more women using purses than men and the visual image of a befouled purse hit home hard in that audience, smothering the humoristic intent of the joke among that group. The “kinky sex joke” as it is known, had gone into remission for quite sometime in the late 1980s and while it was interesting to see it “dropped off” here today, one doubts it will ever become “mainstream”.
~The Joke Briefer
Bernie: You know what, lady? I’d like to tie you to the back of a fucking truck.
Sheryl: You don’t have the balls.
[Bernie leaps up from his chair toward Sheryl and is intercepted by Greg Michaels]
Greg Michaels: Don’t do it! It’s not worth it.
Bernie: I fucking hate her, Greg!
Greg: I know, I know.
@55 ftw
-dennis leary
@59 FTW!!
The way to summarize this book in a (small) nut_shell:
Bernie Fucked me then Fucked Me.
I NEED TO UNREAD!
SOMEONE HELP
[...] (though accounts by his former mistress, Sheryl “Honey Jar” Weinstein would suggest silk boxers, size small) and whose ass was featured, though it could have very will been Bernie, who was never [...]
bXhKyG I really enjoy the article post.Much thanks again.