View Full Version : "My Scandalous Life with a Billionaire Cougar" - Adam Baker's Banned Book

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 08:51 PM
Adam Baker was married to Nu Skin co-founder Sandie Tillotson. In his book, which launched in October, 2011, which follows below in its entirety, he describes a lot of things that we know are either true or could very well be. To stop the truth from spreading it was removed by Nu Skin and Sandie's lawyers about as fast as it appeared...

Ripoff Report (http://www.ripoffreport.com/r/Nu-Skin/Provo-Utah-/Nu-Skin-nuskin-Formerly-Filthy-Rich-Adam-Bakers-book-banned-by-Nu-Skin-bullying-nu-ski-802047)

Right. So much for Ripoff Report's slogan "Don't let them get away with it.® Let the truth be known!" and "first amendment right to freedom of speech" policy. As the writer below notes, Nu Skin's lawyers got to Ripoff Reports - the book is gone.

Voice of Reality - SUBMITTED: Sunday, May 06, 2012

The book, "Formerly Filthy Rich", which was removed from this original post by Nu Skin's ruthless lawyers, is still floating around out there in cyberspace. It's only a matter of time until it finds its way onto a site where it cannot be 'bought off'. These sites do exist, mind you.

Big Money Can't Buy The Truth (http://www.ripoffreport.com/r/Nu-Skin/Provo-Utah-/Nu-Skin-nuskin-Formerly-Filthy-Rich-Adam-Bakers-book-banned-by-Nu-Skin-bullying-nu-ski-802047)

I see Nu Skin and their lawyers finally got to MLMFU also - (he joined this forum Aug 2012). He had the book up on his site - "Formerly Filthy Rich" - Mlmfu.com (http://mlmfu.com/adambakersbook.html). Now the book is gone - just like Diederik van Nederveen's "Trophy Husband #2". All traces of it have been scrubbed from the net.

But as Voice of Reality said above, copies of the book are still floating around out there in cyberspace. I know - I have a copy! And you know what else? I'm going to put the whole thing up on this forum - All 29 chapters - the whole kit and caboodle. The whole shebang. All the salacious details - if the mods and owners of this forum don't mind.

I'm pretty certain realscam is one of those sites Voice of Reality spoke of that cannot be 'bought off'. I'd put it up on my own blog, but I know WordPress would shut it down pretty fast, so that would be a waste of time. So lets see if Nu Skins lawyers can coerce GoDaddy or the owners of this forum to take down "My Scandalous Life with a Billionaire Cougar" once they get wind of the fact that the book is back up on the internet!

As a reader asks, if the information in the book wasn't true, or at least most of it, why else would Sandie Tillotson and her lawyers go through such extremes to keep a lid on it and not sue for libel instead?

A very good question!

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:04 PM
Background information about Adam Baker and his book from MLMFU's blog.

Book Burning (http://bookburninginamerica.blogspot.ca/2011/11/book-burning-in-america-more-stories.html)

This is a blog about my dear friend and his struggle to get the truth out about what happened before, during, and after his marriage to the tyrant Sandie Tillotson. Sandie Tillotson molested his son and is using her billionaire status to extinguish all traces of Adam, his family, and his TRUE STORY! Stand up for First Amendment Rights and READ THIS BLOG!!

Book Burning in America & More Stories Not in the Book

Monday, November 7, 2011

This is the Adam Baker story. The story not told in his book. This is the Adam Baker story told by one of his very close friends, who has been there with him through it all.

You see, I have known Adam since we've been little, and I've seen everything he has done, experienced, flown, married, and crashed. Adam Baker is a guy that even alpha males can get a "guy crush" on - not because he's the best looking guy, but because he's a guy with BALLS. Because he is the guy who is not afraid to say what he thinks and be who he is. Even most of us self-proclaimed "alpha-males" are still living our lives for someone else - trying to be, buy, impress, whatever you call it.

I read his book, cover to cover. I begged him not to publish it, because I knew Sandie would come after him with her "assassins" and her other on-the-payroll "thugs" and "merchants of deception." Sandie was, and continues to be, a merciless and nefarious woman who knows no God other than the "God of money." No, that creepy woman with the facelift in the youtube videos that talks about being a great mother to her kids and this wonderful Grandmother? Hogwash. I've seen it. The woman detests kids, her own, and especially "other" people's kids.

Not only is the "loving mother" persona a sham, so is her entire past. Sandie hails directly from Nazi's who escaped the Nuremberg trials, and the Neaman's still pass around old family photo albums at family parties, proud of their "SS" heritage. The cold and soulless blood that ran through her forefathers veins certainly did not escape Sandie, no, she is very much a thriving, calculating individual with enough venom in her pinky finger to incapacitate the entire island of Manhattan.

Every decision in Sandie's life is a calculation of risk to reward. Each person in Sandie's life is there, not because they like her as a person, but because of what they hope to gain by being present in her ubiquitous "court." I've been at parties and seen people actually start shaking when they meet Sandie, as if they've just met Jesus or the President of the United states. What kind of an idiot would behold someone and put them on a pedestal simply because they have made a lot of money? Sadly, that is what we as Americans judge each other on and place most value, the accumulation of material things, not the actual true nature and deeds of the individual person.

This money, and the power it bestows on people, only seems to further enhance the true nature of who they are. If you were evil and soulless without money, once you get it, you will become even MORE evil and soulless. Such is the case with Sandie. I've seen Sandie wield her power on several occasions over everyone in her presence. The "carrot and the switch" is her method of operation, and if one does not do as one is told, they are severely punished, and cut off from her royal presence and her golden coffers.

On several occasions, I heard her mention the unfortunate "Ron" Gratzinger. She spoke of Ron like a boss speaks of an employee that they had to "fire" several years back, with disdain and a hint of smugness. The "Ron" story was brought up often as an attempt to scare everyone and "warn" them, in not so many words, that this fate could be theirs, too, if they didn't all mind their p's and q's. As I look back, she enjoyed telling this story because she wanted to let everyone know how powerful she was - that with nothing but a "phone call" and not even a "shred of evidence", she held enough power to get a man locked in prison for months.

Who is this poor guy Ron Gratzinger, anyway? Well, like many of the "blacklisted" ones in Sandie's life, he was an ex-lover who, at some point in the relationship, no longer served her or was needed. Sandie had met another man, and quickly replaced "Ron" with another fellow as the "flavor of the month". Poor Ron, by the time she got home from her trip where she'd met this new Adonis, his stuff was already packed and on the front porch of her massive home. As a consolation prize, she offered to keep him "on the payroll" helping out with some landscaping and mowing around the house. The poor guy stuck around for longer than one would expect a guy with any self-worth would, but, being a pilot, he knew he could make some money with that trade.

He convinced Sandie to let him fly an aircraft over to the Cayman Islands and start a charter business. She agreed, happy to have him "out of her hair" so to speak. Besides, she would profit too from such a venture. Leases were signed, agreements were in place - and off he went, to start his new business.

Like Sandie does with all those in her "kingdom", she can't stand to actually see a person not "need" her or be "successful" without her controlling it every step of the way. Hushed whispers of the people who were around say that Ron started making a decent living with the charter business, to which Sandie quickly decided, she MUST put an end to it. Ron disagreed, and demanded that she abide by the lease they had in place.

Sandie was furious. Around the first of December, she called the authorities in the Caymans and reported the plane "stolen". By this point, she already had one of her "thugs" on the way to pick up the plane. Within hours the plane was back in the United States, and when poor Ron showed up to the airport that morning to commence his charter - to his surprise, he was "quietly" escorted into custody and charged with theft.

As Sandie gleefully recounts the story, Ron spent the entire month of December in custody in a federal prison. He did not get to see his children or any of his family at Christmas, which delighted Sandie to no end. She was all to happy to swoop in to pay a visit to his kids and bestow hundreds of dollars in Christmas gifts to Ron's kids, all the while insisting she had "nothing" to do with his incarceration, and feigning concern for his plight, all while keeping a straight face!

Mysteriously, after the first of the year, the charges were dropped against "Ron" and Sandie issued him the stern warning, that she was NOT to be screwed with, or questioned, or talked about, EVER. If he ever recounted the story to anyone else, or came back against her or her money in any way, she would drum up the charges again and he'd be back in prison quicker than she could snap her fingers.

The RON story always stuck with me, in the pit of my stomach, like eating a bad meal at a greasy diner that just never seems to digest.

It bothered me to no end that someone could be that EVIL. And it bothered me even more that my best friend, Adam, had fallen prey to her little game. Who wouldn't? The guy was human. We all would fall for the bait.

Fast forward a few years later...it is 2011. Sandie has stolen nearly eleven of the best years of his life. 7 in a relationship with her...four more trying to get away from her.

What is a guy to do? Not only did she do disgusting and horrifying things to his son, but she left Adam after the divorce with LESS than he had coming INTO the marriage. How can a guy who owns a landscaping company come out of a marriage to a "Billionaire" with LESS than he came in with? The guy gave up everything for Sandie, made her millions all by himself, and was chased out of Utah by her "thugs" and lawless and corrupt attorneys so that he could no longer make a "fool" of her by being seen in public with his "new wife" ...after all....Utah is a very small place.

When he tries to tell his story, again, his rights are simply "quashed" by her powerful and influential friends and the lovely sham of a company "NuSkin" that she founded. Please read the following article that has gone viral:


In the coming posts, I will attempt to get the original posts from Adam's "wordpress" blog back into circulation by reposting them in MY blog. Stay tuned.

(NOTE: I see that didn't work out - the last post on his blog was November 7, 2011 before it was pulled.)

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:14 PM
Adam Baker's Banned Book: "Formerly Filthy Rich: My Scandalous Life with a Billionaire Cougar"


My Scandalous Life with a Billionaire Cougar

By Adam Baker

This book is dedicated to the girl of my dreams, without whom I would have never had the courage to write this book.


"I didn’t set out to write a story about my life. I didn’t think I had that much to say, or a story compelling enough that anyone would want to read. What I found, in the painful process of writing, was that this was a story that needed to be told. A story that would change lives. And a story that would put the truth out there for everyone to see.

All of the events, places, and characters portrayed in the book are written to the best of my memory. I’ve spared no one, so if you’re in here, I’m not sorry, you were just in the right place at the right time."


Chapter One

“Ladies –– for your pleasure….please welcome…..Diiiirrrrty DALTON!!!”

The crowd of 600 women broke out into elated screams filled with arousing excitement. Behind the curtain I could hear them chanting my name. I slipped out slowly and cracked my 20-foot leather bullwhip into the center of the stage with a wicked snap that elevated the cheers immediately. My blood pumping, my nerves dancing, I was ready to perform. I’d worked out my pre-dance jitters –– pushups, crunches and a short prayer, just enough to get the veins pumping and muscles bulging and God watching. The music kicked off its beat, it was my intro to the tune of Bon Jovi’s “Wanted, Dead or Alive.” I slowly took the stage –– head down, black Stetson pitch brim hat covering most of my face, black duster covering my half-naked darkly tanned body. I sauntered out, working the leather bullwhip around the stage, slowly gyrating my body. With each crack of the whip my duster would open a little, teasing the ladies with my ripped abs and low cut jeans. The crowd was begging for me to take it all out. Women were screaming, “Dalton, show it to me! Dalton, I want to **** you!” It was like every other Tuesday night. The smell of stale cigarette smoke, humid sweat, and sweet-smelling cheap perfume filled the club. Hundreds of drunk middle- aged women wishing they were 20 again, screaming my name, clamoring for my attention, fighting over the first row seats, flashing their tits, and throwing notes up on stage with their phone numbers and individual propositions. I noticed my friend Shannon Engemann in the front row. She was a striking 40-something year old woman known in our social circles as the professional “fiancée” who loved money and the idea of marriage, but loved married men even more, especially her sister’s husband, Larry King. Sitting on Shannon’s lap was an attractive, mysterious blonde who was fixated on me. She appeared to be in her mid to-late forties, which piqued my interest –– ever since that neighbor lady offered me lemonade when I was 14, I was hooked on older women.

As the song came to an end, I ripped off my duster and tossed it aside. The song “I Want to be a Cowboy” faded in. I tore off my gun belt, then my chaps, and continued working the stage. Slowly pulsating and pumping my pelvis into the rail, teasing the women in the first few rows, playfully making eye contact with the girls I’d talked to before the show, working the tips. The women were getting lathered up, screaming for me to “pull it out”, to take it all off. “Release the Pressure” boomed out of the speakers, and the crowd was in a frenzy. They knew what was coming. I firmly grabbed the front of my jeans and flexed my legs, tearing them off in one smooth fierce motion. I immediately dropped into the splits and began pumping the floor, slowly at first and then faster and faster. I jumped up and did two back handsprings, grabbed the side rail and went up into a handstand. Every muscle in my body was bulging, and the $20’s and $50’s started littering the stage. The women wanted more, they were shrieking and squealing. I grabbed the sides of my chartreuse t-back and with a slow, undulating motion tore them down. The crowd howled with a mix of excitement and frustration when they realized it was another tease. I made my way back down to the floor, and the black and white striped t-back was so thin it left nothing to the imagination. The sound of hundreds of turned on women was always arousing, which made for even better tips. For the finale, I gave the crowd an imaginary view of my sexual talents. I propped my body up on a few stairs, and slowly pumped my hard, throbbing body into the floor, working it faster and faster with the beat of the music, finally throwing my head back in ecstasy, my whole body shaking from the intensity of the simulated orgasm. The women were losing it, throwing money up on stage and screaming my name, demanding another dance. As the lights dimmed, I gathered up my money and stuffed it all into my cowboy boots. The curtains were pulled shut and the club turned back into a regular dance club. The bouncers opened the front doors and hundreds of men streamed in. It was easy pickings. I got dressed and made my way back into the crowd. Shannon beckoned me over to her table. “Adam…I want you to meet my friend Sandie.”

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:17 PM

Chapter Two

It was hot that Friday afternoon when she rolled up in a white Mercedes SL convertible –– a sleek, humming, 12 cylinder with a crisp white leather interior that smelled strongly of money. She emerged, wearing head to toe white. I’d never seen anything like it. Skin-tight white jeans, fitted white sweater, white sandals, and oversized white sunglasses. She even had a white rhinestone belt around her waist. Sandie Tillotson looked like a female Liberace. “Mmmm…” she purred, looking down her nose over her sunglasses. “This looks even better than a Coke commercial.” I could feel her eyes roaming over every inch of my darkly tanned, sweaty body. She was cold, calculating, almost reptilian –– like a boa constrictor looking to devour its next meal.

All of a sudden I was 14 years old again, only this time I knew what that look meant. This wasn’t the first time I’d been chased by an older woman, and I liked being pursued. My body was ripped and sweaty from swinging a pick, and I knew I looked hot. “Why don’t you drive my car?” she insisted, as she winked and tossed me the keys. I had never been in a car worth $150,000, and I was surprised at how nonchalantly she offered her expensive possession up, especially since I was covered in dirt from digging sprinkler trenches.

“I made reservations at the Market Street Broiler” she said, the most expensive restaurant in the area. I started sweating nervously as we pulled up, knowing I only had $50 in my pocket. We sat outside on the patio, and it wasn’t long before I felt like I was being interrogated by the CIA. She wanted to know everything about me. I knew I’d passed her qualifying round when I realized we had similar hobbies –– scuba diving, horses, travelling, motorcycles, sex.

This was the first time I’d gotten a good look at her. I was distracted as she playfully fingered the neckline of her sweater, drawing my eyes down to her rock-hard fake breasts. Her nails were long and hot pink, the skin on her hands was thin and spotty, much more aged than her face. I noticed her hair, bleached blonde with dark roots, teased, coiffed, and sprayed. Long, wispy bangs hid most of her heavily made up face –– dark black eyebrows, blue glassy wide-set eyes, and a square jaw. I thought, this woman was probably really hot 30 years ago.

Predictably, she ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. I ordered the house salad and water. “How about you don’t go back to work today? I want to show you something.”

I barely had enough money for the lobster and a tip, and was glad to get out of there. She handed me back the keys. “We’re headed up the canyon to Park City. You drive.”

“So where are you from? Tell me about your childhood” she insisted as the Mercedes whirred up Parley’s canyon at 90 miles per hour. I began nervously chatting, spending the entire forty minute drive divulging the secrets of my unusual upbringing, how I started out life as a professional figure skater at age 6 and travelled the world with my parents and six sisters skating for Ice Follies. I admitted I hadn’t gotten much of a formal education –– school was something my wildly religious and selfishly opportunistic parents neither encouraged nor promoted. Sandie said my lack of education didn’t matter. In fact, it seemed to make me more attractive to her.

We pulled into the exclusive Deer Valley ski resort and began winding up the road past the huge estate homes, all the way to the top of the mountain. We stopped at a set of large iron gates, and she gave me the code to enter the estate’s grounds. Her home was the very last one, at the very top of the hill. I knew she was trying to impress me with her money, and I kept my cool. Even though I’d never set foot in a $20 million dollar home, I surely would not let Sandie know it.

The grand tour of the home lasted over 40 minutes. She proudly described each finish and the exotic locales that each material originated from.

The slate was from Brazil, reclaimed wood from an old sugar beet mill, marble from Italy. I feigned a slight interest and could not help thinking the whole time, how much money is this lady worth?

“Would you like a glass of lemonade?” she offered with a wink. I accepted and pulled myself up onto the granite island as she poured the glass. All of a sudden, she was between my legs, pressing her body into mine. She grabbed me around the neck and pulled me toward her, kissing me forcefully. I kissed her back. “Whoa, baby, that took my breath away” she said, smiling.

I hesitated for a moment, not knowing whether I should continue or pull back. I decided on the latter. “I’ve got to get back to my kids –– they should be getting home from school soon” I said nervously. The kiss left me feeling awkward, yet excited. I had a feeling the secret to keeping a woman like Sandie interested was to leaving her wanting more.

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:20 PM

Chapter Three

I should have known I was in trouble the first time we slept together. A week after our first date she took me back up to her home in Deer Valley, only this time she talked me into going for a sultry soak in the hot tub. She disappeared into her bedroom, and I casually hopped into the hot tub in my boxers, and sat there waiting for what seemed like ages. All of a sudden, the double French doors opened and there she stood, stark naked. I wasn’t sure if she was expecting a reaction, applause, or just pure shock, but she got at least two of those from me. I immediately zeroed in on her boobs. Definitely fake, not too bad, but could use an update.

I fancied myself as an expert on tits –– it was my full time hobby. It started when I was a young boy in the ice show. I would hide in the girl’s dressing room and watch all 30 girls during the costume changes. What could be better than 60 bouncing boobs at eye-level, packed into a tight backstage area? Finally, one of the girls complained to my parents and I was scolded and publicly reprimanded by my mother. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and my fun was definitely over. I guess that was the beginning of my fetish.

I scanned down to the rest of her body –– there was skin dangling everywhere. Loose folds of skin all over her stomach, hanging below what I thought was a small, tight waistline, at least it looked that way in clothing. Her crotch was shaved, which surprised me. Usually the older women liked to hold on to their bush, but obviously Sandie was a purveyor of Playboy and knew what the younger women were doing. As she bent down to get in the hot tub, I caught a glimpse of her backside. It was shocking. Her ass reminded me of the ass on an elephant, the way their butt cheeks just cave in, with absolutely no muscularity or definition, just skin. I instantly went soft. I thought, there is no way I could ever be with this woman. I could never look at that, day after day. I immediately began eliminating all of my favorite sex positions.

Her confidence was entirely off-putting. It seemed she’d done this act before. She slithered up to me like she had the body of Bo Derek in “10” and I was just lucky to behold such a vision. I was still deciding whether to get out of the water and go throw up in the bathroom, or to take one for the team, and see just how good my imagination was. I took one for the team.

She playfully tugged at the top of my boxers “Why do you need these on? I can already see what you have under there, so there’s really no point.” I laughed out loud, partly because I’d never been with such an aggressive woman before. It kind of excited me.

“Well, why don’t you take them off if you don’t like them?” I responded. Without hesitation, she yanked my boxers down.

“Oh my god. I think I’m in love” she said, as she started vigorously licking and sucking.

She never came up for air. It was, without a doubt, the most professional, by the book porn star blowjob I’d ever had. No interruptions, no coughing, stopping, or insecurity. “Uh, wow ––that was incredible.” I said. It was the best compliment I could muster. I thought she’d probably spent many years perfecting that art.

She pressed her breasts up against my chest and put her arms around my neck, with one swift movement mounted me. I didn’t even know I was in at first, she was so loose it was like being inside a paper sack. I thought, you could literally fit a two-liter bottle in there!

The sex went on for an hour. It was excruciating –– I couldn’t get near enough stimulation to orgasm, but I just kept at it. She continued to bounce on me like the Energizer Bunny. She grabbed me hard and dug her long, pointy fingernails into my back. I found myself wondering if she was going to leave a scar, when all of a sudden, she arched back and slapped me. “Harder, harder!” she screamed. “Keep going…faster…!” she yelled. Whoa. I had never had a woman so dominant and demanding that she would slap me for no reason. I felt like I was being reprimanded. It was different, that’s for sure. I bent her over the side of the hot tub firmly grasping the sides of her wide hips. I closed my eyes and thought of two young, hot, huge-breasted women kissing and touching each other. It wouldn’t be the last time I had to conjure up that fantasy.

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:27 PM

Chapter Four

I was almost asleep when I felt the covers on the bed move, and suddenly I felt a huge pair of tits pressed up against my bare back. It was Denise. I was instantly rock hard –– even though we were divorced, she still came over a couple times a week for noncommittal hot sex –– she couldn’t give that part of me up. I couldn’t give up my feelings for her. Denise was crazier than a shithouse rat and she often joked that Philippine women were known for killing their husbands. With the temperament of a pit bull, I never questioned her capability to get it done. Our relationship was tumultuous, passionate, and destructive. I turned over and she mounted me, her waist-long thick black hair cascading down around her silicone tits, the tits I’d bought her.

The next morning, I woke up alone, my sheets still smelled like her. I slid open the drawer of the bed stand and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Since I’d met Sandie, she started printing me a weekly calendar to keep me organized and at her disposal. It detailed everything down to the hour ––what we were doing, when, where, and what I should be wearing. She governed me as if I were one of her assistants but what the hell, I was just living in the moment and for the moment I was enjoying myself. Today the calendar read:

"Thursday night– dinner at La Caille, 7:00 sharp. Wear a suit."

It had only been two weeks since I’d met Sandie at the club, and my life had changed in every way. Things were happening a lot more quickly than I was comfortable with, but it was all new and exciting –– the money had changed everything. This week I was living in a cramped basement apartment with my 5 kids –– next week we were moving into the brand new home Sandie purchased for us. We were eating at the finest restaurants; she was treating me to shopping sprees with new clothes, shoes, watches, and stuff for the kids. I was even driving her Mercedes, Ferraris, and BMWs. This all came with a price of course. For the time being, the benefits of being Sandie’s “pool boy” outweighed the downside –– my pornographic duties.

