Think you don’t need to perform your own quarterly audits of your husband’s business to check for any discrepancies? Think again. Choose not to take regular looks at your meal ticket’s book and you could go from dining on the finest shellfish money can buy (“Some of those black-tie events were so fucking boring. We went to one at Blackstone? Their holiday party? I was like, I can’t believe I spent so much time getting ready for this”), chairing charities (that include pole-dancing fundraisers), residing in a $7.5 million townhouse on the Upper East Side (screening room and pool, natch), receiving all the trinkets you could ever desire (“She got whatever she wanted: diamonds—at least a quarter-million dollars’ worth, according to the U.S. Attorney’s office—designer clothes, even a new pair of boobs”) living, blissfully, prenuptial agreement free, and thinking you’d never have to go back to working the late shift at Scores…
…to having your assets frozen as part of your Ponzi-scheming husband’s SEC suit, living in a Time Square walk-up and kicking men in the balls for a measly hundred bucks.
[Passage is]…relaying a story about another evening at another perennial, the Waldorf-Astoria, where a guy paid her $100 to kick him in the balls: “He was into humiliation or whatever.” She giggles. Passage is a petite, smoky-eyed Kardashian brunette, and when she laughs, her grapefruit-tree physique bounces merrily. “It was so weird.”
“What’d you do?” asks one of the men, a ruddy real-estate developer we’ll call Barry. “I kicked him in the nuts!” she says, like duh. She’d been sitting at the bar with a friend who “kind of looks like a hooker,” so it wasn’t surprising when the well-dressed man who’d bought their drinks made a business proposal. “We went into this little area and he was like, ‘First, go into the restroom and make me wait,’ ” she says. “So I went into the bathroom for like fifteen minutes and I was texting all my friends and then I came out and I kicked him in the nuts and he was like”—she drops her voice down to a meek whisper—“ ‘Thank you.’ ”
Let this be a lesson to you all.
A Holly Golightly for the Stripper-Embezzlement Age [NYMag]