Along with the “perks” came a new set of rules. Sandie insisted I quit dancing; she wanted me all for herself. Mostly, my part-time profession as “Dirty Dalton” embarrassed her. Given her status, she insisted she could never introduce me as her “stripper boyfriend” to her stuffy “elitist” friends. Part of me was happy to give it up. I was tired of that lifestyle –– the atmosphere, the hours, week after week of dance, strip, perform. The adrenaline rush was fading with each performance, and I’d discovered a new adrenaline rush –– the rush of ultimate freedom. It was far more exhilarating than working like a dog just to get by. I found myself willing to do anything to please Sandie. After all, a whole new life was opening up to me, and I enjoyed the slow and warm envelopment into her world.

I pulled up to La Caille at 7:00 sharp, just as the instructions read, and tossed the keys to my beat up Ford F-150 to the valet. “Don’t scratch it” I said. He stared back at me blankly, not sure if it was a joke.

La Caille was the most exclusive restaurant in the area, built to mimic an old French Château, and was every bit as fake and ostentatious as its clientele. Walking through La Caille in the $500 Nordstrom suit Sandie had recently purchased for the occasion, I felt like the silk purse made out of a sows ear, and hoped that no one would recognize me from my recent career as a dancer. I spotted Sandie sitting at a far table dressed in a long, loose flowery pink dress with a crocheted shawl over it. I’d imagined she’d be wearing a sexy little cocktail dress. Instead she looked like my grandmother on Easter Sunday.

Strangely, I think that’s what I was falling for –– her overbearing matronly presence, her capableness, and how she took care of everything, allowing me to simply sit back and enjoy the ride. When I was with her, I was a little boy again. Yet I was strangely sexually attracted to her. I liked being taken care of.

Her friends, Patricia and Rob, were visiting from New York. The conversation centered on Sandie and her business, the billion-dollar network marketing corporation, NuSkin. I didn’t know much about the company, other than I knew it was a pyramid scheme where you go around and try to get all your friends and family to sign up under you –– but it obviously made money. Lots of money. On one of our dates Sandie had actually bragged about how in the beginning she’d taken all the sign-up money (all paid in cash) and flew it over to the Cayman’s in a private jet so she wouldn’t have to pay any taxes on it. She said she had millions stashed away in those offshore accounts, just in case the company every crumbled. I was in awe at how successful and confident Sandie was. She was the smartest woman I’d ever met.

During appetizers, Sandie went on and on about how business was booming at NuSkin, and she was funneling all of her extra money into real estate deals all over the valley, lending hard money at a huge rate of return. She joked under her breath about how profitable the company was this quarter, despite, the “huge failure rate of the average distributor.”

“So where is your next trip going to be for the charity effort?” Patricia asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

“Ugh. We have to go to Malawi” Sandie said. “I am not looking forward to it one bit. I hate Africa –– everyone there smells horrible and all the filthy little children dying of AIDS want to touch you when you hand out candy and books. It is sooo disgusting.”

Patricia laughed out loud and remarked “Oh, I know what you mean. I wouldn’t want to do it. You are a saint, Sandie, that’s for sure.”

Rob piped up. “So where is your next actual vacation going to be?" Like most wealthy people, the conversation turned to a one-upmanship of exotic travel plans and their next grandiose purchase.

I was out of place, but acted interested and engaged all the same.

“What are you doing with this old bitch? I was just in your bed last night ******* you!” I turned around and Denise was standing behind my chair, screaming at the top of her lungs. The whole restaurant stopped –– forks dropped, conversations came to a halt. Every head turned, and all eyes were on us. I immediately thought –– oh ****, how did she find me here? Did she find that paper in my drawer?

I quickly grabbed her by the arm and said under my breath “Denise, walk out front with me.”

She continued yelling insults and obscenities as we walked out to the valet area. Even though I was in shock, I couldn’t help but notice she looked hotter than I’d ever seen her before. My attempts at calming her were failing; I had to get out of this situation. I lowered my voice. “Denise, it’s not what you think. I would never…”

Suddenly, Sandie approached us. I stopped talking.

“I am here to collect Adam” she said, matter of factly. She reminded me of an old sixth grade teacher reprimanding a couple of kids.

Denise clenched her jaw, took one step back, wound her arm behind her, and threw the most unbelievably strong punch, hitting me square in the jaw. I hadn’t been hit that hard since I quit playing hockey. I was in shock.

“You will never sleep with me again, you will never ever see me again you sorry son of a bitch.” Denise spun around and stomped off to her car. The little voice in my head screamed for me to leave, to get away from both of these women. Sheepishly, I returned to the table with Sandie. I could feel all of the eyes in the restaurant on me, and my jaw was throbbing.

As I lay in bed that night, alone, I knew in my heart that the Denise chapter in my life was over –– it had to be over. I had to do what was best for my kids, our future, and my broken heart. It was hard for me to put Denise behind me for good, I was still rather attached to her. In the end, I made the decision to move forward in a real relationship with Sandie.

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:36 PM

Chapter Five

I’d been officially invited to accompany Sandie to a Nu Skin convention in Singapore. We flew first class on Singapore airlines. During the flight, the young, attractive flight attendants giggled and whispered as they served me warm cookies and cleaned my hands with a steaming, orange scented towel. When Sandie excused herself to use the restroom, the bolder of the two sheepishly asked in broken English if Sandie was my mother. I laughed out loud, somewhat caught off guard, but decided to neither confirm, nor deny. I’d heard from several people that we looked strange to the outside world, with so many visibly obvious years between us. To most, the relationship seemed questionable, and it was often assumed that we were a mother-son twosome.

Singapore was the most crowded and most strikingly clean city I’d ever seen –– no garbage, no bums, and no alleys with cardboard boxes. The local news was buzzing about some American that had been convicted of spraying graffiti on a building. He had been sentenced to a public caning. No wonder this city is so clean, I thought.

The limo pulled up to a towering glass hotel. Sandie quickly jumped out and headed directly to her room, leaving me with four steamer trunks full of her stuff, two suitcases, and my well-traveled duffel bag.

It became painfully obvious why she was so insistent on bringing me along. I was officially a doting servant. After tipping the driver, the bellhop, and checking in at the front desk, I eventually made my way up to her suite.

She opened the door wearing a white fluffy bathrobe, smiled, and winked at me, beckoning me to come in. This was obviously her way of blowing off the fact she left me all alone to lug her **** up here by myself. She grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me toward her, caressing me under my jeans. “Come on, let’s get this out. I need to come” she demanded, pushing me toward the bed. I took off my cowboy boots and socks as she slowly undid her bathrobe. I looked up, expecting to see skin, but instead I saw the most bizarre grandma panty girdle I’d ever seen, complete with a pair of suntan transparent nylons to boot! This thing went from below her ass to her bra –– it looked like a nuclear swimsuit or a satin-boned white superhero costume –”super granny”, I thought. I was having a hard time getting an erection. I’d seen similar stiff dingy girdles hung on the clothesline at my grandma’s house. I couldn’t stop thinking about the flight attendant’s comments.

An hour later the hotel room was abuzz with professional makeup artists, stylists, a manicurist, and several assistants. They’d been hired to transform Sandie into her “stage” persona, as she called it. This process started several hours before the big NuSkin event. I quickly figured out that my role was to run and get her food, a drink, and sit there like everyone else and tell her how great she looked. I learned a lot about how much women can magically transform their appearance by watching the preparation. This was the first time I noticed that Sandie’s hair was really thinning. Slowly, her hair was ratted and teased and sprayed to subtly and completely cover all the bald spots. Several makeup artists began working on her face. This was the first time I’d seen her without makeup and I’d never realized how many wrinkles and age spots she had under all that spackle. Her skin looked like a mottled banana peel with all of the dark spots and uneven pigmentation. She also had no eyebrows. New, fake, imposing and powerful looking eyebrows were being drawn on with a dark pencil.

Her evening dress, shoes, and sparkling accessories emerged from the depths of the steamer trunk. She stepped into the dress. “Honey, can you help me zip this up?” she quietly demanded from the bedroom. I came in and had her turn around. I was no rookie at this gig; I’d done this for my sisters in the ice show growing up. I was surprised that she was trying to squeeze into something far smaller than her frumpy figure could accommodate

“Breathe all your air out, and hold it” I said. I tugged at the zipper. Nothing. Her back was as wide as an East-German swimmer’s.

“Do it one more time. Breathe out ALL your air” I said, coaching her, laughing on the inside at the absurdity of wasting money on a $10,000 gown that was 3 sizes too small. I struggled with the zipper for a few minutes. The dress was a size 4 for god’s sakes! Finally after several attempts, and several forceful exhalations, the zipper did its job and she was stuffed into the dress, like a sausage. The seams were under a great deal of pressure, and I hoped she didn’t have to sit long or we’d have a definite blowout after dinner. I helped her with her stole and she hurriedly snatched her evening bag with a sleek black-gloved hand.

“How do I look?” she asked, posing with both hands on her hips, looking coyly back over her shoulder. She reminded me of a dishwater blonde Cruella de Ville.

“You look like a million bucks baby. Let’s go get the limo, we’re running late.”

“I HATE these filthy Asians” Sandie said with disgust as we rolled to a stop in front of the convention center. From the back window of the limo, I could see a crowd of thousands of well- dressed Asian people; all gathered around the entrance chanting what sounded like “Sandie, Sandie, Sandie.” They were waiting for her to pull up, waiting to catch a glimpse of the elusive blonde American mega-billionaire businesswoman.

Sandie was an idol to these people, and getting the chance to see her in real life and shake her hand was a hallowed and supremely memorable opportunity for many of them.

“Holy ****, babe –– you’re like a movie star to these people!” I said. I was in shock at the number of people crowded around our limo, all for Sandie. The size of the crowd also explained another fine reason why she always went for big men –– she needed a man who could also double as a bodyguard.

We emerged from the limousine and the crowd started to close in. “Keep them ******* AWAY from me” she whispered as I pulled her from the limo. She pasted on her biggest smile, stood up straight, and started waving at everyone. “Hi! Thanks for coming! Hello! Hi!” she repeated, smiling and nodding, begrudgingly shaking hands with the few who were able to position themselves right in her path. I tried like hell to form a shield around her with my body and suit jacket, but she was still getting mauled by the frenzied crowd.

The convention center was modern and massive. Backstage, the other NuSkin founders, Nedra Roney and Blake Roney, and a few of their top executives pored over the program and touched up their makeup, waiting for the coordinator to give them the cue that the show had begun. The electrified crowd kicked its heels up when the energetic new-age music blared from the loudspeakers out front. The wealth and greed-driven show of false promises and dreams had begun.

Nedra looked older than Sandie, but seemed much friendlier and came up to me, introducing herself.

“Hi, I’m Nedra, Sandie’s evil twin!” she said, winking. She smelled of liquor and spoke loudly as if she had swallowed one cocktail too many.

“Adam Baker, nice to meet you” I replied, smiling back at her.

She stepped closer to me and said huskily, under her breath “You must be the flavor of the month!” I felt her fingers running up the lapel of my suit and down my arm, feeling my chest and arms. I flexed as it came quite naturally to be poked and prodded being so recently removed from my “Dirty Dalton” days. I banked her remark in my small yet rapidly growing vault that housed the life and memories that was my relationship with Sandie Tillotson. I noted that I was but an echo of many strong-armed men that came before me. As most men do, my ego spoke to me secretly, and I wondered how I measured up, and to how many others that measuring might be compared to.

“I look forward to getting to know you Nedra. See you soon” I said to her, as professionally as I could. I stirred over her comment. As I turned, I spotted Sandie looking directly at me. I could tell by the look on her face she’d witnessed that whole incident.

“I can’t believe that you would flirt with that nasty hammered old bag Nedra! Do you know how embarrassing that is for me, to have my man flirting with Nedra?? Are you kidding me?” Sandie whispered angrily in my ear, pushing me as she stormed off.

That went well, I thought. ****. I doggedly chased after her but she disappeared into a private bathroom, locking the door. I waited outside. I figured she needed her space.

Several minutes later, the door swung open. “You are in the front row, seat F. Try to look like you give a ****, ok?” she said as she opened the door, whisking past me. She turned on her heel, narrowing her eyes. “And you better **** me a LONG time tonight for that bullshit you just pulled.”

I watched her fluffy blonde hair as she walked down the hall to the stage. Note to self: “ This woman is fiercely jealous and a raging nympho, not to be taken lightly.”

I sat in the front row, and the lights were unbearably hot for a man of my size and overactive metabolism.

Sandie insisted I wear a $5,000 Armani tux to “look the part”, and I was sweating like a wicked whore in church. The program seemed endless and I was anxious to get the hell out of there. The whole presentation was in Mandarin to top it off, so I couldn’t understand a damned word. All I could tell was that a lot of people were getting awards. One by one they went from the audience and onto the stage to shake hands with Sandie, Blake, and Nedra. The crowd would applaud and hoot and holler with each name that was called.

Finally there was an intermission –– an announcement was made, the people on stage disappeared, and members of the audience got up out of their chairs and started milling around. Sandie waved me backstage.

“I need my purse. Reach in and get me my hand sanitizer!” she demanded as I walked through the door. I fumbled through her small black clutch until I found her Purell. “Open it for me and squirt a bunch on my hands. These people are so ******* GROSS!” she said with disgust as she frantically scrubbed and smeared gobs of the sanitizer into her hands and all over her arms up to her elbows.

“More…MORE!” she said. I kept squirting. “Their hands are SO slimy; these Asian people are so disgusting. They all reek of garlic.” Sandie had a peculiar aversion to garlic-and I never discovered why.

“You look good up there baby” I said, trying to reassure her and at the same time calm her nerves. She was clearly frazzled, her makeup was starting to melt under the hot lights and the delicately covered balding patches in her hair were slowly beginning to reveal themselves once again. An announcement came over the loudspeaker.

“Showtime only two more hours of this hell baby and then I get to sit on that huge cock of yours,” she whispered in my ear, her associates near enough to hear. And they did. Sandie recovered and put on her game face in an instant. I was taken aback as well, yet another deposit for my memory bank.

The next day was a memorable one. My performance the night before must have gotten me back in her good graces, because Sandie decided that we’d go shopping for me today at the finest shopping malls Singapore had to offer. I suddenly felt like I was in the guy version of “Pretty Woman.” I had only seen luxury brands and high-end stores in magazines and on TV before. Just taking in everything was an adventure by itself, and my eyes were wider than a 5-year-old’s on Christmas morning. I was looking at unbelievably expensive watches, trying on fancier clothing and shoes than I could ever imagine in my wildest dreams. I never knew such expensive clothing existed –– it was all a far cry from my baggy cowboy jeans and worn-out boots. I settled on a couple of watches, a Corum and a Cartier. The total bill came to over $15,000 and Sandie whipped out her black credit card.

"I could get used to this.”

Doc Bunkum
09-14-2014, 09:43 PM

Chapter Six

We boarded the private Gulfstream the next day to head back to the United States. I could tell by the look on Sandie’s face, she was scheming. After a couple of glasses of wine, she started purring in my ear.

“Sell your landscaping business. Travel with me full-time. I have a business partner that will buy your company and all your equipment from you.”

It was both a flattering and scary proposition. My freedom and my other life that I’d taken years to build would be gone.

But it would be replaced by another type of freedom, and another new life, one without financial worries. I thought about my five kids and how I’d be able to have college funds for all of them. Up to this point in my life, I hadn’t saved a penny.

“What would I do for money if I sell my business?” I asked.

“You will never have to worry about money again. But I will pay for you to finish flight school, so you have something to fall back on, just in case.” She’d obviously given this some thought.

Within a week my landscaping business and all of my equipment –– mowers, hedge trimmers, blowers, and my plow truck –– had been sold. Adam’s Yard Maintenance was no longer. No more collection visits, no more waiting for homeowners to get back from work to pay me, no more living lawn to lawn. I was now officially “free.” I could do whatever I wanted with my days.

Sort of.

I’d become Sandie’s pet. Every day was the same. We’d wake up, I would push her through a half-hearted workout in her private gym, dutifully **** her three or four times, and then accompany her to work at the NuSkin headquarters in downtown Provo, Utah. She’d given me my own desk and computer at one end of her elaborately furnished 2,000 square foot office. At her whim, I was there for her taking.

She had a lot of whims, some of which bordered on outright exhibitionism. I’ll never forget one day in her office. She’d been in a meeting all morning with the board, and I’d been surfing the net alone. It was almost lunchtime, and all I could think about was walking up the street to Einstein Bagels to get a sandwich and a much needed break. I heard her voice outside the door.

“Christine, hold my calls and appointments, I’ll be on a conference call for awhile.”

I looked up from my screen to Sandie slowly removing her pastel tweed Chanel suit jacket. Underneath she was wearing a sheer camisole, with no bra. I could clearly see her big brown nipples through the top. She sauntered over to her desk, pretending to check her emails, ignoring me. She shuffled through her rolodex, straightened up some loose paperclips, and went back to the computer.

“I need you to come over here and help me fix this drawer in my desk –– something is stuck back here and I can’t get it open” Sandie said, still clicking away at the keyboard. As I neared the desk to pull the drawer out from her side, she waved me around the back.

"No, you need to get under the desk and pull it from behind.”

I went back around to the front of the huge mahogany desk, and got down on my hands and knees…to my surprise, her white tweed skirt was hiked up to her hips. She was wearing no panties, and playfully fingering herself with four fingers of her perfectly manicured hand. She knew how to push my buttons. I was instantly at full mast, and I took over what she’d began.

“Ohhhh…Adam. Oh god, that feels so good….I am soooo close” she moaned softly. Her pelvis was grinding hard against my hand, bucking her hips and grinding further down.

“Come up here and **** me up against the glass windows” she demanded. I stood up and unzipped my jeans. She slid out of her skirt, and pulled up her camisole over her head, standing there completely nude, except for a strappy pair of black 4-inch Jimmy Choo heels. She walked over to the glass wall of windows that looked out over Utah Lake and Provo’s bustling Center Street, and started rubbing her breasts and pussy against it, leaving trails of condensation from her body heat. Oh ****, I thought. I wonder what you can see from the street? This woman is crazy as hell!

I moved in quickly and took her from behind, forcefully shoving myself into her. I picked her up from her thighs, pressed her tits up against the windows, for all the office workers in the next building to see.

“Do you like that” I whispered, pumping her harder and harder.

“Fuck me harder” she said. I set her down and turned her around, pinning her wrists up against the windows.

“How hard do you want it?” I said intently, staring into her eyes.

“Let me show you” she said, pushing me away. She looked me up and down, slowly. Her eyes narrowed.

“Take off all your clothes. NOW” she demanded. I dutifully dropped my jeans and boxers to my ankles, kicked them off with my shoes, and pulled my t-shirt off.

“Now go back to your desk. You’ve been bad.” She was super aroused by the control, and I always obliged, not sure what she’d do next. I sat down in my chair, the leather cold against my bare skin, and still excited from the lack of release.

She approached my desk.

“Now go back to work.” All of a sudden, she climbed up on my desk, and slowly began rubbing my unopened liter bottle of Evian between her moist thighs. She slowly lowered herself over the water bottle, bouncing up and down, manipulating it as though she were riding me, knowing this drove me crazy.

“You can’t do that anymore, you have got to take care of this” I said. standing up, my erection long and hard. She lowered herself down onto her knees, and took me into her mouth. In no time at all, I was over the edge. She swallowed, smiling at me.

A loud knock on the door stunned me back into reality.

“Sandie?! Sandie? Charley is here for your 1:00.” The door creaked open. My heart stopped for an instant. She was quick.

“I’m on a call! Tell him I’ll be right out!” she said authoritatively.

“Ok!” her assistant called back, closing the door. Sandie looked over at me and started to laugh. “Get dressed my little secretary boy –– your work is done. Go play. I’ll be busy for the rest of the day.”

I couldn’t help thinking…why was she sending me home? And who was Charley?

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 05:13 AM

Chapter Seven

Having money was so powerful and seductive, and with it I almost forgot who I was and where I came from. I knew my reality was getting blurred because of the enormous smokescreen of distractions. It seemed like it was changing everything, especially the way people related to me. Overnight, I became my parents’ favorite child. I started getting phone calls from all six of my sisters. Even Monet was calling, the sister who, a few years ago, wouldn’t let me park my van in her driveway when I’d broken my leg and was out of work, was living in it with my then-wife Lisa and three small babies.

From out of nowhere, friends were popping up all over the place, people I didn’t know, and people I hadn’t seen in years. All of a sudden, everyone wanted to hang out with me and be a part of my life. I lapped up the attention like a hungry cat –– after all, dating Sandie was the only thing I’d ever done that my parents seemed to be proud of, and I’d almost convinced myself that I had actually accomplished something. There was still that constant twinge of insecurity, the secret I’d been covering up.

For the past 30 years, I’d been trying to gain my parents acceptance after becoming such a monumental disappointment to them. I’d never made it past the third grade in school. I was a big, huge scholastic failure.

During the years we were part of Ice Follies I fell drastically behind in school. The longs hours of practice, travelling, and performing made it impossible to schedule tutors –– and with seven children, my mother had neither the time nor the energy to teach us and the ice show was the main focus of everyone in the family.

Being part of “Ice Follies” was similar to being a child star. We were constantly showered with the dangerous mixture of too much attention and praise, and unbelievable pressure to be perfect. I lived for the last few minutes of each show where we would skate out, bow, and they would call out our names. I loved the sound of the applause. I liked to imagine that it was all for me.

Behind closed doors, the expectations of our parents were unbearable. My father would drill us for hours and hours, constantly demanding we practice our singing, lifts, and dance routines. School, in those days, was not a priority to any of us –– we were more like a family of miniature self-absorbed adults. I remember several nights we would practice until 3 or 4 in the morning, rehearsing our songs until my father felt everything was just right.

When I finally had time alone, I found myself in a world of fantasy and blunted reality. I would lose myself for hours at a time daydreaming about the girls in the ice show. I was too young to realize that they were only nice to me because they thought I was such a “cute” 8-year old boy No, in my mind, these girls were really into me.

Looking back, I was just vying for some attention, any attention, from an older, nurturing female. I just wanted to be loved by “someone.” So, I turned my energies early on to women. I craved their softness and their smell and their touch. I’d been displaced from my mother’s arms long ago; she’d had 3 more babies since me. During those years in the ice show, we travelled to over 20 countries. When it was finally over, I retired from skating at 8 years old.

By third grade, I was too far gone to catch up. When I finally did return to school, I would panic at the thought of being called on in class. I couldn’t keep up. The other kids were so far ahead of me in every way, I was too ashamed to even speak or make a friend, for fear of being found out. I’d bring my assignments home and beg my parents for help, but with seven kids all competing for attention, there wasn’t enough time for all of us.

The turning point came when my parents just gave up on my schooling altogether. I’ll never forget that day –– it is a memory forever etched in my mind.

Mom and Dad were both in the kitchen, arguing about money, as always. I walked in, my head hung low and my eyes red from crying on the walk home from school. My first day at the new school had been tough. I’d been called on in class to come up to the chalkboard to work out a math problem. I didn’t know how to do my multiplication tables. I didn’t have a clue.

“Mom, I need help with my homework. I can’t figure out my times tables.” I said.

She shot me an incredulous look. She was in the middle of cooking, cleaning, and laundry, and giving my dad hell.

“Adam, I don’t have time –– I have already told you how to do them. Do I have to explain everything to you over and over?” she said, annoyed.

My dad interrupted.

“Adam, your mother showed you how to do your times tables and if you’re too stupid to remember, you are too dumb to learn. Since you didn’t inherit any brains we might as well put you to work. I’m sending you to Grandpa Baker’s ranch in Oregon. You’re too stupid to go to school anyway.”

That was the last day I ever stepped foot in a classroom.

My fondest memories of childhood were the few years I spent with my Grandfather in Bend, Oregon. He was kind, hardworking, and a real man’s man. Living on his ranch was the life I’d always dreamed of. I was living the life of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I learned to shoot a gun, drive cars and tractors, ride horses, and bale hay. For the first time in my life I wasn’t living in constant fear of a daily beating from my father, and my confidence in myself started to build. Grandpa’s health was ailing, so he taught me to be his “driver.” I’d drive him around the ranch and the small town in his big huge Cadillac, propped up on some pillows so I could see over the steering wheel. No one in town seemed to mind, back in those days young kids were driving all over the place in the small farm towns. Most of the time, Grandpa was asleep within a few minutes into the drive, and would snort and sputter loudly like an old diesel engine, but when he stayed awake, he’d use our time in the car to teach me valuable lessons on “being a man”, and the “ways of the world.”

Mom and Dad never came to visit me during those years, but I would occasionally hear Grandpa talking to them on the phone about how I was doing. One day I heard him bragging to my father about what a “hard little worker” I’d become, and how much I’d learned –– how proud he was of me. As he said those words, the most dreadful feeling come over me. Sure enough, my father sent for me to come back to Utah. He was now managing an ice rink, and could use my help running the front desk, sharpening skates and making ice. I was 13 years old.

Early on, I’d confessed to Sandie about my lack of schooling, and she didn’t seem to mind. I actually think she kind of liked it. When it came to paperwork, writing, contracts, and legal nomenclature, I was pretty much in the dark. She seemed to focus on my other qualifications, and anything other than manual labor, building, working on cars, or yard work, she would take care of. I could keep up with her snooty friends in most conversations: my sense of humor and constant antics made up for anything I lacked in knowledge. For the moment, I was enjoying the process of forgetting who I was.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 05:21 AM

Chapter Eight

It was September 11, 2001 and Sandie and I had been vacationing in Italy for two weeks. That morning, we were driving around Lake Como in a little white Mercedes we rented. Sandie loved stopping at all the little towns and scouring the stores for things to buy. As it neared lunchtime, we stopped at a little café overlooking the lake. The waiter approached the table with a slightly panicked look on his face.

“I am so sorry about your president and your country. I am so sorry, so so sorry” he said to us in very broken English.

Sandie and I exchanged smirking glances, we weren’t sure what he was talking about, maybe he just knew we were Americans and was making a strange political statement.

It was bizarre, but we brushed it off and headed back to the hotel.

We were staying at the famous Hotel Villa d’Este. This hotel had been around since the1500’s and was where all of the super-wealthy visitors and diplomats would stay when they visited Lake Como. Sandie always insisted on the best, and this time was no exception. We knew something had happened when we walked into the lobby, and instead of the usual Italian music playing, all the televisions were tuned to pictures of the burning twin towers. We stood in disbelief, the news was in Italian so we hadn’t quite grasped the full breadth of what was happening in New York, but we knew it was something big.

Back in our suite, we were completely transfixed by the footage on the screen. We had just extended our trip in Italy by another 2 days since we were having so much fun on the lake—it was a harrowing thought knowing that if we hadn’t done that, we’d have been in New York City that morning. Later that night, it was announced that all private and commercial flights had been grounded until further notice. We were stuck in Italy. Panicking, we called our kids and made sure everyone was okay. We didn’t know how long we’d be stranded here.

For the next three weeks until the ban was lifted, we tried to make the best of it. We toured Rome and took in every tourist attraction – the Coliseum, Vatican City, and the museums. I had a hard time relaxing, knowing I was missed at home. Finally we were cleared to fly back into New York City.

Finally we were cleared to fly back into New York City. The city was devastated, but true to her nature, Sandie wasn’t: she was on the prowl, scavenging for real estate deals in Manhattan. We met with Eva Mohr, Sandie’s longtime friend and realtor for Sotheby’s. Eva was the epitome of the gossipy, bitchy socialite everyone imagines New York to be crawling with. At 65 years old, she considered herself a “trophy wife”, since Stanley, her husband, was 75. She openly trashed each and every client she’d ever had, except, of course, the one she was with at the time. Her stories were always entertaining, bordering on scandalous, but, despite her lack of discretion, Sandie liked using her.

After pocketing over $15 million from the sale of her Park Avenue apartment (she quickly put it on the market after it was rumored that the building might contain mold, and therefore be up for condemnation) Sandie needed another project to roll the proceeds into. At that time, the Park Avenue sale held the record for the project that sold at the highest value per square foot. Sandie had started flipping properties in Manhattan several years ago, and each time she’d purchase an apartment, she would double her money in the subsequent sale. She was a whiz at investing, and having a realtor as accomplished and savvy as Eva made for a profit-rich environment.

That week, we looked at 20 or more apartments, including the new AOL Time Warner building, which had begun its initial presales of condos. The top floor 8,000 square foot penthouse was still available, with an asking price of $50,000,000. It was the only apartment Sandie couldn’t stop talking about- the idea of buying the most expensive, exclusive penthouse in Manhattan would give her the instant New York socialite status she craved. This would be a purchase certain to make the papers, and solidify Sandie’s ranking as one of the richest, most powerful women around. Of course, to Sandie, she rarely purchased real estate to hold on to forever. For her, she saw the purchase of the penthouse as simply another way to make millions when New York real estate inevitably became popular again. After all, despite what happened in the rest of the economy, the super wealthy always had money, and they always bought the best.

Up to this point, I knew Sandie was wealthy, but I hadn’t realized how wealthy. In fact, this was the first time I realized Sandie had this whole other life outside of Utah and NuSkin. She was popular in New York, and was set on showing me off to several of her “famous” friends. We were booked for dinner every night – one night we went to dinner with Frank and Kathie Lee Gifford. Kathie was a long time friend of Sandie’s.

She was strikingly pretty and looked much younger than her age. She was extremely friendly and seemed to take an instant liking to me, much to Frank’s chagrin. Dinner was a little awkward because Kathie kept taking jabs at Frank about the “prostitute” scandal –– it was almost as if she stayed with him only to torture him for his indiscretion. I felt sorry for the poor guy. What do you say when you’re out to dinner with people like that? After dinner we took a funny picture in the lobby of the Mandarin. Had Frank been a younger man I think he would have kicked my ass for lifting up Kathie’s leg in the photo.

Sandie vacillated for a few days on making an offer, and fretted and stewed, constantly weighing the pros and cons of buying the most expensive apartment for sale in New York. I offered her up my best real estate advice. “Make an offer on the apartment, but don’t offer any more than

$30,000,000” Having grown up dirt poor, I’d done more than my fair share of negotiating, and knew how to read a down and depressed market, whether the price tag for the home was $20,000 for a single wide trailer, or $50 million dollars for a New York penthouse. A deal is a deal. We offered $29,900,000 for the top floor apartment, and the offer was promptly accepted.

To celebrate, Sandie booked an appointment with Frederic Fekkai, the famous celebrity stylist. I walked her over to the salon on Fifth Avenue, and watched while Frederic cut, colored, and teased Sandie’s micro-thin hair. I felt sorry for him, there wasn’t much he could do. Sandie whipped out her black credit card to pay the ridiculous $600 bill, and loaded up two shopping bags full of hair products. Of course, I would be the one lugging the bags. It was a long way back to the hotel but luckily we could cut through Central Park. Annoyed, I asked why she needed all the shampoo, since she owned a company that made every beauty product imaginable.

“Are you serious?” she said, laughing. “NuSkin creates all of their products for a huge return and markup, not for quality. I would never use their products!”

I thought of my kids back home, their bathroom stocked full of NuSkin products, and imagined my daughter’s long blonde hair breaking off and swirling down the drain after using the cheap shampoo. I made a mental note to get rid of all the NuSkin products so that my children weren’t at risk from the cheap and potentially dangerous products. I couldn’t help thinking about how greedy Sandie was.

As we walked through the park, headed for Columbus Circle and the apartment, Sandie suddenly let out a blood-curdling scream, and began running around in circles, grabbing her head.

“What happened?” I said, dropping the bags.

“Get it off me!! Get it off me!” she screamed, moving her hands away from her face just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of what had happened. A pigeon had taken the biggest crap on Sandie’s head I’d ever seen. It was all over her hair and the side of her face, greasy and whitish grey. I didn’t know what to do. I ran to the nearest garbage can and dug out a piece of old newspaper, and started dabbing at her face, wiping the white excrement off as best I could. Her
$600 hairdo was completely ruined.

Two women walked by, and started laughing and pointing, further enraging Sandie. She was having a complete and total meltdown, screaming and stomping in the middle of Central Park. She was drawing quite a bit of attention. Sandie was a mess, half her makeup was missing and there was an indentation in her hair. She was cursing, using every phrase in her vast arsenal of dirty words, and there was nothing I could do to help her, and we still had to get across the rest of the park.

Like my grandfather used to say, you can’t polish a turd. Or, for that matter, even a turd can’t polish a turd.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 05:32 AM

Chapter Nine

After the “incident” in Central Park, I couldn’t get Sandie’s comments about her company out of my mind. I knew it was none of my business –– but it still bothered me. I hated the idea of people selling products that were overpriced and potentially harmful –– it was just pure greed. Now, I know I’m a simple guy, with not much of a mind for business, but this still seemed wrong. I was obsessed with finding out the truth behind the company that had made Sandie so wealthy.

After a little more digging, Sandie revealed to me that the NuSkin “story” was a little embellished. Like every other company with a great “spiel,” they spin the Cinderella tale of rags to riches success, how they started the company with only the pennies found in the couch cushions, mixing up face creams and potions on their stove in a small slovenly apartment. The founders tell how they just “got lucky.” I wanted to know what the truth was behind all the bullshit and hype that NuSkin made up to give even the poorest, lowliest distributor —the one who had to borrow the $1200 just to buy the start-up kit—some hope. It seemed to me that the only people who had a happily ever after ending were the founders.

I started researching pyramid companies on the internet and found studies that touted statistics stating that over 90% of people who join a network marketing company . Miserably. That ifails why the buy-in is so high. Not only do companies like NuSkin know it is likely you will fail, they plan on it.

Sandie admitted that she was already a multi-millionaire when she founded NuSkin. She had made her millions with the Cambridge Diet, another multi-level marketing company that started out of Southern California. With her experience at Cambridge, Sandie developed the business acumen necessary to become a future billionaire. It was simple –– lie, cheat, steal, and screw over anyone for a penny. When Cambridge failed to make her as rich as she needed to be, she started NuSkin with friends Nedra and Blake Roney.

NuSkin got its big break when Nedra found a supplier who was willing to make their product, ship it, and not charge them for 90 days. This enabled them to sell the product before they’d even paid for it. According to Sandie, all Nedra had to do was sleep with the guy. Genius. Over the next 20 years, this wouldn’t be the first (or last) time that one of the female founders had to sleep with someone to achieve a business goal. They jokingly referred to it as “net 90 pussy.” As Sandie would say, they were willing to do anything to become mega-millionaires. Meanwhile, Blake Roney, the third founder and a deeply religious and staunch Mormon, looked the other way and gathered his millions in dividend checks. It was a program that seemed to work.

Another questionable business practice was the introduction of the “Biophotonic Scanner” which measured the skin carotenoid levels simply by aiming a light at the palm of your hand. The Nu Skin salespeople were armed with these nifty little devices which they took to parties and neighbor’s houses, and were soon selling millions of vitamins with the “money back guarantee” that a person’s scanner score (which was always dismally low the first time they were scanned) would improve within 60 days of taking the Nu Skin vitamins. The catch was, the scans could not be done “anonymously.” In order to get the scanner to work, for the first and subsequent scans, the personal data of the individual had to be entered into a database, and an individual “barcode” would be assigned to that person. To date, Nu Skin has never had to pay for anyone’s vitamins to honor the “money back guarantee.”

Why? Not because of the impeccable performance of the vitamin, but because the computer was programmed to always improve the score of the second biophotonic reading. It was the scam of all scams.

After hearing all the complaints from friends and relatives that had become involved in the business (and who never became millionaires as promised) I asked Sandie why the scanner wouldn’t just work without inputting all of the information.

“How else would we guarantee that we would never have to refund anyone’s money?” she said.

As I started attending more of the rah-rah conventions, I learned that like every multi-level company, the more you make, the more you have to spend. Once people become deeply entrenched in the system, it can become hard just to spend enough per month in order to get half that money back in a commission check. The way to beat the system is to work the start up bonus angle –– to prey on recruiting new blood into the organization.

Sandie told me how her son in-law, Jed, had mastered the recruiting technique. Jed invited me to a few of his recruiting “meetings.” These were lavish, over the top parties at his home, where he would give a short, hyped up presentation promising to make everyone a millionaire, for the small, one-time start-up fee of only $1200. Since he was so successful, he had nothing better to do with his time than to help others become multi-millionaires too –– at least, that’s what he promised. People were sucked in by the promise of an easy income, and the lure of a big new home and fancy cars.

As soon as Jed closed the deal, sometimes signing up 30 to 50 new distributors in one party, he would eagerly begin helping the new recruits, usually young couples, recruit others. He would pay particular attention to those who had nice-looking wives –– after all, the wife would probably be the one doing the recruiting, so Jed took it upon himself to make house-calls during the day, while their husbands were at work. Jed, and a couple of his buddies in the company, one close friend of mine named Ryan Fry (everyone knew him as Ry-Fry), and Jed’s upline partner, Charley Patterson, made it a recreational sport to seduce the young wives and get them into bed, all under the guise of helping them make money.

It soon became a company scandal when several husbands figured out the gig after their guilty weepy-eyed wives confessed to their extracurricular activities with the Nu Skin recruiters. Several of these enraged husbands filed complaints with the company, demanding that Jed lose his position. Nu Skin decided to make an example of someone, and sure enough, they would publicly fire a top executive for the shenanigans. They fired Ryan.

Suzanne Lieppe, Sandie’s best friend, would later tell me that the only reason Charley Patterson wasn’t fired was because he was sleeping with one of the founders. I assumed, wrongly, that it must have been Nedra. It was the first of many wrong assumptions I would make about Sandie.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 05:39 AM

Chapter Ten

Sandie and I, with our friends Sherri and Spencer Plummer decided that the Britney Spears concert in Vegas was an event not to be missed. Spencer and Sherri were an unusual pair. Spencer, a handsome, tall, dark haired retired CPA, had made his millions showing other millionaires how to take advantage of the tax loophole created by owning livestock and racehorses. Most of these people had never seen the horses they owned, most had never ridden a horse, but they enjoyed the millions in tax relief from claiming interest and ownership in foreign “breeding” operations and shady horse sperm trading. Sherri was the typical 35 year old rich bored housewife. She looked older than her age, had a plain, non-descript face, short stocky build, and mouse brown hair. She always reminded me of a Mid-western girl: sturdily built, down to earth, and super-friendly. Sherri flirted with any man that wasn’t her husband.

Like Sandie, Sherri seldom wore age-appropriate attire and liked to show off her latest plastic surgery. Every time I saw her, I blushed thinking about the time in Hawaii that she “accidentally” lost her bikini top playing beach volleyball. For some reason, the men on the opposite side of the court waited until 3 or 4 serves went by to tell her she’d experienced a wardrobe malfunction.

We flew into Vegas for the concert and checked in at the Luxor, then headed over to the MGM Grand. Other than the bored-as-hell chaperoning parents and overindulgent, stuck in their 20’s single MILF’s, we were by far the oldest people at the show. The screams and shrieks from thousands of 12 and 13 year old girls were ear-piercing. I should have gone to the casino and played craps.

The crowd reminded me of the first and only New Kids on the Block concert I saw. No, I never purchased a ticket to one, I was the 14-year old head of the garbage cleanup crew at Park West. It was the best summer job a boy my age could imagine –– free concerts, tons of girls, and unlimited quantities of stashed alcohol stuck in the bushes by the entrance. I subsidized my meager income selling the bottles to the kids in Park City. I was quite famous, until my dad found the beer bottles I’d been storing in the creek in the backyard. Then it was back to the ice rink for me.

“Oops, I did it Again….” Sandie was singing along at the top of her lungs. We were out of our seats and she was standing in front of me, grinding her ass into my crotch, snapping her fingers and flailing her arms, occasionally jerking them back down to her sides—completely off the beat of the music. Her dancing was worse than Elaine from Seinfeld. She reached back, and started caressing my package. Sherri shot her a disapproving look.

Tonight, Sandie’s behavior was particularly embarrassing. Every time she got drunk and high she acted like an obnoxious retired stripper, giving all men within a five mile radius the come-hither look, teasing them with “get some” eyes. She’d wink and catcall at any hot-looking young guy, all while groping all over me and whispering loudly all the lewd and sordid details of what she wanted to do to me later.

To top it off, her ensemble was getting more than the usual amount of attention. Having already gone through menopause, her body had started to take on the shape of an African toad. The unforgiving spandex Cavalli top rippled above and below the bra line, her skin bulging out over the top. The low rise jeans barely covered it all—with no panties, it didn’t take much imagination. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her clothes were three sizes too small and 20 years too young. Besides, I didn’t really care about her behavior and physical shortcomings that night. I was brimming with excitement about the surprise I had planned for after the concert.

As we walked back to our rooms at the Luxor after the concert, I nervously looked around for a place to stop. I hadn’t taken my jacket off all night, in fear that my surprise for Sandie would get lost. As we walked hand in hand through the lobby, I spotted a quiet bench over by a faux Egyptian statue.

“Let’s rest over here for a second.” I said to Sandie. She happily obliged, and plopped down on the bench. I bent down on one knee and pulled out a glass rose and handed it to her.

“Sandie, will you marry me?”

She took the rose, and opened the petals. Inside was the biggest ring I could afford. She paused for a moment, and looked up at me.

“Yes…. I will” she said slowly, as she took out the ring, put it on her finger, and jumped up, wrapping her arms around me. “I love you so much baby!” she whispered in my ear. I could tell from her voice that she was almost crying. My eyes started to water. I was really excited about building a life with Sandie. A woman as successful and powerful as Sandie had the pick of any man she wanted. My heart was full, and swollen with pride that she had said yes to me. My impetuousness got the best of me.

My impetuousness got the best of me. “Let’s go do it right now! Let’s go do it at one of those chapels down by Fremont Street! I want to be married to you!” I said excitedly. Sherri and Spencer agreed, it was obvious that they were excited and happy for us. Sandie hesitated, then looked away. Everyone was silent.

Sherri said “Come on Sandie, you can go change into a dress! It will be beautiful! You guys are so perfect for each other! Do it tonight!”

Sandie was still silent, her face blank. Everyone else was quiet, just staring, waiting for her to respond with something.

“Oh no, I want the wedding to be something that I can plan! I want to do it somewhere exotic, you know?” she explained, trying to convince the three of us with her conjured up enthusiasm.

“Come on baby, let’s just do it tonight! It will be so perfect! We are already here in Vegas!” I said, grabbing her hand, squeezing it.

“I CAN’T do it right now. There are some things that need to be done before we get married, Adam.” She sounded like my second grade teacher, speaking to me in a condescending tone, belittling me for not listening well enough to do as well as the other kids in class. I was dumbfounded, I definitely didn’t want to take no for an answer. I really didn’t get it. I liked the spontaneity, and Sandie was a planner, so it was always fun to do things on the whim.

“Don’t you want to marry me now?” I asked, a little desperate, a little hurt. I was fishing for a “yes” with my best puppy dog smile.

“Adam, you have to sign a prenup. We can’t get married until you meet with my attorney” she shot back, angrily. In that eternally awkward moment of silence, I had a moment of clarity that I’ll never forget. Sandie thinks I am a gold digger. She thinks I only want to marry her for her money. I made a pact with myself, at that moment, that I would do anything I could to make her believe that I was marrying her because I truly loved her. Because I did.

The night came to an early end, mostly because I think Spencer and Sherrie didn’t know what to say to us, so they excused themselves back up to their room. Sandie knew I was disappointed, but she didn’t know I was secretly heartbroken. I made love to her for hours that night, just to prove how much I loved her, just to prove that I could, just to keep myself from feeling any more pain and rejection.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 05:47 AM

Chapter Eleven

I always find it curious when two people can have an intimate, crazy, passionate love affair, a marriage, or even short-term relationship –– end it –– and somehow remain friends. Sandie had this down to a fine art. As I learned soon after the engagement, her exes were in no short supply, and they were all a little too friendly with her for my taste. I didn’t like seeing men that had previously been balls deep in the woman I loved, and I certainly didn’t like hanging out with them. I conjured up images of Sandie doing all the unspeakable things that she did to me, to all of them.

Diederik van Nederveen was the latest in the ex-husband slot. Diederik was a six foot seven inch Dutchman with an accent like Arnold Schwarzenegger whose topics of conversation ranged between disgusting jokes to deep philosophical observations that would make Mahatma Gandhi drool, all within thirty seconds.

The story that her “friends” tell after a few glasses of wine at parties is that Sandie met Diederik during a Nu Skin incentive trip in Cancun, Mexico. Within hours of meeting, she lured to her room and seduced him right under the eyes of her friend, hairdresser, Becky Ianoni.

Sandie and Diederik’s relationship lasted a turbulent five years. They have a daughter, Sophia, who Sandie constantly used to manipulate him. I’ve heard that the relationship failed for several reasons, but I only heard Sandie’s side of the sordid tale. Sandie liked to blame it on her constant traveling for Nu Skin and his lack of interest in her sexually. I, of course, believed all the ridiculous stories she told about him. However, some time later, I looked into it and found that Sandie had lied; the same kind of lies she generously spread about her first husband Craig Tillotson and others from her past. As if it made it easier for her to accept being left by the man she once loved.

She later told me when he ''lost interest in her and her Nu Skin world'' all he wanted was to get away from her but stay in Utah for his daughter and be left alone. To hurt him she went after his best friend and closest confidante, Sebastian, who she eventually seduced. Diederik got wind of it and came unglued. Though Sandie never directly attributed her conquest of Sebastian as the final deal breaker, the rumor was that Diederik was more heartbroken over his best friend’s betrayal than his wife’s indiscretion.

They both decided to divorce. She got lucky Diederik didn't go after her money but instead tried to maintain a friendship. Initially that went well enough but as the months went by she started to sabotage his ability to see their daughter. Later she told me how she purposefully screwed with him to hurt him for leaving her. It was then I really started to question who Sandie is and what I was in for if things ever turned sour.

Before Diederik was Craig Tillotson. Craig was Sandie’s first husband of 20 plus years. He was a dark-haired, very gregarious guy with a fun, goofy sense of humor.

Craig was the reason for the prenup. When Craig and Sandie split, Craig got half of everything that Sandie and he built with Nu Skin. Half the stock, the cars, the houses, the accounts in the Caymans. Most of the secrets of Sandie’s marriage to Craig I found out from Suzanne, Sandie’s closest girlfriend. Suzanne was a gossip, through and through, and loved getting stoned and divulging Sandie’s darkest secrets to me at crowded parties. It was her way of getting my undivided attention, and I think she secretly like the drama she so “innocently” created.

Suzanne said that Craig was raised as an innocent, Mormon boy, and Sandie was his first love. Within a few years of marriage, he discovered that Sandie had slept with multiple partners. In an attempt at being “honest” she openly confessed her preference for a more diverse sexual menu, including cuckoldry, voyeurism, and gang-bangs. Craig went off the deep end and started experimentation of his own. At first, he’d bring in his buddies to bang Sandie while he watched. According to Suzanne, Sandie would often brag to her about how much she loved it. Her ultimate sexual fantasy was being the only woman in a roomful of guys taking turns on her.

Craig then grew bored with Sandie having all the fun and soon found himself an endless supply of previously undiscovered horny women, ripe for the picking– his buddy’s wives. Being a sociable and very generous multimillionaire, Craig was never in short supply of buddies, and hence, never in short supply of new, easy pussy. It was too easy. The formula was simple –– invite the couple to one of his vacation homes, send the guy out on an all-expenses paid adventure (skydiving, wakeboarding, heli-skiing)— seduce the wife. When Sandie finally caught on to this, it was too much for her ego. She wasn’t into swapping, and she definitely wasn’t into competition.

I met both ex-husbands within a month of meeting Sandie. Both were semi-permanent fixtures at her home. Most of the time, Diederik playing by the pool with Sophia, or Craig was over talking and laughing with Sandie about something happening with Nu Skin, or gossiping about some mutual friends, or doting on the kids with some lavish and inappropriate gift.

The constant presence of both exes made me furious. Sandie expected me to play nice, and act like “an adult” but there was something about the whole situation that made me uneasy. Perhaps it was an unexplained feeling, or maybe it was just jealously, or both.

It was obvious to me that Diederik did not like me, and had no intentions of forming a friendship anytime soon.

Soon after I proposed at the Luxor, I started receiving strange phone calls and threatening messages on my phone. One evening, after a day of riding horses up at Sandie’s barn, I came out to four slashed tires. A few nights later, I went home and the kids said that a strange man had knocked on the door looking for me, holding a pipe wrench. They said they’d never seen him before. I am not usually one to take kindly to threats or to back down to any man. After years of ice hockey, several broken bones, and countless fights, I was always ready to take anyone on. But after becoming involved with a woman with so much money, I unknowingly gained a whole lot of new enemies; enemies that had no face and enemies that had different tactics and unlimited funds with which to harass and intimidate me.

Before things became strained between all of us Diederik kept on coming over to see Sophia. But after we barely tolerated each other, and made no secret of our mutual distaste for one another, thing were getting out of hand. I knew at some point, soon, the boiling point would come. And finally, it did.

We had boarded the Gulfstream with the Nu Skin team on our way to a distributor convention in Japan. It was July, and the tarmac was melting from the heat. The pilots were doing their final checks, when Jerry, the pilot in command, appeared from the cockpit and motioned for Sandie to come to the front of the jet. A few minutes passed. I could hear a hushed yet heated conversation from the front of the jet. It was odd, but no one questioned the delay. We were just anxious to take off and get on our way.

“What was that all about?” I asked as Sandie reappeared.

“Oh, nothing –– the pilot had some questions. No big deal.” It seemed strange. Sandie never made any travel arrangements, nor would she be the one to ask about airport particulars, codes, TFRs (Temporary Flight Restrictions) or anything flight related.

Later that evening, Sandie came clean about why the pilots had called her up there. She told me Diederik had called in a bomb threat on the jet. He told the pilot that if Adam Baker boarded the jet, the jet would never make it to Japan. Rather than alert the authorities or the FAA to the threat, Sandie simply called Diederik and told him to call the pilot back and tell him that he was just kidding. I realized that to Sandie, being on good terms with her exes was more important than I was.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 06:42 AM

Chapter Twelve

We landed on the beautiful island of Kauai on September 26, 2002 for a week-long trip to celebrate Sandie’s 48th birthday. Our 10,000 square foot home on Kauai was the most expensive, lavish home on the island. It was built with 100 year-old hand-finished teak, and the entire back opened up to a covered deck facing the beach. Situated on a remote, white sand beach, the views were breathtaking and picturesque. Sandie loved the quiet, the absence of people on the island, and the privacy the huge estate afforded. I found the quiet and isolation mind-numbing and suffocating.

I walked out onto the veranda as night fell, taking in the sunset, always looking for the green flash across the sky at sunset. I’d only seen the green flash once. As a young boy, our family would vacation in Hawaii for three weeks a year as our reward for slaving away in the ice show. I saw the green flash paint the horizon once, and I’ve been looking for it ever since.

Sandie walked out behind me, and started running her long fingernails up and down my back. It felt cold, and gave me the chills.

“I have an idea” she said, whispering in my ear. “What.”

“Let’s get married Saturday.” I was quiet for a minute, contemplating the reality of a wedding without my family, my children, or any of my friends. Only one buddy had come with me on this trip, he’d have to be my best man.

“Why don’t we wait until our families and all of our friends can be there?” I said.

“No, let’s just do it now. We’re in the perfect place. I can hire a local guy to do the ceremony, and someone else to do music and flowers. I’m just going to wear that white dress I bought, and you can wear that Tommy Bahama linen set I got you. Shandell can be your best man, and Bruce and Todd will be my bridesmaids.” She gave me a quick kiss on the back of my shoulder as she walked away, buzzing back into the house to get her assistants to start making the phone calls and preparations for Saturday.

I stood there, motionless. I felt uneasy, a little hot. I stepped off the porch and walked down to the beach to get more air. My thoughts were heavy. I missed my kids. I thought of how much fun they’d be having right now, playing in the pool, laughing, fighting with each other. Sandie was annoyed by the presence of children, and always wanted my kids left home. This time was no exception.

The next morning I awoke to Sandie sitting over me, staring at me intently. It startled me a little at first. “What are you doing?” I asked, a little freaked out.

“Waiting for you to wake up. I have a huge long list of things I need you to do today. Okay, most important, we need to drive into town to get the prenup signed and notarized. Then, I need you to run your linen set to the dry cleaner to get pressed. Then, I…”I stopped listening after the prenup thing.

I stopped listening after the prenup thing. Wrongly, I assumed that whole thing had been dropped, but apparently, it was of the utmost importance to her to take care of prior to Saturday. I remembered my meeting in Utah with Marty Olsen, Sandie’s “family attorney.” She’d set up a consultation with good ‘ol Marty to “quell” my fears of signing the one-sided prenup. Marty was a redheaded smartass attorney, who obviously knew where his bread was buttered and encouraged me to sign the document.

“This looks pretty standard to me, Adam” Marty matter of factly explained, pushing the paper back at me. I didn’t bother reading it. These long documents had a tendency to take hours for me to comprehend and I relied on Marty to explain everything to me in layman terms. Overwhelmed, I ended the meeting with Marty and went and saddled up my horses.

Later that day, we pulled into a bank in Princeville, Kauai. After exhaustive research, Sandie had found the only notary on the island, a curious-eyed older Japanese woman. The woman quickly scanned my driver’s license. I could see in her eyes she wanted to ask questions, but she hadn’t had the time to read the document in its entirety, nor was it likely she could come up with anything pertinent to ask anyway. She was just trying to figure it all out. You and me both, I thought. I quickly scribbled my signature –– a bunch of pages were missing, including the attachment of Sandie’s financial declaration, but I signed anyway, since I was being pressured. I pushed the paper back toward the Japanese lady. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sandie exhale, leaning back in the worn blue padded bank chair. Yes, all of her precious money was safe.

Friday evening, the night before the wedding, Sandie and I went for a walk on the beach. I wanted the chance to talk to her alone, to tell her how I really felt. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here, I felt like I was doing the wrong thing. Part of me was nervous and panicked –– I’d already had two failed marriages, I knew full well (and I think she did too) that marrying a woman 15 years my senior was setting myself up for failure number three. I loved her, but not in that passionate, crazy way I knew I needed –– not in the yearning, lusty, deep way that I’d felt for other women I’d been more attracted to. Not in the way that made me lose my breath when I saw her. I loved her like an old, worn-in pair of tennis shoes. She was comfortable, safe, predictable.

“I don’t think we should do this.” I said, hesitantly. “I think we should just keep things the way they are, we don’t need to get married.”

“Adam, you know why we need to get married. The executives at the company frown on our relationship. It bothers the Japanese investors that we aren’t married and you know we can’t continue to travel together wasting the company money on two hotel rooms every night.” Her explanation was so businesslike, so unsexy, so Sandie.

She was right. From a professional standpoint, we had to be married to legitimatize our relationship and solidify her standing at Nu Skin.

“Screw the company. You’re a founder, you can do whatever you want. I just have a bad feeling about us getting married. I don’t want to do it. Let’s just have fun together.” I said, grabbing her hand.

She looked at me, incredulously. “You can always divorce me if you aren’t happy, Adam. Now look, the wedding is planned, everyone is here, we are in Kauai. Let’s just do it.” She was being condescending, as usual. I was being called a pussy, and I knew it. I hated being called a pussy.

As we headed back, Shandell was approaching us in the distance. Sandie hated Shandell. In fact, she hated all of my friends. Anyone without money was low class trash, she would often say.

“I’m going to run inside. I love you!” she kissed me on the cheek as she veered off. “Where have you been, buddy? Everyone is looking for you guys.” Shandell said. “We went for a walk. I told her I don’t want to get married.”

Shandell looked surprised. “Why, man?! She’s a billionaire! Even if it doesn’t work out, who cares? You had the experience, man.” He gestured toward the beach, the house. “This is an experience. I know a thousand guys that would kill to be in your shoes.”

I thought about it for a minute. He made a lot of sense. Shandell had travelled the world and lived a hard life. He’d seen things. Maybe he was right.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. This is an experience. Let’s see how much money we can spend…” We both started laughing. He smacked me on the back and we headed to the deck.

The pre-wedding luncheon took place at the exclusive Princeville resort. Everything was catered, expensive, perfect. Our wedding party of 15 people all sat at the same, big table. Sandie looked prettier than I’d ever seen her in a white strapless sundress, and the day seemed to be going by flawlessly. It felt like a dream. We were all laughing, talking, joking; most of the table was drinking and starting to get a little loud. We were happy. The salads were served. Mine was a green salad with ranch on the side. I grabbed my salad fork and lifted up a lettuce leaf to spear at a tomato. A huge, monstrous, slimy cockroach sauntered out. I lost my breath for a second.

“Holy ****. Oh ****, that is sick!” I said to Sandie, who had watched the whole thing, as I pushed my chair back from the table.

She didn’t skip a beat. “Oh wow, I have never seen that happen to anyone! This is the nicest resort on the island. I can’t believe that. Send it back, babe” Sandie said, nonchalantly, motioning for the waiter.

I looked at her and was silent for a minute. I leaned over and whispered in her ear “This is an omen. It’s a sign. We shouldn’t be doing this.” My stomach felt like it had a lump of hardened coal in it – heavy.

Sandie started laughing loudly and uncontrollably, the way someone laughs to cover up something embarrassing, to minimize an event. I could tell by her composure that she was already buzzed and high, and we weren’t even halfway through the day. I’ve never seen a bigger cockroach.

The wedding continued on, as planned. I was in my place as it neared sunset, and Sandie walked down the aisle while some guy who was a “local”, (we later found out he was one of the former “Monkees”) played the guitar and sang. It was beautiful, almost a storybook wedding. Afterward, we danced late into the night, and laughed and talked with everyone who was there. I didn’t feel like she had become Sandie Baker. No, I had definitely become Mr. Tillotson.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 06:49 AM

Chapter Thirteen

We were lying in the bed of the most expensive honeymoon suite in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. It had been less than a week since we’d been married, and we had just finished another marathon sex session, this time in the bathtub. Sandie was lying in bed, her arms around me as I faced away from her. I was drifting off to sleep. “I have a confession to make” she whispered.

“I have a confession to make” she whispered. “Okay…” I said.

“I never told you how I made all that money to buy myself a new Camaro in high school.” A long pause.

“I used to sneak out of the house and tell my parents I was babysitting. Instead, I would catch a bus downtown and go to a bar. I had a fake ID and I was a dancer.” Silence.

“You mean, a stripper, or a go-go dancer?” I asked, confused.

“I was an exotic dancer” she said, laughing. “I was the best. I made over $1,000 most nights just dancing, a lot more on the other nights. I was the owner’s favorite. He really took me under his wing and looked after me.”

I thought about everything for a minute, remembering how funny and ugly Sandie’s high school photos that I’d seen were.

“What do you mean, the other nights?”

“Well, I got paid extra to make sure certain customers had a really good time. They paid me well. They knew I was only 15, so I was worth a lot more than the other girls were” she said, squeezing my hand.

“You mean, like, blowjobs? Serving them drinks? Private dances?” I asked. I thought about the old Sandie, with her big bulbous German nose, flat chest, and her wide set eyes. She looked like the average church-going good girl.

“No, silly” she laughed. “I fucked them! It wasn’t that big of a deal, they all had the smallest cocks and they came so fast. Especially when the owner told them how young I was. It was so taboo, it was such a turn on for them.”

I lay there in shock, listening to the ocean outside our window, and her hands on my chest suddenly felt cold and clammy. My stomach turned, as I thought of a young, dark-haired Sandie in bed with some old Italian guys in Long Island. I had married a prostitute, I thought. Literally.

“Oh God! I had to make money somehow! My parents wouldn’t ever buy my anything. They were so cheap, we never had anything nice.”

I was silent.

“Oh, boo-boo, come on” she said. “It was sooo long ago. I’ve been tested a bunch of times over the years.”

How comforting, I thought.

“Since when are you such a prude? For god sakes, you were a stripper when I met you!”

I got out of bed, and turned toward her. Her big, capsular contracture fake tit was sticking straight up on her chest, like an orange had been stuck under the age-weathered skin. I looked right into her glassy eyes. All of a sudden, I noticed how tired and nondescriptly ugly she was without all her makeup.

“I was NOT paid to sleep with the women. I went home every night and took care of my kids.

That’s the difference!”

I stormed out to the living area of the suite and sat on the couch, staring in disbelief. My mind was racing back and forth. I was angry, my body was hot, I felt betrayed, yet another part of me, this voice, kept saying don’t **** this up. This is not a big deal, this was so long ago. This is your chance to have everything you have ever wanted. Don’t **** it up.

After a few minutes, I walked back into the bedroom. Sandie was sitting there waiting for me. Just like she expected, I had come to my senses.

“I am sorry I overreacted. You are right. It’s not a big deal. I love you.” I leaned over and kissed her softly. She pulled me close and I got back into bed, straddling her wide open legs, her well worn leather clam. I knew what she wanted. I closed my eyes and thought of those two hot lesbians who liked to fight over my body…

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:00 AM

Chapter Fourteen

After the honeymoon, we returned home to Salt Lake City, after about two weeks. It seemed like forever since I’d seen Erik, Melanie, Brittney, Cody, and Korbin, and I missed my kids. The phone rang in my pocket: it was Sandie.

“Hi babe. It’s Suzanne’s birthday and I need to get a present up to her. Do you want to drive up the canyon for me?”

I thought about it for a second. It was a gorgeous day and would probably be one of the last before the snow fell.

“Sure. I’ll drive up there in a little while. I’ll call you in a minute.” I hung up the phone and walked to the garage, surveying all the cars. I had my choice of a BMW Z8, Porsche Carrera GT, Porsche Boxster, BMW M3, or the Mercedes SL. I chose the Z8. It was red, fast, and it would be fun to take up to Park City.

I walked into Sandie’s office to grab the gift. It was a huge gift bag with a bow on the top, and heavy as ****. Sandie was always giving me a hard time about being too generous with my friends on their birthdays, so I was curious as to what she got Suzanne. I carefully untied the bow and rummaged around all the tissue paper. I carefully uncovered a big basket of Nu Skin products. I laughed out loud. What a shitty gift –– she is as cheap as they come. I hurriedly stuffed the tissue back in the top of the bag and grabbed it to go. Just as I made it to the garage, the bottom ripped out of the bag and out fell a huge, cellophane-wrapped brick. Inside it was white powder.

I was so surprised it took my breath away for a moment. What the **** was this? I knew it was drugs, but I didn’t know if it was cocaine, heroin, or something else . I started to panic, I could feel my blood pumping and my head was swimming with crazy and irrational thoughts. What is Sandie doing with this? Does she really do drugs like all of her friends? She told me she wasn’t doing that **** anymore, that she had quit for me!

What was so surreal was that Sandie had just recently insisted we send Erik, my 15 year old son, to the “Turnabout” program for drug rehab after finding pot in his bedroom. How could she send my son away for six months while she’s been using this **** all along? Erik always seemed to act weirdly when Sandie was around. Was she the one who introduced him to it in the first place? I felt betrayed, I felt rage. I felt lied to. Sandie knew I believed in a clean lifestyle. I rarely imbibed, and I’d never touched drugs.

My body was a temple, and unknowingly, and perhaps unjustifiably, I demanded this same ideal from my wife. I couldn’t believe she and Suzanne would put me at risk for unknowingly transporting a kilo of this ****! With the way I drive, I am always at risk at being pulled over by the police. I would have been convicted and sent to jail for a long time.

I quickly pulled myself together and started to act. I taped up the bottom of the gift bag, packed the Nu Skin products back into it, and set it on the kitchen counter. I grabbed the brick, opened it up, and dumped almost the entire thing down the toilet of the guest bathroom. It took three flushes to get rid of all of it. I put the rest in a plastic baggie. The only person I trusted who could tell me what I was looking at would be my friend Whiskey, who had been in and out of jail since he was 13.

As soon as I hit the canyon I shifted the Z8 into sport mode, and started to fly. Even if a cop were shooting radar, I could easily outrun him in this car. Parley’s canyon, the road from Salt Lake City to Park City, was one of the most dangerous roads in the winter because of the steep grade and unforgiving turns and drop-offs. The leaves were already starting to change but I noticed only for a brief second –– I was driving so fast I didn’t have time to look around.

I honked the horn as I pulled up to Suzanne’s house. Suzanne ran out and I handed her the significantly lighter gift bag topped with a bow in her hand. She looked better than usual.

Suzanne was an ex-Ford Model who grew up on the upper East Side of Manhattan. She was about 5’8”, slim, dark brown long hair, and piercing blue eyes. She looked like a cross between Brooke Shields and Courtney Cox, but much older. Suzanne never told anyone her age, but rumor had it she was about 50. She was a pretty well-preserved 50, and she acted like she was 20. Suzanne was always a lot of fun, but I kept my distance. With women like her and Sandie, the best way to get one up on each other was to seduce their man. Or offer them a blow job, which she did every chance she got.

“ADAM! How are you?” she yelled as she approached the driver’s side of the convertible, leaning in to give me a hug. Her voice was husky and sultry, probably from years of smoking and partying.

“I’m good Suzanne, what’s up? What do you think Sandie got you?”

She smiled mischievously. “I don’t know? It’s a surprise. I hope it’s something that I’ve really really been wanting.”

Always dramatic, she raised an eyebrow and lowered her voice. “Soooooo…How was the honeymoon? Is everything good between you guys?”

My stomach turned. I knew she was probing for Sandie. Things hadn’t felt connected between us since the night in Cabo when she told me she used to turn tricks.

“Yeah, Suzanne, everything is good. What about you and Phil?”

“Ooooohhh…. You know how it is. Phil is a looovely man, I just wish he’d move out of his parents’ basement, I mean, really, there is so much he can do, you know? Gosh, Adam, where do I start on the subject of Phil?”

I could tell this was the wrong question to ask –– I could end up here for hours. I stole a quick glance at my watch. “Uh-oh, I’ve got 15 minutes to pick my girls up from school.”

“Okay Adam –– make sure you tell Sandie thanks for my present!” She blew a kiss. “Thank you daaaahling.” She winked and waved as I pulled away from her house. I flew down the canyon even faster than I’d driven up, and pulled back into the garage.

I was beyond paranoid at this point. I searched Sandie’s closet, high and low, for traces and signs of more drugs. Where is she getting such a huge quantity of this ****? Is this all she’s hiding from me? What other things hasn’t she told me about? My mind raced with scenarios. Who had I married?

How did I not notice any of this? I started to think back to all of the times she’d just disappear, all of her unexplained alone time, all of the trips to the Cayman Islands where she would take a suitcase full of cash to deposit at the bank. I always asked her about the cash and she simply shrugged it off, saying it was a “tax strategy”, funneling her excess money overseas. What I could never figure out was where she got cash. I knew Nu Skin never paid her in cash. I tried to put together a pattern of events, but nothing added up. I saw the signs, but I didn’t want to believe that was what I was actually seeing. I’d put Sandie Tillotson, the great and powerful Mensa businesswoman billionaire, up on this giant glass pedestal, and today, she’d fallen off. I was heartbroken.

I drove all the way to West Valley to pick up Whiskey. He was always in trouble for a DUI, and never had a car, or a license. Nonetheless, he was a priceless friend when it came to situations like this. He dipped his long skinny pinky finger in the bag, and tasted the white powder. His eyes got big and he exploded into laughter, exposing his partially toothless grin.

“Holy ****, dude, this is H!” he said.

“What?” I said, not sure I was hearing it right.

“This **** is H, heroin, smack. She does not **** around, does she!?”

Whiskey was getting quite a laugh out of this. To say I was surprised was a mild form of the expression. I was floored.

“What the **** do I do?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Throw this **** away, and unless she is using all the time, shut the **** up about it. She is running a huge company and makes an ass-load of money. Let her have some fun! ****, Adam.”

Whiskey was not exactly what I’d call “anti-drug”, or anti-anything that brought pleasure. He based his life on seeking and acquiring all forms of fun, especially the chemically enhanced variety.

“Thanks man. You want me to swing you through the drive-thru before I drop you back off?” “I’m cool. I’m going to that bar right across the street anyway, so I’ll see you later.”

The scene that evening played out in the same passive-aggressive manner our entire relationship always did. Sandie returned home, and asked how the trip to Park City went. I pretended to know nothing, smiling, I recounted my trip up the canyon and chattered disingenuously about fabricated details of my conversation with Suzanne. Everything was fine, it always was. After all, I was learning that to live in harmony with Sandie Tillotson, I’d have to care a lot less, hide a lot more, and keep my heart closed off. Sandie would never change, she was too in love with herself, her ego, her persona. I was quickly being initiated into the ways of the super-wealthy and I was discovering that they are all that way –– total megalomaniacs. The money, no matter how much, made them better and smarter than everyone else. In addition to almost limitless power, with indescribable wealth came something else –– these people believed that they were Gods, and Sandie was no exception.

As we lay in bed that night, I brought up the subject of changing her last name to “Baker.” This was a hotly contested subject, and she always turned the conversation to something more “neutral.” She knew it was important to me, but made me feel childish and old-fashioned every time I broached the subject. Though I couldn’t explain it to her, by Sandie taking my last name, it meant that I was good enough, that she was somehow proud that I was her husband. Since no one seemed to know that we’d even gotten married, save the few that were at the ceremony, and my friends and family members, I figured I was an embarrassment to her, her little “Dirty Dalton” sex toy she kept locked in the basement.

“Babe, have you sent in all your paperwork to change your last name to Baker?” I asked. I was still reeling from the earlier events, but I grasped at something, anything, that might make me feel close to her again. Maybe I was just looking for a fight. She lay there, pretending to be asleep. Finally, she responded.

“Adam, I am not changing my last name. Everyone knows me as Tillotson. And that’s that. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s not happening, ok?”

I wasn’t good enough. And that’s that.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:08 AM

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning I called Dave and Shandell. I had a proposal for both of them, a way to take my mind off all the bullshit.

“Hey, it’s Adam. We are going on a cruise for a week. Pack your ****, we are leaving today.”

It didn’t take much to convince either of them to go to the Caribbean for a week, all expenses paid. Sandie was at the office –– she didn’t give a **** about me, and I was getting the **** out of there. She could wonder where I was for awhile.

The boys and I flew the Cirrus to the airport in Galveston, Texas. It couldn’t have been more perfect timing, there was a Carnival singles cruise leaving the next day with hundreds of single women between the ages of 25 to 35. I paid for the cruise through a local travel agency, in cash, so Sandie couldn’t track us. It was all very 007. Knowing her, she’d figure out a way to show up and ruin the whole thing.

As we boarded the cruise we knew it was going to be a crazy week. Dave was a pretty boy and always attracted a ton of attention –– he was a tall, stocky Scandinavian with trendy blond spiked hair and blue eyes. I was the closer because I had the personality. Once the girls started talking to us, I made them laugh and have a good time, so they stuck around. There were women everywhere. By the time we’d gotten to our room, we’d met several groups of crazy girls. I had learned long ago that the cheaper cruise lines like Carnival were always less stuffy and packed with wild women ready to party.

We started drinking almost immediately. The weeklong cruise turned into one big blur of nightclubs, eating, drinking, and lying by the pool. I couldn’t even remember all the women we’d met or danced with or brought back to our room –– all I knew was that it felt damn good to be lusted after again. I hadn’t felt that way since the last time I danced as “Dalton.”

One night we packed 20 girls into our tiny room and convinced them all to take their bikini tops off. Things got crazy in that room as the alcohol flowed and girls got loose. Shandell videotaped the whole thing. At one point, five of the girls started kissing each other and taking body shots off of each other’s naked torsos. Soon, things progressed to even wilder variations of body shots as more clothing was removed and tequila and vodka and lime juice were dripping everywhere. Pretty soon, a few of the nastier girls were licking and fingering each other’s pussies, and begging for us to join in. We had our very own “girls gone wild” without the black censored bar.

The next morning at breakfast a cute, bubbly dark-haired girl approached our table and introduced herself.

“Hi, I’m Marni. Are you guys here with the LDS group?”

We all started to laugh. Dave grabbed his Tequila Sunrise and held it up. “Yep –– that’s us –– we’re the bad Mormon boys.”

She flushed a little, obviously she hadn’t seen us at the bar every night completely shitfaced.

“I’m Adam” I said, standing up to shake her hand. She was innocent and young, and I liked that. “Sit down and join us. These guys won’t bite.” I immediately felt like a cheese ball. She sat down, and started jabbering on about herself. We quickly found out that Marni was a 25 year old divorced girl (with a kid) from Arizona, on the cruise looking for a new husband.

Over the next few days, Marni made every move she could, within the confines of her religion, to get my attention. I had fun teasing her, especially since she was not my type at all and I knew it would never go anywhere. I was a total asshole. I loved watching women like Marni squirm and maneuver for my consideration. It was probably sadistic, but I collected women like Marni –– good, solid fours –– like I collected cars. I loved innocently stringing them on for years in email and phone relationships, knowing that if I ever needed a “backup” there was some nice girl on the side just waiting for me to become available. Most guys had a plan “B”, but I liked also having a plan “C” and a plan “D.” Marni never found out exactly what she was dealing with –– a married guy with two ex-wives and five kids –– but then again, she never tried too hard to uncover the real truth about me. None of them ever did.

Seven days later I was $10,000 poorer and felt ten years younger. We disembarked from the cruise, armed with our photos, black books full of numbers and email addresses, and our video camera. We had seen some thing most guys only dream about –– or have to pay for in Vegas, and had enough Penthouse Forum tales to entertain the rest of the guys for years. I swore Dave and Shandell to secrecy about where we’d gone, and what we’d done.

I was sure I’d return home to a worried, sullen, eager to make amends Sandie. But when my card was declined while trying to fuel up the plane at the Galveston airport, I found out exactly what type of Sandie I’d be returning home to –– a seriously pissed-off vindictive crazy woman. I tried every card in my wallet, and called all the 800 numbers.

“I’m sorry sir; Sandie Tillotson called and reported that credit card stolen. We had to shut the card off and reissue it.” Luckily we had kept enough cash to get us back. I prepared myself for World War III to erupt when up I got home.

We landed at the Provo airport and taxied over to my hangar to get the plane put away. Sandie was parked there in her silver Mercedes, blocking the roll-up door. As soon as she saw the Cirrus, she jumped out of the car, and looked crazier than the Lady Elaine Fairchild puppet on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. Her nose was red, makeup smeared, hair smashed and rumpled. I could tell she’d been crying.

“Holy ****, dude, this is going to be bad,” Dave said under his breath as we approached the hangar.

“You are so screwed, man.” Shandell added.

“Whatever” I said, shrugging it off. I stopped the plane just short of her car, and shut down the engine. We all climbed out, ignoring her like a bunch of kids in trouble with a mean mommy.

“Thanks for shutting off my credit cards.” I yelled over to her.

“Thanks for telling me you were going on a cruise!” she yelled back, much louder. I continued shutting down the plane, ignoring her standing there with her arms crossed. Dave and Shandell did the same, awkwardly gathering their stuff, saying polite “Hellos” to Sandie as they crossed her path.

I got in my BMW X5, and drove home. Sandie got in her Mercedes, and followed me. Not another word was ever said about my “trip.”

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:25 AM

Chapter Sixteen

We’d only been married a few months, but the number of white lies and black lies and fibs and fabrications told to spare each others feelings grew larger with each day. Pretty quickly, our lives became a tangled, impenetrable web of deceit and make-believe. We both pretended everything was fine, but it wasn’t. Sandie and I never talked about anything, we made excuses to be in different places at different times, and there was zero intimate connection left between us. The chasm between us widened quickly as we both started to pursue separate lives.

I had come to New York to help Sandie finalize some designs for the penthouse in the AOL Time Warner building, but we were staying at her other apartment in the Trump Tower. As I stared out the window of the apartment, I felt lonely. On the sidewalks below, people were swarming everywhere like ants. I was surrounded on all sides by towering buildings, even 34 floors up I could still hear the noise from traffic. I felt guilty for feeling overwhelmed by it all. Here I was living a life most people only dream about –– penthouses in New York, fancy cars, private jets, and unlimited spending money. It seemed wrong, but I was completely unhappy. I grabbed my laptop and googled “Oregon Ranches for Sale.” One listing in particular caught my eye:“ 300 acre homestead in Promise Oregon with Private Lake.” It looked remote, wild, and untouched. It was exactly the opposite of where I was right now. It looked like freedom.

I dialed up the listing agent. “Hello, Nadine? This is Adam Baker. I am interested in the 300 acre ranch you have listed in Promise. Is it still for sale?” I asked.

“It is. When would you like to come see it?” Nadine asked. She sounded young. “I am out of town right now, but I can be there Friday.”

“Sounds great. I’ll plan on it. Call me when you get to La Grande, and I will give you directions to my office. See you soon, Mr. Baker.”

I hung up the phone and yelled out at the top of my lungs “Whiskey! Get in here!”

Whiskey appeared in the doorway, his bottom lip full of chew, he grinned his usual wide smile, unashamed that every other tooth was either missing or rotted out.

“What’s up, boss?”

“We’re going to Oregon to look at a ranch. Pack your ****.”

Whiskey’s eyes lit up. “I’ll be ready in 5 minutes. I don’t have nothing but two pairs of wranglers and my boots.”

He spun around and walked down the hall, his long stringy strawberry blond hair pulled into a ponytail underneath his dirty black cowboy hat. Whiskey was so lithe and slim he looked like a woman from behind. He always wore his full redneck getup of unyieldingly tight Wranglers, saucer sized belt buckle, and pointy-toed stingray boots, and attracted a lot of attention in New York — it

was fun to see the look of pure shock on the faces of the hooting and hollering construction workers when they realized the “chick” they’d been whistling at had a huge handlebar moustache and three teeth. Whiskey played up his wild-west persona like he was Woody Harrelson in the “Cowboy Way.” Amazingly, some high-end women actually gave him some action. Not bad for a 120 pound toothless redneck from Fruitland, Utah.

The next morning, we landed at the La Grande airport, in the Northeastern part of Oregon. The weather was perfect –– 72 degrees. A short, attractive brunette began walking towards us as we deplaned.

“I’m Nadine Duncan” she said, smiling coyly as she shook my hand.

I noticed a big diamond on her other hand. She took off her sunglasses and lowered her big blue eyes as she sized me all the way up.

“You must be Adam.”

“Yep, we’re here to see the ranch. This is Whiskey. He’s gonna be my ranch hand.”

Whiskey shoved his hand out to Nadine and shook her hand, curtsying with his usual faux- cowboy politeness. “Howdy” he said, grinning.

Nadine wouldn’t take her eyes off me. “Hi. Whiskey, was it?” she said, looking directly at me as she said it.

This girl was going to be trouble.

The 15 mile drive took over two and a half hours along a winding, heavily wooded road. After the spring thaw the roads were rougher than usual, and Nadine’s Altima wasn’t exactly built for wheeling. Nadine chatted incessantly about her husband, the sheriff of LaGrande. She was the textbook younger, bored wife who settled into a life she wasn’t quite ready for. She made no secret that she was unhappy with her husband and marriage. Nadine was a party girl who had married a much older man, and she was bored.

Finally, we pulled up a long, dirt road. We were encircled by pines on all sides and thick, heavy brush. I rolled down the windows and took in the unbelievably satisfying smell of dirt and pine trees. We got out and explored the property in all directions. Near the top of the property was a small, private lake, with views for miles and miles. Other than the original homestead –– a log cabin built in the 1800’s –– the property was completely untouched. It was exactly what I’d dreamed of owning my whole life.

“I’ll take it” I said to Nadine. “Write up an offer.”

“Ohhhh… you’re going to LOVE it here, Adam. I will come up and help you work on the ranch. I know how to deliver cows and I can help you with whatever…” She ran her fingers through her long dark hair, trailing off as she stared right at my package.

Whiskey shot me a teasing look. He was used to women falling for me when we went places. Wherever we’d go, he’d always benefit from the passel of hopeful women that would follow me around. I’d known Whiskey since my dancing days. I’d met him at Rascals, and early on he realized that the next best thing to being Dirty Dalton was being his sidekick. The leftovers weren’t all that bad.

“Let’s git ’er done” Whiskey said to Nadine, thankfully saving me from that awkward moment. “Nay-deeeen, you better show me the bar when we get to town. I need a drink and a nice, big, lonely honey from La Grande to show me a good time.” he whooped as he opened the door to the car.

My face flushed. Whiskey was always predictably inappropriate. Nadine and I locked eyes and I mouthed “I’m sorry” to her.

She winked back at me and smiled. “It’s ok” she said.

A month later, I wired the money over to the closing, and the ranch was mine. I named it the “Bar- B Ranch.” Whiskey and I immediately went to work gutting out the original log cabin. I had a grand vision of what I wanted to create there, and we needed a place to sleep while the rest of the property was developed.

Back home, Sandie was furious that I’d spent my money to buy a piece of wilderness in the “middle of nowhere.” She hated the idea of having property that she couldn’t fly her planes directly to.

She hated even more that it was something that was mine, not her idea that she merely directed me to carry to fruition. She cut me off financially from spending any of “her” money on it. After one heated discussion about the ranch, she drew her line in the sand.

“I’ll go out and see your ranch after you actually build something on it” she said, waving me out of her office.

Most of that summer Sandie spent at her penthouse in Manhattan, while Whiskey and I and the kids were at the ranch. The dry, stifling heat of the Oregon summer was almost unbearable, but we progressed rapidly and finished refurbishing the log cabin, and started on the guest cabins. Each day I was at the ranch I grew happier than the day before. Nadine showed up almost every day, and usually just sat and watched me work without my shirt on. I liked the attention and let it continue innocently. It was nice to have someone look at me like I was a man for once, and not an insouciant, immature little boy constantly disappointing “mommy.”

I could tell Nadine was starting to fall for me, but even I was smart enough to know not to get involved with her. As the wife of a sheriff, she was more trouble than she was worth.

One day, she showed up just as Whiskey and I were getting ready to head into town to buy supplies.

“I’ll just ride with you guys into town” Nadine said. I thought nothing of it, and Whiskey hopped in the back seat of the Dodge truck, Nadine sat next to me on the passenger side.

About ten minutes into the ride, she started complaining about the weather. “I am so hot…I can’t stand this weather” she said, peeling off her sweater. “Do you want me to turn up the air?” I asked.

“No, I can just take off a few layers” she replied, smiling wickedly. Within seconds, she had taken off her shirt, bra, shoes, jeans, and panties. Nadine was sitting in my front seat, completely buck- naked. I couldn’t believe it. I was embarrassed, but at the same time, a little bit in shock.

“I hope you don’t mind” she said, grabbing my right hand from the steering wheel, placing it on her bare, small pert breast.

“Oh ****! You don’t want me driving off the road, do you?” I said, putting my hand back on the steering wheel. ****, what if her husband or one of his Highway Patrol buddies pulls us over? I thought. I could see out of the corner of my eye she was rubbing her pussy .with her right hand.

I glanced back at Whiskey’s face in the rearview mirror. His bloodshot eyes were as big as saucers. He was fixated on Nadine like a twelve-year old boy looking at Playboy for the first time. She started moaning and licking her fingers, either climaxing or pretending to have an orgasm. Her entire body was writhing all over the seats. I’d never seen anything like it—this girl was ******* wild. She was enjoying the vibration from the diesel engine, and staring wide eyed at the chrome gear shift knob.

“It would feel better if I had something a little bit bigger in here to fill me up….” she said teasingly as she continued.

“Why don’t you **** me proper, Adam?” I didn’t know how to respond. Obviously I was turned on by the nastiness of the whole thing, but we were quickly approaching the main drag in town and I had no choice.

“Nadine, ****! You are ******* hot, but we are almost to town…come on, let’s get your clothes back on! We’ll finish this later.” I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but I just wasn’t sexually attracted to her and now things had gotten too weird.

After that incident, I told Whiskey to call her and tell her not to come out to the ranch anymore ––there was no telling what Nadine was capable of and I didn’t want to take the chance she would complicate my life any more than it already was.

On Labor Day weekend, Sandie finally made the trip to the ranch. I’d worked all summer creating something worthy of her trip up there, and she finally obliged me. She stepped out of the truck looking like Zsa Zsa Gabor dressed to go to tea at the Plaza, not a woman planning to tromp around a ranch. Sandie took off her huge Dior sunglasses and slowly looked around, taking in the cabin, the thick pine trees surrounding it, and the lake in the background. She was definitely stoned, and stood silent for a minute, maybe more, her aging face motionless. Yet, I ached for her approval.

“I LOVE it! I can’t believe what a wonderful job you’ve done with this place my love, you are AMAZING!!!” she said emphatically, as she hugged me and grabbed my face, looking into my eyes. She kissed me with her immovable, Botox-filled duckbill lip.

Things went well for the first day that weekend, but by Saturday, we were fighting all over again. She woke me up early, whispering in my ear.

“Soooo… I hear you have a thing for that realtor…what was her name? Nadine?”

I was immediately pissed. “Where the **** did you hear that?” I demanded, sitting up in bed. “That’s what your workers told the nannies, that she’s here every day. Is she a good ****?” I ignored her and started getting dressed.

“Fuck, Sandie. There is nothing going on. I don’t need this **** from you. Are you ******* kidding me? You’ve been in New York sucking every swinging dick you could get your mouth around.”

“You have never heard that from anyone. I have been too busy designing the apartment to even meet anyone out there. I know you don’t really believe that, Adam.” She got out of bed, and started walking towards me.

“I want a divorce. I’m not happy anymore” I said. She didn’t look surprised, in fact, she responded like she’d been preparing for this conversation.

“Do you have someone else?” she asked, calmly.

“No, I don’t. We just don’t get along, Sandie. This isn’t working. I need someone who loves me and wants to build a life with me, and that is not what we have.”

She looked at me with her blank, blue eyes, like I wasn’t even there.

“Adam, why don’t you go out and find yourself someone that makes you happy then? When you find her, I’ll give you a divorce. Ok?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t know whether to take it seriously, but it was the strangest conversation I’d ever had in my life. To her, divorce was business, and she had obviously been preparing for us to part ways for a while.

By the time breakfast was over, things had seemed to return to normal –– at least, what was normal for us, fake-normal. Secretly, I felt relieved that I had finally laid it all out there. I also felt like I could finally start openly searching for someone new. If that was her suggestion, I was taking her seriously. Foolishly, I really believed she wanted me to be happy.

We returned back to Utah so the kids could start the school year, and Sandie immediately started talking about buying the adjacent 2,500 acre piece of property that was for sale next to the ranch. Now that she’d seen the property, she had finally agreed to expand the ranch to a full-scale operation. I had to admit, I was excited, too. With Sandie finally on board with the idea, I could move cattle up there, grow alfalfa, and build more guest cabins and a huge main bunkhouse. What I had built so far had been done with my own money, which was dwindling.

Sandie put the 2,500 acre piece of property under contract and closed on it. After closing, she called me into her office.

“I need you to sign over your 300-acre piece of the ranch to Deer Hollow Farms” she said. “I need it as a tax write-off, now that the ClassicStar write-off is gone.” Sandie’s investment in the Plummer’s horse breeding operation was about to be shut down by the IRS, and she’d bailed before the **** hit the fan.

I stood there, not convinced that this is what I wanted to do. The ranch was something that was finally mine.

“No, let’s just keep them separate. My 300 acres isn’t going to add much to your write-off, anyway.”

She looked stunned. Sandie was a woman who was used to getting what she wanted.

“Adam, it will make things A LOT easier for our tax guys. Besides, it will always be your ranch. This is your dream, remember? I bought that 2,500 acres for you.”

“I don’t see why it’s a big deal. Whatever.” I turned to walk out, and she called after me. “Ok, then I will have Rick Bigelow draw up the papers tomorrow. I love you Bobby!”

Within 48 hours I’d signed over my ranch in paperwork that sold my LLC to Sandie’s company, Deer Hollow Farms for $0. The paperwork declared my LLC a “loss” with negative cash flow, which made no sense to me at the time. Within a week her attorneys had dissolved my original LLC, and the ranch was no longer mine.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:35 AM

Chapter Seventeen

I checked my AOL account one morning to find a flirtatious email from my friend Samantha with an invitation attached.

“I hope you and some of your friends can be there….I miss you and want to see you!” the email read. I opened the attachment. It was a VIP invitation to a Maxim Magazine party in St. Louis, this Saturday night. I knew the boys would be up for the trip –– what sane red-blooded American male could pass up the invitation to a Maxim party? I decided I’d tell Sandie we were going to haul a load up the ranch, fly the plane over to St. Louis for the night, and fly back. It was perfect.

I met Samantha one wild boys-weekend in Vegas while shopping at the world-famous “Boot Barn” south of the strip. There I was, minding my own business, when suddenly a smokin’ hot, huge-titted brunette came up behind me and grabbed my ass. I spun around expecting it to be one of my buddies.

“Mmmmm, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. I’m Samantha” she said, introducing herself. We were inseparable for the next couple of days. Samantha was with her group of “Budweiser” girls in Vegas for a shoot. Samantha was sexy- a petite, 30-year old sultry looking girl with long, straight hair. She was aggressive, nasty, and curvy in all the right places. Other than the fact she had a seven year old son, she was pretty close to my ideal woman. After that weekend, we continued a phone and email relationship that had lasted years. I considered her one of my good solid “backup” girls. I knew the girl was in love with me, and I kept stringing her along, mostly to satisfy my insatiable ego.

Aaron, Dave, and I packed up the Cirrus and headed out for St. Louis. Samantha met us at the airport.

When she saw me, she ran toward me at full speed and jumped up into my arms, kissing me hard on the mouth. We had never kissed before, but I kissed her back, just for a second. It felt good to kiss someone with a real, moveable mouth, not like the blow-up doll Botox mouth I had at home––even if Samantha wasn’t as hot as I remembered her being. I saw Aaron and Dave exchange “oh ****” glances, probably because they’d never seen me kiss another girl before.

Samantha drove us straight to the party. Her company was in charge of all the promotional models and she needed to make sure the girls were there on time and wearing their outfits. Dave and Aaron had already started drinking before I’d landed the plane, and were pretty sauced by the time we arrived at the party. It was going to be a crazy night.

The party was inside of an open, multi-floored dance club. The music was already bumping and there were 20 or more girls wearing nothing but body paint, dancing in cages suspended from the ceiling. With the lighting, they all looked hot.

I scoped out the rest of the crowd. It was hard to believe, but Aaron, Dave and I were by far the ugliest guys in the party. The rest of the men were perfectly chiseled, metrosexual Abercrombie models –– pretty boys. And the women were all beautiful. The three of us sat there like a bunch of bobble head dolls with our mouths open for the first 15 minutes.

We hit the bar and ordered a round of vodka shots –– liquid courage. We definitely needed more alcohol to deal with this situation. There were drop-dead gorgeous models everywhere, and even though Aaron and I were both married, we also knew that this was our chance to score a piece of no strings attached model ass.

I avoided Samantha most of the night, and luckily she was buzzing around the party checking on her models and rubbing shoulders with other promoters.

There were dozens of cliques of 20-something snotty, self-absorbed Maxim model “hopefuls” –– girls that had gotten invited to the party, all hoping to be “discovered” and get a layout in the magazine. Luckily, the three of us looked older and more mature than the other idiots at the party, and the girls started flocking to us like moths to a flame, assuming we were talent agents.

It worked in our favor. We quickly caught on to our new identities for the evening and we turned into immediate pussy magnets. These young girls were assertive and pushy, and willing to do anything to get their big break.

We headed out to the dance floor, each of us with 4-5 gorgeous scantily-clad models clinging to our arm. The hip-hop music was nasty and high-energy, and one of the girls started grinding up against me, running her hands up and down the front of my body, giving me the “come **** me” eyes. The next thing I knew, another girl had unbuttoned my top button and slipped her hands down the front of my jeans. Suddenly there were two sets of hands in my pants, one stroking me and the other lightly touching my balls.

I could feel the other girls’ bodies grinding up against me from behind. I’d never had so many nasty women dancing with me and touching me before, but I liked it. The last thing I needed was a picture of this going into Maxim for Sandie to find.

I summoned all of the self-control I had and finally excused myself to the men’s room. I took care of the problem and went to the sink to splash cold water on myself.

As I emerged from the men’s room, Samantha was standing up against a wall, waiting for me. She looked upset. I smiled at her.

“So, it looks like you’re enjoying yourself…?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, this party is wild. I lost track of my boys, have you seen them anywhere?” She rolled her eyes and shot back “It didn’t look like you needed them. You look plenty busy out there.”

For a girl I’d never had a relationship with, she was a jealous thing.

“Come on Sam…the women here are aggressive….I was waiting for you to come out and save me. Let’s go dance.” My bullshit line worked, and she followed me out to the dance floor… whew… at least we still would have somewhere to sleep tonight, I thought.

As the night wound down to a close, the last of the guests and models filtered out of the party. Both Aaron and Dave had managed to whittle down their “groups” to just one girl each, a couple of hoochie mamas willing to go the distance to secure their “future.”

Dave pulled me aside. “Hey, do you think Samantha would mind if she crashes over there with us?” I looked over at Samantha, motioning at the skanks. “Whatever” she mouthed back to me, eyeing the girls.

Dave’s hoochie must have gotten cold feet at the last minute, by the time we all got back to Samantha’s place, only Aaron had a girl with him. Samantha had planned for me to sleep in her room, and the guys were relegated to the couches.

“Sorry, man, maybe you can crash in the kitchen for awhile” Aaron said to Dave, unwilling to give up his opportunity to **** around on his wife with a hot model. Dave was pissed, but followed guy code and took a blanket and a couple of pillows to the kitchen.

“You owe me ************!” he yelled back to Aaron.

I was certain I’d be fighting off Samantha’s advances all night, but she emerged from the bathroom with no makeup, zit cream, and loose, unsexy pajama pants and a t-shirt. She flipped off the light, and rolled toward me, giving me a kiss on the forehead.

“I invited you out here to be my date at the party. You completely embarrassed me in front of all my friends letting those girls rub up all over you. I thought I meant more to you than that, Adam Baker.” She rolled over, putting her back toward me. Well, that situation just took care of itself, I thought.

We made it back to Salt Lake City on time just as we’d planned. Dave and I were tired of hearing Aaron gloat endlessly about the piece of “hot model pussy” he’d gotten while the two of us lay there thinking about all the missed opportunities from the party. Aaron always made it a point to get laid when he was away from his wife, whether it was with a “2” or a “10”, at least it was unfamiliar “tang”, as he called it. I always wondered when his wife Jessie would finally figure it out. Probably the day her ob-gyn informed her she had herpes or gonorrhea, or worse.

I was relieved that Sandie never suspected a thing. There was no cell-phone coverage at the ranch, so it was not uncommon to go a couple of days without speaking to each other. The boys and I made a pact to never tell the wives where we had been, and not to talk about the Maxim party to any of the other guys in our group of friends. Things with Sandie were pretty much back to status quo, and I wanted them to stay that way. She pretended that nothing had happened, and I went back to living the dream life that I’d gotten used to.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:39 AM

Chapter Eighteen

I had become accustomed to the money, all the wealth and the lavish lifestyle. Things that would have impressed the “old Adam” were no longer a big deal to the new, “rich Adam.” I was rubbing shoulders the rich and famous all the time, and it had now gotten to the point where I truly never felt “star struck” by any of them. In actuality, Sandie constantly reminded me that “we” were richer than most of the celebrities anyway, so what would be the point of being impressed?

One of the first famous people I met was Lee Iacocca. Lee was on the board of the Nu Skin charity “Nourish the Children”, the charity that Sandie hated because she had to touch and give out candy to, in her words, the “filthy and AIDS-ridden African children.”

Lee had a terribly obvious crush on Sandie. It was entertaining to see the interaction. For once, someone was acting silly around Sandie instead of the other way around. Usually it was one of her cougar girlfriends touching me inappropriately or whispering **** into my ear when Sandie wasn’t listening.

Lee would light up when Sandie was around. Like a giddy schoolboy he’d trip all over himself, opening doors and pulling out chairs, offering up all sorts of inappropriate yet harmless compliments. Sandie absolutely despised Lee. She took it as an insult that an “old guy” had the hots for her. She thought it much more appropriate that the younger men should take notice of her “assets.” Every time I’d mention Lee having the a crush on her, she would roll her eyes with disgust. To Sandie, an older man was so beneath her. Secretly, I couldn’t help thinking she would be happier with a guy like Lee. They were from the same world, and moved in the same social circles, and wasn’t an everyday guy like I was.

The year after our wedding, I met Pierce Brosnan on the beach in Kauai. I was out in front of our house, flying my stunt kite, dipping it dangerously close to the waves and then letting the wind bring it back up into the sky. I’d heard from the caretakers he was on the island, but was surprised to see him casually strolling toward me, scruffy and unshaven, completely different than his polished, debonair look in the movies. He’d just finished filming a 007 movie, and must have been on a hiatus with his family. I said “hi” to him, and we started chatting about some of his films. Pierce was a friendly, down to earth, normal guy. I asked if he wanted to try flying the kite – he took it and promptly crashed it into the ocean.

The closest to being star struck I’ve ever come was meeting Pamela Anderson at a charity event that was being thrown by Nedra. Pamela, because of her enormous fake breasts, had always been my favorite celebrity and I couldn’t wait to see “them”, I mean, “her” in person.

I was wearing my “Dirty Dalton” wig, a long black wig that I’d glue on every once in a while for fun. Part of me thought it made me look like an Italian Fabio, but who gave a **** anyway, I was just bored as ****. I kinda thought Pamela might like me better with hair…after all, she did fall for Tommy Lee.

When I spotted her at the event, I must admit I was a little disappointed. She was tiny, and her boobs definitely looked bigger on Baywatch.

Nonetheless, I finagled my way into getting the event photographer to take my picture with her. I must have come off a little like Borat –– as I reached around Pamela’s waist to pose her like she was my date for the prom, she quickly put her hand on top of mine and pushed it down so it couldn’t creep up to touch her boob. There went that lifelong dream down the toilet.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:45 AM

Chapter Nineteen

I met Governor Jon Huntsman and his wife Mary Kaye at a motocross event in Las Vegas. Sandie had arranged for all of us to sit in the VIP section together. I sat on the other side of Sandie, while she and Jon discussed business. Huntsman was a good friend of Nu Skin, and helped open the lucrative Chinese market for them when he was a deputy U.S. Trade Representative at the World Trade Organization for the second Bush Administration. MLM companies like Amway had tried to get into China for years, but Nu Skin was the first to get in, and Sandie said it was because of Hunstman. Of course it went both ways, and Nu Skin was a good friend to Hunstman, and Sandie said she sent lots of money his way.

Sandie rarely liked competition, and Huntsman’s wife Mary Kaye was a striking, petite blonde. During the race Sandie leaned over to whisper to me. “You know, if she has one more facelift, she’s gonna look like Don Johnson with a blonde bouffant.”

Sandie’s political connections were many. Utah Congressman Jason Chaffetz was groomed by Sandie during the time that he worked at Nu Skin. He began working for Sandie after Huntsman fired him as his chief of staff, and she hired him as her personal assistant. Jason was the perfect hire for her–– a go-getter with political connections that could grease the skids for her multiple real estate deals and investment scams.

The first time I met Chaffetz, he was a guest at our first 4 th of July party at the Oregon ranch. Sandie had invited his entire family up to the ranch for the party, and Jason was charged with making sure things ran smoothly, since we were expecting over 200 guests. Now, he wasn’t exactly cut out for moving hay bales and fixing fences, so we put him in charge of orchestrating the Mexican kitchen staff and timing the meal preparation so the guests could eat in shifts.

“I can’t work with these Mexicans” he said to me. “I can’t understand a word they’re saying. None of them speak good enough English for me to get through to them!” he said, scraping his feet on the rug. I glanced down –– his once-shiny penny loafers were covered in dirt and cow manure.

“Do the best you can” I said. “The ladies do a good job – just try to help organize when we serve the meals so everyone gets fed.”

Jason looked miffed.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. Fine. They shouldn’t come over to our country if they can’t speak any English. I bet my tax money is paying for their millions of kids to go to school!” He turned on his heel and stomped out.

I looked over at Whiskey and shook my head, laughing. What a prima donna, I thought.

Jason cemented himself as an indispensable asset to the Tillotson empire when we was called on to fix an “embezzlement” situation with the company that managed all of Sandie’s money, called Empowered Wealth, a financial management firm, run by Lee Brower. Brower was known for his recent stint in the motivational film, “The Secret,” and was the owner of Empowered Wealth. Sandie had invested millions with Lee, with the promise of huge returns on her money. Jason discovered millions missing flowing into and out of Sandie’s accounts, in what looked like a massive Ponzi scheme.. Lee had been taking money from Sandie, and putting it into his own account to use as leverage on other transactions. When Brower made money on the deal, he would deposit the funds back into her account, covering the interest-free money he “borrowed,” without Sandie’s knowledge.

Jason called Lee’s office, and threatened to out his Ponzi scheme to all his other clients unless Sandie’s accounts were restored in full. Within a week, the millions were re-deposited, and Sandie closed the account, ending the relationship with Lee.

Chaffetz soon got a better offer to work for Princess Fergie, and he took it. But he and Sandie maintained the friendship: another solid political connection didn’t hurt Sandie, but that’s a story for later.

Sandie also courted Governor Mitt Romney, whom she met around the time of the 2002 Olympic bidding scandal. Romney was brought in to head the Olympic Committee after allegations were made of bribes paid to the International Olympic Committee by Salt Lake officials to host the event in the city. He reorganized the committee, and began the fundraising effort, soliciting Nu Skin for a corporate sponsorship for the Olympics.

Since Nu Skin could not come up with the $4,000,000 sponsorship fee, Sandie, Nedra and Blake, the company founders, pooled their own money and personally funded the sponsorship. It was important to them that the company appear powerful and influential in their own back yard, even if it meant the owners had to foot the bill.

Sandie kept a close watch on Romney as his political star rose after his success with the Olympics. When he became a Republican Presidential contender in 2008, she threw him a lavish fundraising event at the AOL Time Warner penthouse. The place was wall to wall tuxedos and evening gowns, caviar and diamond earrings. Romney walked away with a bigger campaign chest, and Sandie had placed herself in the presidential sweepstakes as a big time fundraiser.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 07:51 AM

Chapter Twenty

Sandie said that I was the only person she’d ever met that made her feel poor. She and I had vastly different opinions on money –– I thought the money should be enjoyed; she thought money should be hoarded and counted. Since you can’t take it with you why not have fun with it? I wholeheartedly embraced this life motto, and my days and nights became consumed with consuming. It was all I had to look forward to – what could I find to buy, where could I buy it, and would I be the first one to have it?

My “perk” for being Sandie’s husband was that I got my own black graphite American Express Centurion card. This credit card has no limit. I began using it for everything. Spending money with no limits was an unparalleled experience.

Over the winter, since I couldn’t work on the ranch, I kept myself occupied as a full-time shopper. The first large purchase I made was a red Ferrari Spider 360. I paid to have it custom built in Italy with a black interior and more powerful engine.

While I was waiting for that toy, I bought a white Porsche Boxster to tool around town in. Sandie insisted that we register all of our cars to our Oregon ranch, even though they would never be driven in that state. Since there was no sales tax, this loophole saved us thousands of dollars that would have otherwise gone to Utah.

I started buying high-end clothes –– not clothes from Nordstrom, like earlier in the relationship, but at Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue in Vegas with $100,000 shopping sprees.

I bought shoes, $30,000 watches, and $50,000 furs. I filled my closet with every accouterment a man could ever want. I looked like I stepped out of the pages of the Robb Report, the “how to” guide on being rich. I scoured magazines, looking for the latest toy, the latest distraction.

After the cars, I bought a 45-foot Swan sailboat, the best money could buy. I’d never learned to sail, and I had nothing but time in my new, vacuous life. I wanted the boat to be completely unique, and I quickly spent over $250,000 having the Swan completely redone, including a black custom paint job and black sails. I named it “The Black Pearl.” Dave and I sailed it out of Baja and left it in a slip in San Diego. We’d go down there about once a month to “oversee” the renovation. Mostly we would just play on the boat and troll the bars in the gaslight district looking for hot women.

It wasn’t long before Sandie decided we should hire a captain to take us on a romantic cruise down the coast. I immediately put the boat up for sale. The thought of being stuck with her on the boat for days at the time was unbearable. Over the course of the relationship, Sandie had gotten increasingly sexually demanding and violent, like a sadistic dominatrix. I dreaded being intimate with her and avoided it at all costs. I was sick of being tortured, slapped, and scratched every time she wanted sex.

It wasn’t always this way. Sandie and I had taken a romantic trip to Bali before we were married. We called it our “fake honeymoon” because we convinced the staff at the hotel we were newlyweds, in order to get special service. The hostess could not pronounce the name “Sandie” so she called her “Cindy” the whole time. We laughed about that and Sandie then jokingly nicknamed me “Bobby”, a pet name she continued to call me throughout the marriage.

The villa included a huge, private outdoor bathtub overlooking the ocean. Each night we would soak in that tub, and talk for hours about everything. It was our last night there when she unburdened one of her biggest secrets to me.

“I have something to tell you” she said, taking a sip of champagne from the glass sitting on the edge of the tub. I could tell by the tone of her voice she was about to tell me something serious.

“What?” I asked.

She was silent for awhile, and finally spoke. “I was raped by two men when I was thirteen.” “Are you serious?” I asked, surprised she had never told me about this.

“Yes. I have never told anyone this before. I wanted you to know the truth about me.” She wiped her eye with the back of her hand. “You are my best friend.”

“Wow. I am so sorry. How did it happen? Did they catch the guys?” I asked, a thousand questions swirling in my head.

“It was summer. My parents had told me I couldn’t go to the beach, but I wanted to go anyway. I walked to the main road, by our house in Long Island, and hitched a ride with two guys in a van. They seemed nice at first, but they missed the turn to the beach, and drove me down a long, secluded road. The driver stopped the van, and asked me if I’d ever been with a man before. Of course, I said no. He climbed into the back, along with the other guy, and they both took off their pants.”

Sandie stopped, and drew in a breath. I waited for her to go on, nodding to encourage her.

“The driver told me to start sucking. I started screaming, and tried to crawl to the back of the van and get out of the back doors, but the latch was missing. Then the other guy grabbed me, and put his hand over my mouth. I couldn’t breathe, I was kicking and screaming and trying to fight my way out. He wouldn’t let go, he just kept suffocating me and holding my arms.” She stopped again, and looked up at me. I pulled her closer to me. “I must have passed out, but the next thing I remember is the first guy inside of me. It hurt so bad, Adam. I can never forget the pain. I had never been with anyone before, never even kissed a boy before. They took turns raping me and beating me for hours and hours. I remember thinking at one point that they were going to kill me, and all I could think was how mad my dad would be that I had hitchhiked to the beach. How he was going to be so mad at me.”

She was quiet. I didn’t know what to say, I was shocked at the thought of a teenager being raped by adults. It was the saddest thing I’d ever heard.

“So how did you get away?” I asked.

“I don’t know, really, I guess they just finally were done with me. One guy went around the back of the van, opened the doors, and the other guy pushed me out, and threw my clothes and my bag out on top of me. They just drove away, just left me there.” The tears were running like a stream down her cheeks, and she struggled to control herself.

“I walked back on the main road for miles until I found a phone. I was hysterical, crying. My mother said she would come and get me. When she drove up, I told her what had happened. I told her we needed to go to the police so they could catch them. I knew what they looked like and what their van looked like. Instead, my mother drove me straight home, and said she would ask my father what to do. She sent me to my room, and I waited forever for her to come back. I thought my father would come in, hug me, comfort me, something. He never came. Then my mother knocked on the door, came in and closed it behind her. I asked her, what we were going to do? She said “ I talked to your father, and he feels that you brought this on yourself. You were told not to go to the beach, and you disobeyed him. Do you see what happens when you disobey, Sandie?” I started bawling all over again. She was very cold, so cold. I remember she just stood there, watching me. I felt like they didn’t care, nobody cared about me at all.”

Sandie was bawling now, her pressed head against my chest.

“Holy **** – your parents didn’t want to report it? They didn’t even call the police? That is crazy! What the **** was wrong with them?” I asked, furious.

“My mother said that with my father’s standing in the Mormon Church, it would bring shame to the family to have anyone know about what happened to me. They didn’t want anyone to find out; it would be too embarrassing for them. Especially since it was my own fault.”

“I am so sorry. I wish you would have told me earlier. But I’m glad you told me now. I love you.”

I held her in that outdoor bathtub in Bali for a long, long time. It was almost sunrise when she stopped crying, and fell asleep in my arms.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 08:08 AM

Chapter 21

While I spent more and more time at the Oregon ranch, Sandie began spending more and more time in New York. Her “meetings” with interior designers on the AOL Time Warner Penthouse were growing more frequent, and most of the time she would rarely return home even on weekends.

At one point, she was in New York for three consecutive weeks while I travelled back and forth between the ranch and home in Utah visiting the kids and managing our ranch and household employees. I begged her to come home. Early Friday morning before her scheduled flight, she called and left me this message on my voicemail:

“Hi Boo-Boo, it’s me. I won’t be home until Monday. I have another meeting with the designers today. Oh, and my friend John, you know, the painter? He and his wife are staying here over the weekend. I thought I’d better stay so they aren’t here alone. I love you, Boo-Boo. See you soon.”

Her voice sounded nervous. I called her as soon as I heard the message. “Who’s John?” I asked, annoyed. She was quiet for a few seconds.

“Remember – John Bell – the artist I bought all those paintings from?” she said. “That guy isn’t married. I met him that night at the gallery downtown.”

“Yes he is. Are you sure you’re talking about the right guy? Anyway, they are here for the weekend.” She quickly changed the subject. “I miss you. How are the kids? Did Sophia get to her piano lessons?”

“Everybody is good. See you Monday” I said. “Gotta pick up another call.” I hung up the phone and dialed my friend Dave.

“Hey, I need you and Tom to meet me down at the hangar. We are flying the Cirrus to New York to surprise Sandie.” I said. “Be there in an hour.”

“Ok, how long will we be there, dude?” Dave asked. He was used to last-minute adventures with me.

“Probably a few days. Hurry.” I hung up the phone.

It took three fuel stops and 18 hours of flying at the painfully slow speed of 200 knots before we finally landed at Teterboro in New Jersey. It was 7 pm New York time, Saturday. The tower at the airport routed us all over before finally granting us permission to land. Having a small aircraft like a Cirrus commanded zero respect in busy commercial airports.

As the cab pulled up to Columbus Circle, Dave and Tom sat speechless at the sight of the towering glass curved entrance of the AOL Time Warner building. The residences shared a lobby with the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, one of the finest five diamond hotels in the city. The lobby had black marble floors and huge glowing glass sculptures set inside giant black granite and stainless planters. It looked like something out of Alice in Wonderland. We walked in and strolled up to the front desk, looking noticeably out of place in our Abercrombie cargo shorts and t-shirts.

“May I help you?” the attendant asked, narrowing his beady eyes at the three of us. He was a weasely-looking older man, tall, thin and pallid. His hair had seen better days. It was over dyed almost to the point of crispness, and thinning terribly on top, like a mangy dog.

“Yeah, Adam Baker.” I said, expecting he would recognize the name instantly, since Sandie and I owned the entire top floor of the building. “I need my key.”

He looked confused, and started shuffling through his clipboard. He grabbed a pair of wire- rimmed reading glasses and slid them on, squinting, he studied the list again. “Hmmm. No, I don’t have an Adam Baker on this list. Are you sure you’re at the right building, sir?” He took off his glasses and put the end of them in his mouth, looking at me quizzically, pursing his thin lips in an effort to keep himself from laughing. His other hand tapped impatiently on the granite desk.

The back of my neck started to feel hot with embarrassment. Why wasn’t my key up at the desk? Had she taken me off the list? What the hell is going on here?

“Adam Baker. Sandie Tillotson’s husband?” I said loudly, obviously annoyed.

A look of surprise came across the weasel’s face. His mouth quickly made a small “O” and then he composed himself again. Suddenly, he was friendly.

“Oh, why yes of course. Adam Baker. Ah, let’s see, I don’t have a key here so, uh….I’ll just have you go right up.”

He waved us toward the elevators, as we walked over to the elevator door the weasel said under his breath “Oh, she likes them young, doesn’t she?” I immediately reacted and Dave caught my arm. “Dude – let it go. That guy is a dick.”

I shot the weasel a look and kept walking.

By the time we reached the 80th floor, Sandie had already been alerted that we were there. She answered the door feigning surprise, but obviously didn’t have much time to prepare. She looked like she’d just woken up from a nap, her hair was rumpled and her eye makeup, usually perfect, looked smudgy and worn. She was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra, her nipples sticking out of the shirt like a couple of thumbs.

“Oh my gosh! I can’t believe you’re here!” she said loudly, pretending to be excited. I walked through the front door quickly, set down my bags, and turned around and gave her a big hug. As we embraced, I looked around the apartment. Things were amiss and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. I heard a door shut.

“What was that?” I asked. “What?” she said.

“That noise. Is someone else here?” I said.

“Oh… uh, yeah, John is here, you know, my artist friend?” she said. “Oh.”

I let go of her and walked into the kitchen.

“Do you have anything to eat? We’re starving.” The three of us were exhausted after 18 hours of being cooped up in that tiny plane. I poured myself a glass of water and walked over to the 15 foot windows overlooking Central Park.

I heard a cough behind me, like a throat clearing.

“Uh, Adam? Hey how are you buddy?” A stocky, trendy-looking bald guy with a goatee approached me from across the room, hand outstretched. This must be John, I thought. He was a totally different guy than I thought he was –– a lot younger and better looking. A little pudgier than Sandie’s type, but then again, I learned she wasn’t all that picky.

“Adam Baker” I said in my deepest voice. I shook his hand, squeezing it extra hard just to test his reaction. He stood firm and squeezed back, finally letting go. We locked eyes.

“Yeah, ah, good. I’m having a great time here in New York. Lots of good opportunities for me in these galleries. I think I might have a show put together here pretty soon, we’ll see, huh?” He chuckled forcefully, stepping away.

“Oh yeah? So what else have you been up to? Have you taken your wife out to see any shows yet? I asked, trying my best to be friendly.

John looked confused. “Uh, no man, she couldn’t come on this trip. My girlfriend is back in Utah working this week. I’m just here hangin’ with Sandie.”

I immediately looked at Sandie. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. I was instantly hot. I could feel rage building up inside me, as controlled as I could manage, I said to her slowly “Why don’t you come talk to me in the bedroom for a minute?”

I followed her to the other side of the apartment. Tom and Dave stood motionless. They’d seen me mad before, but this was different.

I slammed the bedroom door shut after her and started yelling at the top of my lungs. I couldn’t hold back.

“You told me this guy was married! What the **** are you doing letting a single guy stay here with you? Are you ******* him? Did you sleep with this guy? Is this the reason you haven’t been home in weeks? You just have so many meetings you couldn’t possibly come home? Is his cock that good, Sandie?!!” I kicked the bedside table over, breaking a glass lamp all over the white marble floors.

“Adam! No!!! Of course not!! CALM DOWN! This is totally innocent! John told me that girl was his WIFE! I didn’t know it was his girlfriend! She was supposed to come but he showed up alone. Do you think I would really be interested in HIM??” she screamed back.

I interrupted her. “Look at what you are wearing! You look like you were in the middle of banging him when I got here!” I walked toward the bed and tore the duvet cover off. The bed was still warm, the black sheets spotted all over with white, crusty stains. Some of them looked fresh. I looked up at her and shook my head in disbelief.

“You are a ******* whore. I am done with this relationship.”

I stormed out of the room and back to the front room. John had disappeared.

“Let’s go. Grab your **** guys” I said to Tom and Dave. We made our way back down the elevator. My mind was racing. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this angry or this betrayed by anyone. I had been played for a fool, in front of my friends no less. There is no other feeling that is utterly more emasculating than publicly finding out your wife has been unfaithful.

The adrenaline pumping through my body kept me awake for the next 20 hours of flying. When we landed in Salt Lake City, I got busy with a plan of action. First, I called and left a message for my realtor friend Brad.

“Brad, Adam Baker. Hey, things are not good between Sandie and me. I need to you find a house for me and the kids in the same school district they’re in now. I don’t have a lot of money to spend, so let’s try to keep it under two hundred. Talk to you soon.”

Next, I called Suzanne. “Suzanne, it’s Adam.” I said.

“Adam! How are you? What’s going on?” she asked, probing as usual.

“Sandie and I are over.” I paused. “I caught her with a guy in her New York apartment. She told me about all the others, too. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that any of this was going on.” I said.

“Adam! You know I am Sandie’s best friend! I love both of you guys! I could never betray either of your confidences.” Suzanne was always so democratic.

“Yeah. I know. So what was the deal with that guy up in Park City? How long was that going on?” I was fishing, plain and simple, but at this point, it was a game. Who cared?

“Oh, Ivan, the bobsledder? Honey, that only lasted a few months. It was nothing!”

I’d caught Sandie flirting with this big black guy, Ivan Radcliffe, at a few parties. My gut told me they were more than just casual “acquaintances” that happened to run into each other at social gatherings. I could tell by the way she touched his arm, the way she would bring up how she ran into “Ivan, the Olympic bobsledder” over at the gym, or happened to just “bump” into him while shopping on Main Street in Park City. My sixth sense was right, and Suzanne had just confirmed it. I wondered how many others were out there, playing me for the fool that I was.

Imagine, to think a woman like Sandie Tillotson would actually marry for love. Call me naïve, call me an idiot. People like Sandie have a way of making you feel special, even when you aren’t.

I stayed hidden over at Tom’s house for the next few days, knowing that Sandie would be back in town looking for me. My phone was ringing off the hook. I was getting 10 to 20 messages an hour from Sandie, all saying crazy things like she was going to kill herself if I left her, she couldn’t live without me, she would take a lie detector test to prove she wasn’t cheating, that she was sorry, that I was her whole world, that she should have told me about John showing up there alone, that she had gone and put an option on a Javelin Jet for me to make up for her mistake.

The last message got my attention. When Sandie decided to part with her money, I knew she really felt bad. I’d wanted a Javelin Jet ever since they first came out. I had already taken the pilot training and it was my dream to fly myself around in a jet, not just a starter plane like the single engine Cirrus that I had. Buying a real plane, a dual engine certified aerobatic jet had been a constant topic of heated debate between us for months.

Brad called me back a couple of days later. “Hey, Adam. I found the perfect house. It’s in a great neighborhood on a quiet street, and it’s listed at 190k but I think we can lowball them. It’s been on the market for 95 days.”

“Can it be fixed up?” I asked.

“Yeah –– you could do it pretty easy. It’s key boxed so we can go over anytime.” Brad said.

Later that day, we drove over to the house. It was in a quiet, very middle class neighborhood, completely the opposite of what I had become used to. It would be good for the kids, being back in a normal neighborhood. The house was built in the 80’s and needed a complete teardown, which I could definitely do myself. I put an offer in for $180,000, which was promptly accepted. I couldn’t wait to get started so I could move out of Sandie’s house on the hill.

That evening, Sandie drove over to Tom’s house where I’d been hiding. I heard Tom at the front door doing his usual routine. Tom was a banker, so he was a professional prevaricator.

“Yeah, no, he’s really not here, he’s out with Aaron.” I could only hear Tom from the back of the house. “No…oh, come on Sandie, don’t cry. Yeah, things will be fine.”

“Ok, yeah, come in and I’ll give you a glass of wine. He’ll be back soon.” ****! I thought. I’m pretty screwed now.

I finally went out to talk to her. We sat outside in her silver Mercedes and talked for a long time. She pleaded with me to come home.

“Adam, I miss you. I am so sorry about what happened in New York. Please believe me when I tell you it was innocent. Nothing happened, I am only for you, you are the only one I love. Please come home.”

I stood my ground. “I need to be able to trust you. Why did you lie to me about him, then? What about the sheets?” I stammered.

“I had a yeast infection! It was probably the Monistat stuff in there!” She grabbed my face, and turned it towards hers. “I LOVE you. I WANT you to come home.” I stared at her, blankly. “I have a surprise for you” she said playfully.

“What is it?” I said flatly. I kind of wondered, how far she would go to make this up to me. “I bought you the Javelin jet. We take delivery next year.”

“Really? You really bought it? For me?”

I couldn’t believe it. But, throwing money at things was the way Sandie resolved her problems. And, like everyone else, it worked with me.

“It’s all yours. If you come home.”

I sat there for a minute, not saying a word. I weighed my decision heavily. Could I live like this? Could I be bought again? Was it worth it? I thought back to Shandell’s words before our wedding. It was an adventure. I decided to continue the adventure, reluctantly, with two new conditions: I vowed to finish building my own house, and I vowed to always, always, always wear a condom.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 08:20 AM

Chapter 22

As soon as the spring thaw came, I started flying up to the ranch every week, sometimes twice a week. Flying the Cirrus up there at 170-200 knots was becoming arduous. I needed a bigger, faster plane to take to the ranch. After researching, I decided Sandie and I should check out a Pilatus PC-12. It was a 10 passenger single-engine turbo prop.

The Pilatus rep, a smooth-talking charming goofball named Phil flew the plane to Salt Lake City and picked us up so we could demo it. We flew the plane to the Oregon ranch on a test run.

Since Phil and I were both trained aerobatic pilots, we decided to show each other up by doing increasingly more dangerous aerobatic maneuvers in the plane. After a couple of low fly-bys of the ranch and some knife-edge maneuvers, Sandie was screaming to the cockpit from the back of the plane for us to stop. She didn’t appreciate experiencing negative g’s.

I convinced Sandie we should buy the plane on the condition that Phil let us put it on the Centurion card. He quickly agreed, eager to make the sale. Predictably, he called us up later that day when his boss found out he’d cost the company 4% in credit card fees on a purchase of $3.2 million dollars, and asked if we’d consider just writing him a check. I told him we’d buy something else. We had just earned 5 years worth of first class plane tickets on the miles from that purchase.

My next big purchase was an aerobatic plane. I’d found a PZL Polish aerobatic military trainer on Controller.com, a website that lists aircraft for sale, and thought it would be fun to have. It was being brokered through a place called International Jets in Gadsden, Alabama.

I flew out to meet the head sales guy at IJ, Richard Hess. Richard was the epitome of the “anal pilot.” Uptight, conceited, and overall, just a total asshole, Richard was an ex-air force pilot who had flown F-15 and Warthog fighter jets for the military and loved to talk about his accomplishments. I strapped on the parachute and climbed into the rear seat, and Richard and I went up for a test flight. Mostly, he just showed off, but the plane was ******* unbelievable. From inside the all-glass canopy, I could see for miles across the Alabama countryside. Richard pulled some inverted spins and aileron rolls, and then let me take the controls. Flying from the backseat was like flying blind. I did a couple of loops that seemed to make Richard a little nervous. I landed the plane anyway without a hitch. I had to have it.

As we walked back toward the FBO, the sun was setting and we stopped to watch a fighter jet take off.

“What is that?” I asked, transfixed by the Top Gun image of the jet taxiing down the runway. “That’s an L-39. That one belongs to the Prince of Monaco. His pilot is flying it today. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Richard exclaimed, as the jet rotated up and quickly out of sight.

“How do I get one?” I asked, completely serious. Richard looked over at me and smiled.

“We import them from the Ukraine. I can get you one if you want, but you have to be type-rated to fly it by yourself. If you come back in a few weeks, I’ll take you for a spin in one and give you the first lesson.” I was sold. I wrote him check for the M-26, already lusting over my next purchase, the L-39.

A month later, I took Richard up on his offer. Flying in an L-39 jet was even cooler than I thought it would be – the jet has a cruising speed of 360 knots –– 500 miles an hour. That was more than twice the speed of any of my other planes. Richard talked the whole time through the headset, condescendingly pointing out the obvious features of the plane and the intricacies of flying the jet. Things that only a non-pilot wouldn’t know.

He was arrogant but a hell of pilot, so I just listened to his incessant rambling and gave him an affirmative “uh-huh” or “yeah” every once in awhile. He finally handed control of the plane to me. It was a rush flying something that fast. Staying ahead of the aircraft at that speed was more demanding than what I’d been used to but it was an adrenaline rush. After that flight, I sat down with Richard and worked out the details on importing my own jet in from the Ukraine. I had a lot to learn, and I wasn’t sure what I really wanted.

“Listen, Adam. My advice is to take a trip over to the Ukraine. Why don’t I give you the name of my buddy over there? He will show you all the different jets we can import and take you up in the military jets. Then you can decide what you want to do.”

I thought it sounded like an excellent idea. And I’d heard from my buddies that Russian women were hot. I took Richard’s advice, picked a fight with Sandie, and headed off to the airport. I didn’t tell a soul where I was going.

The plane landed in Kiev late the next day. True to my usual style, this trip was a last-minute decision and I definitely hadn’t thought through the time of year I was heading to the Ukraine. It was the middle of winter and it was cold as ****. Undaunted, I took a cab to the finest hotel in Kiev, the Premier Palace. It was not much nicer than a Holiday Inn Express by American standards, but friendly. Though I’d flown here to meet up with Richard’s guys and fly jets, I was easily distracted by the abundance of eye candy.

I climbed into the cab the next morning. Initially, I just wanted to drive around and get a feel for the city and see some sights. My cab driver had other ideas.

“You looking for wife?” he said in a heavy Russian accent and broken English. “No. Not really” I laughed. “Just here to see the city.”

He turned and looked surprised. He knew I was bullshitting him. “In middle of winter?” he asked, quizzically.

I smiled.

“I take you to see most beautiful woman in Ukraine“ he said. “You pick which one you want, you take her back to US of A.”

He put the car into drive, and finally pulled next to what looked like an abandoned industrial building. Two huge men stood outside in long dark overcoats and hats. The driver jumped out and conversed with the men in Russian, motioning toward me.

****! I thought. I have an assload of cash on me – these guys could roll me and no one would ever know what happened to me. No one even knows I am here! I was surprised by my own stupidity.

This could get interesting, I thought. I saw the men shake the driver’s hand and exchange money. He opened my door and ushered me toward the men, who simultaneously opened the heavy metal doors.

I looked back at Uri, my driver. “Wait for me” I said, and walked inside.

The smell of cigarettes and body odor quickly filled my nostrils and I could hear loud, foreign techno blasting in a far room. Lights were flashing. In the dark I could barely see anything. One of the men from outside had followed me.

I turned back to look at him, and he pointed toward the bar. Ok, I guess I am supposed to go sit there, I thought.

I ordered a Coke and took a seat at the bar. There were various stages at different levels all over the club, and groups of men congregated around each stage, talking and drinking and smoking. Unlike American strip clubs, when the songs ended here, the girls did not crawl around and collect their money. The song would end, and the highest bidder would get to take the girl into the next room and **** her.

I felt bad for the girls –– most of them looked poor and unkempt, like the girls they show forced into sexual slavery on Dateline.

I watched a few dances and I was out of there…this was definitely not my scene. Uri was surprised that I was back so soon. “No good, Uri. Take me somewhere else” I said.

Uri insisted that I would like the “casino” better and took me there after stopping to find lunch. I hated to gamble and usually only played 21, but I conceded and went there anyway. I was pleasantly surprised. It was exactly like Las Vegas but with much hotter girls. I found myself drawn toward the roulette wheel….and a very busty brunette named “Natasha.”

“Hi, you want to spin my wheel?” She asked, flirtingly.

“I would love to spin your wheel…” I replied, taking her all in with my eyes, tasty bit by bit. “Are you from U.S.?” she asked, lowering her eyes.

I was fixated on what looked like enormous breasts underneath the corseted uniform. “Yes. New York” I lied.

“Ooooh, I will love to go to New York one day!” she exclaimed, a practiced hand clasping her heart as if to add emphasis to her overly-theatrical response. They must study this… I thought, just in case American tourists come.

I thought about Natasha sitting in a classroom learning about our culture, like the Indian telemarketers do. It was a fleeting thought. Obviously she had other ideas.

“Where do you stay here in Kiev?” she asked. I could feel her nasty-girl smoky brown eyes piercing me.

“At the Premier Palace” I answered.

She paused for a second and responded in broken English “Can I come to your room tonight? I be done at work in two hours.”

Holy shit…I thought. This girl is forward! There would be nothing I would love more than to have Natasha all to myself in my hotel room. I wondered if she was a professional…all the travel blogs warn about this kind of thing.

I smiled at her, mesmerized by her huge heaving tits. It looked like any second one might pop out. Few things in a man’s world can stack up to seeing a breast accidentally fall out.

“I’ll put $20 on black” I replied, attempting to change the subject.

She persisted. “Oh…you don’t like girl from Ukraine? You have wife?”

“Uh, no I don’t have a wife.” I didn’t feel like that was much of lie. “Are you married?” I asked. “No, I wait for sexy American man to take me to U.S.” she said, winking. She spun the wheel and added “Russian man not so good to woman here.”

I felt the sexual tension between us mounting. The wheel came to a stop and the ball landed on 23 black.

She gave me a couple of chips and slowly grazed my hand…I wasn’t sure how the exchange rate worked, but I didn’t give a ****. I could feel myself getting turned on.

“You should take me to the disco” I said, somewhat convincing myself that I could behave if we were in a public place together.

A few hours later we were lustily grinding up against each other in the smoke and sex-filled disco. The Ukraine seemed more liberal about sexuality and the pursuit of it than the U.S. People were openly ******* in corners, on the dance floor, groping and fondling everywhere in the club, including the bathrooms.

After attempting to have a conversation with Natasha, I quickly realized she didn’t speak enough English to even communicate on the most basic level….I guess she wasn’t my “dream” girl after all.

Things were progressing rapidly and I could feel myself getting hornier and hornier…I needed to do something to relieve my “problem” but Natasha was behaving herself a little too much for my taste. Several times I tried to unhook the top of her bustier, and she quickly grabbed my hand and placed it back around her waist. I was annoyed with her teasing, especially since she had come on so strong and was so forward at the casino.

“Let’s go back to my room” I said in her ear, shouting over the loud music.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 08:56 AM

Chapter 23

I met the girl of my dreams by accident. Well, it kind of started out with a dare.

Aaron and I had been lifting weights every morning together since he approached me and asked what he needed to do to get a body like mine. I was a sucker for flattery.

Aaron was the stereotypical real-estate developer –– middle-aged with a maniacal ego. He was entertaining as hell and always made the workouts go by a lot faster. During the workouts I lifted, and Aaron chatted up every female that rated about a “5.” Aaron was fonder of flirting with married women than he was of finishing his sets, which showed in his physique. One day, as usual, he was bragging about the women he’d met –– who had a good rack, a nice ass, a great body –– what girl was hot, who would be good in bed. Normal stuff guys discuss. His stories were usually pretty tame and centered on his self-made fantasies about the bored rich housewives in his neighborhood. But today, he actually got my attention.

“So, have I told you about my banker yet?” Aaron started off. I was in the middle of a set, but obliged him. “No.”

“She’s this smokin’ hot 28 year old blonde with a huge rack. I think they’re real.” I stopped in the middle of my set and looked over at him, rolling my eyes. “Really? How do you know?”

“I can just tell by the way they hang and the way they move. I went to lunch with her yesterday and she took her suit jacket off…she was wearing a white button down blouse with a pink lace bra underneath – I got an instant boner under the table which didn’t go down the entire lunch. I don’t know whether she quoted a Libor or Prime rate for my deal, I just kept staring at those tits…shit, my wife would be pissed if she knew I was doing a deal with her. This girl is smart and hot. That’s fuckin’ dangerous.” He laughed as we traded places on the machine.

Aaron had been known to frequently overstate the hotness of a girl. I called his bluff.

“Really? Let’s go by the bank today and see her then.”

“We can’t just ‘go by the bank’. She not the sucker girl at the drive thru. She’s an investment banker.” He said, laughing.

“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I fix you up with her? That way you can find out for both of us if they’re real. You can send me pictures.” He finished half his set and stood up.

I’d forgotten that I’d told Aaron Sandie and I were “separated.” He’d never met Sandie, but he knew of her like everyone in town “knew” of her –– as the ubiquitous billionaire Nu Skin lady. I never bothered to divulge the actual details of our dysfunctional marriage. By the outside world’s standards, I was as single as an on-call gigolo. I wasn’t going to argue with his proposal.

“Sure, give me her number. I’ll call her and meet her for lunch.” I said. “You better promise me some pictures. I’ll text it to you today.”

Later that day Aaron’s text came through. I immediately called her. She picked up on the fifth ring. “This is Jen.” Her voice was soft but lilting, almost flirtatious.

“Hey, Jen, this is Adam. I’m Aaron's friend.”

“Oh, hi – Aaron called me earlier and told me all about you. He said we would really like each other.” She laughed to herself on the other end, almost sarcastically.

I ignored it, persisting. “Do you have lunch plans Friday?” I asked. “Ummmm..no. I don’t.”

“Let’s go to lunch. I’ll meet you at Trio, by your work, at 12:30.”

“Ok. Sounds good. I’ll be the 5 foot 7 inch blonde driving a silver BMW. See you then.”

She hung up. For some strange reason I felt butterflies. I was an idiot. It was two days away and I knew better than to get my hopes up. Aaron and I never shared the same taste in women.

Friday came quickly. I stood in my huge custom alder closet looking at the racks and racks of clothes and cowboy boots and every imaginable metrosexual guy accessory money could buy. Over the years with Sandie I’d acquired a pretty eclectic wardrobe –– it was the super-wealthy rich playboy crossed with cowboy-construction worker.

I stood in the closet for over thirty minutes trying to decide what to wear. I didn’t want to seem too flashy, so a fitted shirt was out of the question, but I didn’t want to seem too underdressed, either. Finally, I settled on a pair of low-cut True Religion jeans (to show off my ass), snakeskin cowboy boots, a straw cowboy hat, and a brand new white wife beater with a button down chocolate-colored Prada shirt over it (to bring out my brown eyes). I spritzed myself with Jean- Paul Gaultier cologne and headed out.

I arrived at Trio ten minutes early so I could watch for her. At 12:35, I saw a silver BMW speed into the parking lot and screech into the spot right across from me. It was the 3 series, all-wheel drive. Sensible, not flashy, but fast.

She emerged from the car –– a cascade of almost waist-long platinum blonde hair, lightly tanned skin, and a curvy body. I felt butterflies in my stomach immediately. I got out of the car.

“Jen” I called over to her. She looked at me and smiled. She was drop-dead gorgeous.

“Hey! How are you?” she asked, approaching me. I was too nervous to give her a hug. Like a geek I shoved my hand out.

“Adam. Nice to meet you.” She had a firm handshake.

“Hi, I’m Jen. Sorry I’m late.” She smiled again. She had big green eyes and pretty white teeth. “Shall we go eat?” I said, gesturing toward the front door.

“Sure, I’m starving.” She started walking. I let her go a little in front of me so I could get a good look at her body. I took it all in…my stomach was getting worse. For once, Aaron was right. ****. I could feel my heart beating a little faster as I looked at her round ass and her hips sway in her tight black jeans, tucked into knee-high black leather boots. She was a nasty girl, for sure… only nasty girls wear those boots, I thought.

Lunch was a blur. I chatted incessantly and she let me go on, goading me with question after question about myself, engaging me to tell about every detail of my life, from my kids to the new helicopter I’d just bought.

I obliged. After all, I had a lot to talk about. She seemed entertained with my stories of flight lessons and sailing and trips all over the world. We sat there for two hours, she laughed at all my jokes and the conversation flowed effortlessly. Every time she’d look down at her plate I’d take in every detail of Jen. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in real life. Under her fluffy coral-colored cashmere sweater, I could see she was hiding some huge assets. Aaron knew his boobs, for sure. I got aroused just wondering about what she’d look like naked… she was curvy in all the right places, but had a tight, athletic body. She remarked that she was part Swedish, which only further fueled my fantasy…I imagined her wearing a little nurse uniform just unbuttoned enough to almost let her huge tits fall out…as she bent over me, kissing my forehead…oh yes, you definitely have a temperature. I was jolted out of my daydream by the word divorce.

“So, Aaron says you’re going through a divorce?” She asked, quizzically, one eyebrow raised.

“Uh – yeah…it’s been going on for quite a while now.” I said, offering as little information as possible.

She was silent for moment. “Well, when is it going to be final?” she asked. Typical banker, they always want to know dates and times and facts and figures.

“Uh – any day now” I said hurriedly, motioning for the waitress. Luckily she saw me and approached the table. “Can I get another bottle of Voss? Thanks.”

I looked back at Jen. “So, have you ever been up in a helicopter before?” I asked her.

Her eyes twinkled mischievously, and she broke into a wide smile.

“No…can you take me up in yours sometime? That would be so much fun” she said, twirling her long blonde hair with one finger. How could anyone say no to this woman? I thought.

“Yeah, I’ll take you up in my helicopter.” I said. I quickly got an image of her riding next to me in the heli, topless, her huge tits bouncing with the vibration of the helicopter. Boner.

I walked her back to her car and gave her a hug. For the first time in years, today, I felt something. I felt alive.

“Hey buddy, how’d it go?” Aaron asked as he answered his cell phone. “She is smoking hot. We had a good lunch. Thanks man, she’s a cool girl.” “You owe me, Baker. See ya tomorrow.”

After one lunch, I knew that Jen was my soul mate, the woman I would eventually end up with. It was the only thing I’d ever been sure of in my life.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 09:01 AM

Chapter 24

All I could think about was Jen, which was crazy, since we’d only talked on the phone and met for lunch once. Sandie had been tapping my phones and running spyware on my computer for years, so she knew my every move right away –– which meant, she already knew about Jen. Sandie avoided confrontation, so she dealt with the new competition the best way she knew how. Good old- fashioned bribery.

She left me a message on my phone early that Friday morning.

“Hi Bobby, it’s me. I have a surprise for you. I am taking you to Malibu for the weekend to buy you a Bugatti. I Love you!”

She knew this was the one car I’d been pining for and that I wouldn’t be able to say no. She was right.

I invited my buddy Tom Green, and my other friend Matt Hewlett and his wife to come with us. I couldn’t stand the thought of being with Sandie alone, and hopefully having guests with us would provide enough distraction to keep her sexual advances at bay for most of the weekend. For the last year I’d had a serious ailment come upon me almost every time she was in “the mood” and so far, it was working. I hadn’t had to put out in months.

We flew into the Burbank airport in the Pilatus, and Sandie’s longtime friend, Mark Roney, was there to greet us. Mark was a tall, handsome guy with graying hair and a stubbly beard. He was always impeccably dressed and fashionable. Mark was the “black sheep” of the Roney Nu Skin empire –– the gay brother of Blake and Nedra, shunned from the staunch Mormon family because of his lifestyle choice. His sexuality wasn’t the only scandal that surrounded him. According to Sandie, Mark was also a disbarred attorney that had lost his license over some business transactions in the Philippines.

Mark greeted everyone and we made the introductions to Matt and his wife. I noticed him whisper something in Sandie’s ear, and they stepped away from the group to speak privately while we lugged our stuff to the limo. As usual, Sandie had over packed for the 3 days we were going to be there. She had brought 6 suitcases and a huge case full of makeup. I had one duffel bag.

“Damn, Adam, did you guys really need to bring that much stuff?” Matt joked as he saw me lugging it all down from the storage compartment on the Pilatus.

“This is less than usual, dude” Tom piped up. “You should have seen what they brought on the cruise. I counted at least 15 suitcases.”

Saturday morning we arrived at the Beverly Hills Bugatti dealership and were greeted by a slick middle-eastern guy wearing way too much musky cologne. He smelled like rotting wood. This guy was quite the ladies man. Sandie had purchased cars through him before, and from the way he eyed me it was obvious he knew that Sandie was the one holding the pocket book.

I was used to being treated like a gold digger. I didn’t give a ****, owning a Bugatti had been an obsession of mine since I first saw the prototype on the Discovery channel. It was the ultimate car and no one else I knew had one.

Nonetheless, the stinky ****** wanted to get the deal done and get his commission, so he let us loose in the dealership with the keys to anything we wanted. The guys and I were like kids in a candy store – we decided to take out a black Spyker C8 Aileron. The Spyker looked like a futuristic space vehicle- the whole roof of the car was glass, and the interior was quilted orange leather and chrome, like the inside of a 1950’s diner. The car was cool as ****. We pulled out of the dealership slowly, and as soon as we were out of sight, I hit the gas and we accelerated down Olympic Boulevard at 120 miles per hour. The car had a top speed of over 200, but screeching it around the traffic of Beverly Hills was exciting enough.

Next we drove the Bugatti. I had researched the car online, seen it at a dealership once, but nothing could prepare me for the experience of driving one. It made my Ferrari feel like a Toyota. This time, I took Tom with me and we peeled out of the dealership parking lot like we’d stolen the thing. The 16 cylinder engine purred and the immense power of the car was a rush. The ride was as smooth as velvet. I blocked out Tom’s idiotic rantings about how many blowjobs he’d get if I let him borrow the thing…blah blah blah.

When we got back from the test drive, Sandie was already filling out the 7 page contract for the Bugatti. It would take a year to custom build and cost $1.2 million. All of a sudden I had the sensation of claustrophobia. I realized that if Sandie bought me this car, she would own me for at least another year.

I pulled her aside.

“I don’t want it. Let’s get you something instead.” She looked surprised. “What? Why not? That’s the car you’ve been dying to have!” she said.

I knew exactly why, but I lied to her anyway. “I have too many cars. I think we should buy you the white Bentley GT Convertible. You deserve it.”

I could tell the salesman was disappointed that I was going to “think” about the Bugatti, but he was still getting the commission from the Bentley so he recovered from his disappointment pretty quickly.

My friends were more disappointed than the sales guy.

“What the **** is wrong with you man!” Tom said under his breath as we walked around the dealership. His blowjob dreams had been shattered, but I cheered him up with the news that we were going to dinner over at Anthony Hopkins’ house. Hopkins was friends with Mark Roney.

Matt and Tom were a lot like me –– a couple of Utah boys who hadn’t been exposed to celebrities and million dollar cars. It didn’t take much to impress them.

We pulled up to Anthony’s cliffside Malibu home. His wife, Stella, greeted us at the door. She was a tiny, energetic Colombian woman who quickly ushered us in and promptly sat us at the dinner table. The food was served in several courses by the chef, and each course was healthier than the first. Introductions were made, and Anthony and I chatted about his new independent film, Slipstream, which he and Stella had produced and were planning to unveil at the Sundance Film Festival. Anthony had a ton of energy and a vibrant personality. He wanted to know all about our ranch in Oregon, what I was building, how I was doing it, what type of wildlife was up there.

After dinner, Anthony showed us part of Slipstream, and we ended the night. We were all a little star struck, but at the same time, surprised at what a normal, genuinely nice person Anthony was.

That next morning, Mark dropped us off at the Burbank airport. There were a few less suitcases than before, which was unusual.

“Sandie, where are the rest of the suitcases?” I asked her, dreading the drive back to Mark’s house.

“Oh, I brought some Nu Skin products for Mark and his friends. I just left them at his house.”

I was surprised that Sandie never brought up Jen throughout the whole trip. I kept waiting for her to say something, but nothing ever happened. Not buying the Bugatti was another step to escaping Sandie’s control over my life, and I couldn’t wait to get home so I could call and see what Jen had been up to over the weekend.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 09:10 AM

Chapter 25

My courtship with Jen was hot, fast, and passionate. We were a lot alike, both tough, independent, and stubborn. Underneath it all, she hid an adventurous, curious and sensitive side. She cried at sad movies, got in fights at the supermarket defending old ladies, and was incredibly tuned in to me like no one else had ever been. She always seemed to know just when to call me and what to say when I was having a bad day.

We liked the same things –– horses, flying, traveling –– and she fit neatly into my life. It would have been perfect, other than one not-so-minor problem –– I was still married to Sandie. Falling for Jen scared the hell out of me.

One April weekend, I flew down and purchased a house in Las Vegas on an impulse, right after I’d told Sandie I wanted a divorce for the zillionth time. She asked if I’d found someone else. To spare her feelings, I lied and told her no. I didn’t really give her an explanation, other than the obvious –– that we were already living two separate lives and rarely saw each other anyway. She was furious, and demanded I go back to counseling with her. She said she’d do anything to keep me. I told her I’d talk to her in a few days after she’d cooled down.

The following weekend I brought Jen and my three kids down to Vegas to help me buy furniture for the new house. Jen loved the kids, and they seemed to be as taken with her as I was.

The weekend was clicking along perfectly. We raced from store to store busily buying everything for the entire house –– furniture, bedding, house wares. In a passionate moment, I even confessed to her that I loved her. She said she loved me too.

What had I been thinking, I mean, really, telling Jen that I loved her. Would Sandie ever really let me out of the marriage unscathed? I knew what I had to do. During the five hour drive back, I could think of nothing else besides breaking up with Jen. Sandie had previous boyfriends tailed and beaten for less than what I had done: I’d fallen in love with someone else. And just not anyone else –– a woman 22 years younger than her, that was much more beautiful, inside and out.

I knew I couldn’t tell Jen the truth about my divorce, or lack thereof, and I definitely couldn’t expose her to the hell that I knew would come down on me once I confessed to Sandie that I no longer loved her. I did what any self-respecting, self-preserving male would do –– I picked a fight with Jen.

By the time I dropped Jen off at her house, we weren’t even speaking, and I knew how much I’d hurt her. While the kids were asleep in the back, I told her that I was looking for someone different, and that I didn’t really mean it when I told her I loved her. I told her that I needed to be alone, and that we could just be friends. I could see out of the corner of my eye that tears were streaming down her face and I felt bad, but I had to make a decision. I had to stay with Sandie, it was best for my kids.

We got home and unloaded the car. I sat up in my room, somewhat numb from what had happened. Deep down, I knew I enjoyed creating this kind of torturous drama in relationships, that it was just a replay of the on-again off-again affection I’d felt from my mother during my childhood. I kept myself from calling Jen. As long as I didn’t see her or hear her voice, I could get over her.

The doorbell rang.

I walked down to the front door, expecting to see one of my son’s friends. I swung the door open and was taken aback.

Wearing a very fitted, fluffy white angora sweater with a black satin bow tied around the waist, body-hugging designer jeans, and pointy-toed heels, was Jen. She looked more beautiful than I’d ever seen her before. And her boobs looked bigger than they ever had before, like a couple of melons.

She smiled.

“Hi, um, I forgot to leave Korbin his birthday present.” She held out an envelope.

I stood there looking at her for a second. “Come in” I said. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She stepped in the front door, looking down at the ground sheepishly.

“Do I get a hug?” I asked.

“Sure.” She put both her arms around me, and I pulled her in close. I smelled her hair, she always smelled like warm vanilla and sugar. I immediately started to get aroused, and by then, I just couldn’t help myself anymore. I pulled back and looked at her, staring into her big green eyes. What the **** was wrong with me? Was I really this weak?

I leaned forward, and kissed her soft lips, and she feverishly kissed me back. We kissed like two lovers that had been apart for months, even though it had only been hours. I grabbed her hand, and led her up the staircase to my room.

The next morning, my phone started ringing off the hook. It was Sandie. Her messages were increasingly desperate, but I didn’t want to deal with her drama. Delete, delete, delete. What, she finally decided to treat me like a husband now that I’d threatened to leave? It was too late. The love had been gone for too long. I knew I could no longer be bought with some expensive toy.

I putted around the house, getting ready for the gym, watching the news, sipping my energy drink. As I pulled out of the garage in my BMW X5, Sandie’s car swung into my driveway, blocking me from getting out. I hit the brakes hard, but it was too late. She rammed into me.

I jumped out, screaming.

“What the hell are you doing? Are you crazy? You hit me!” She’d hit the BMW so hard that the bumper was falling off.

“I’ll buy you a new ******* car!” She was screaming at the top of her lungs, and looked like a crazy lady off her meds. “I need to talk to you! Why won’t you answer my calls?” She started bawling, covering her face with her hands, wiping her eyes. Her eye makeup was everywhere, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.

“What do you want to talk about? I told you I want a divorce! Let’s just get it over with. It’s too late now to change this fucked up marriage, Sandie.”

“Adam” she said, sobbing. “I am willing to change. I need you to be with me. I want you to be my partner.”

I looked at her, blankly. I’d heard it all before. She’d treat me like ****, right up until the point when I threatened to leave her, then she’d break down and try to fix the whole problem by throwing money at it. That’s how she fixed everything.

“I am transferring $20 million into an account for you at US Bank. It’s already set up, I need you to go down there and fill out a signature card. The money is yours… if you stay married to me. You can do whatever you want with it.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Part of me was curious to see if she’d actually part with the money, the other part of me was repulsed by the offer. If I stayed with her, I had officially sold out. If I stayed with her, I represented everything I hated about the man I’d become. If I stayed with her, my life would be the same forever –– a stream of unending vacations, spending my time in the most beautiful places in the world, spending money on the most lavish things one could buy, and spending every day feeling alone, repulsed and disgusted by the person I was with, wondering what Jen was doing, what life would have been like if I’d chosen her.

“What branch do I go to?” I said.

“The one over on 106th South. I told my banker you’d be in today.” Her demeanor had instantly changed, there she was, back to the shrewd, domineering businesswoman she always was.

“You need to be there before four. I love you, my sugar plum.”

She hopped out of the car, and gave me a hug, burying her face in my shoulder. I smelled her hair. She smelled like hairspray and putrid halitosis, the way she always smelled. My stomach turned. I felt alone, panicked. She looked up at me, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and got back in her car.

“I love you Bobby!” she yelled from her open car window as she cheerily backed out of my driveway. I wiped off her kiss with the back of my hand. I was so fucked.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 09:17 AM

Chapter 26

I headed down to the bank and signed the signature card. Sandie’s banker, Scott Runyan, was a pencil-necked paper-pusher type –– a real paste-eater. His hair was deeply parted to the left side, and combed over like a 1950’s Norman Rockwell painting. What a cheese ball, I thought. I hated bankers.

“Scott, what’s the balance in the account right now?” I asked, curious to see if Sandie had kept her word.

“Hmmm… let me see.” He started clicking away on his keyboard. It seemed to take hundreds of keystrokes to pull up a bank balance. This was worse than checking in at the airport.

“Hmmm….” He squinted, studying the black screen in front of him.

“Oh, here it is. The balance is $406,000.32.” He wrote it down on the back of his business card, and gingerly set it on the desk in front of me.

I got up, shoved my hand towards him. “Thanks for all your help, Scott. Go ahead and rip up that signature card. I don’t need it” I said, squeezing his pale little hand until his face looked a little pained.

“Uh, yeah, thanks Mr. Baker. Have a good one!” he said, cheerily.

I filed for divorce later that day. Sandie was served with papers the next morning. Curiously, I didn’t hear from her. I half expected a phone call, a sobbing message, something.

Within 72 hours, all hell broke loose on my life, in a way that I could have never prepared for. I guess denying her offer of $20,000,000 was not the best idea.

The first call I got was from the girl at the riding arena where I kept my horses. She was frantic. “Adam, some men came by and took your horses, and all your saddles and tack. They said they were Sandie’s attorneys, and all the stuff belonged to her. I couldn’t stop them.” I went nuts; I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

I yelled at the poor girl for the next five minutes in a verbal tirade, berating her for letting it happen. Sandie knew that riding my horses was the one thing that I really enjoyed, so that was the first thing she wanted to take from me. I would have never thought Sandie would act like this. There was no reason this divorce shouldn’t be amicable. We both had gone our separate ways, and we knew it.

By the end of the day, my attorney received a five page letter from her attorneys stating that Sandie was “firing me” from my position at our ranch (my ranch!) and that I was no longer welcome at the property, or any of our properties, for that matter. In addition, Sandie would immediately cease paying for health insurance on Erik, Melanie, Brittney, Cody, and Korbin, and on me, and on any of the shared expenses she and I had created. The list of our intermingled properties, expenses, and assets was so long I couldn’t discern what every bit of the “letter” from the attorney meant, nor what the implications were long term. I basically understood it like this: Sandie wanted a war.

For the next two weeks, I received daily deliveries of various partial personal items from all of our homes –– my ski clothes from the Deer Valley house, my surfboard from Hawaii, my work boots, gloves, and cold weather gear from the ranch in Oregon. Each delivery would be accompanied with an email from Sandie, with statements like “Couldn’t bear to see your stuff at the ranch anymore” and “Didn’t think you’d need your surfboard since you won’t be going to the Hawaii house again.”

Her attorneys had gone into full combat mode by the end of the month, demanding to know our position and what assets we planned on fighting for, whether we were sticking to the prenup, etc. They immediately started collecting affidavits from everyone I knew. The most shocking of which was an affidavit supplied by my best friend, Aaron Rust.

My attorney Stephen called me as soon as it hit his inbox. “Adam, you have a real problem. We just got an affidavit signed by Aaron Rust. Some of the stuff in there is pretty damning to the case. Check your email and call me.”

I pulled up my email and opened the attachment. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. In his own words, Aaron had fabricated and twisted several of our “misadventures” into fantastical stories of me womanizing at Maxim parties and carrying on secret adulterous affairs all over the country.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. In fact, Aaron was the one who kept a piece of “pussy on the side” at every city we frequented. He’d often use his job working for Sandie and me as an excuse to get away from his wife and go out of town, even when he had the weekends off. I personally knew of at least 17 women Aaron had slept with since he’d worked for me, one of whom was my very own sister, Monet.

Aaron was a compulsive cheater. He’d confided to me about how his father came out of the closet when he was 17 years old, after being married for over 25 years. Aaron said he was tortured by the other kids in their small, religious community in Utah. The news had affected Aaron on many levels, and it was obvious that he was in a perpetual struggle to confront his own fears of homosexuality. He always talked about how glad he was he hadn’t “inherited “the gay gene” from his father.

To make up for this, he was constantly reaffirming to himself (and every other guy out there) that he was, in fact, heterosexual, by banging anything with a pulse. His wife, Jessie, was a great girl with a fun personality. They had two little boys, and from what I could tell, Jessie was a decent wife. I could never bring myself to say anything to her about Aaron’s womanizing, and I felt guilty about that over the years. It just wasn’t the way guys did things. Aaron’s affidavit was the first from many “friends” who started to choose sides in our rapidly dissolving marriage. Not surprisingly, I found that most of my so-called friends chose Sandie’s side (they all assumed there would be money in it for them) over a friendship with me.

Over the next few months, several of my “good time” buddies stopped coming around altogether. I guess they sensed the free ride was over, along with the “free vacations” and “free cruises” and “free dinners” they were all frequently treated to. It was a harsh reality to come to terms with. I always thought that these people genuinely liked being around me, and were true friends. Man, was I an idiot.

Things started to change, and my rapidly decreasing bank account couldn’t keep up with the lifestyle I’d become accustomed to. At first, I didn’t feel like I should have to adjust my lifestyle, so I racked up my line of credit and my cards to the max, pulled all my cash out of my stocks and investments, and continued living the “life” I’d been living for the past 6 years.

Jen and I travelled nonstop. We had flown the planes and helicopter all over the US, sometimes just for the sake of going. Every day was about having fun, escaping from the life back in Utah where Sandie’s “people” were constantly harassing us.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 09:27 AM

Chapter 27

I brought all ten of the friends I had left to court with me on the big day. Commissioner Arnett was assigned to the case and had five other cases on the docket. Ours was last. As I sat there hearing details of other people’s lives and divorces and custody battles, I noticed something that didn’t quite seem to add up. No matter what seemed logical or who appeared to be at fault, the commissioner would always rule in favor of the woman in every case.

Finally, it was our turn and the commissioner called us all to the stand. Sandie’s attorney David Dolowitz jumped up and requested that the file be classified as “private” due to Sandie’s “high- profile” position in Nu Skin.

The commissioner immediately granted the request and made the case private, almost as if he’d been expecting the request, and the entire courtroom was cleared except for Sandie, me, and our counsel. Subsequently, the commissioner then denied requests for attorney’s fees (despite the obvious economic disparity between me and Sandie) and also denied my request for any temporary spousal support. What should have been a lengthy hearing to discuss the numerous issues at hand was over in five minutes. Arnett’s mind had obviously already been made up, even prior to hearing any of the arguments from my attorney.

It was a disaster. We lost everything we asked for. The advice from my attorney Stephen Clark was to give up —there was no point fighting. It seemed to met that Judge Denise Lindberg and Commissioner Arnett had been gotten to. I refused to believe this was possible —even with the amount of money Sandie was worth, the court system was there to provide fairness, and that’s all I’d ever asked Sandie for. I wanted what was fair. I really believed that once we put the facts in front of a judge, they would decide what was equitable for both sides.

What I didn’t know was that Sandie had stacked the deck heavily in her favor. She was calling in all her political favors, and even had Jason Chaffetz, who was running for congress, write an affidavit touting Sandie’s great moral character and submit it to Judge Lindberg . Jason and Judge Lindberg were friends.

Stephen’s firm had already racked up over $100,000 in attorney’s fees in less than 6 months. He admitted that since they were “certain” they’d win the attorney’s fees from the other side, my case was racking up the lion’s share of the billing hours in the firm.

Within a week of our loss in court, Stephen informed me that if I did not bring my bill current, he’d be resigning as my attorney. I now know it was not entirely about the money with Stephen. He knew something I didn’t. He knew we were fighting a battle that couldn’t be won, and he didn’t want his, or his firm’s reputation on the line.

I was pissed that he was quitting on me. I told Stephen he could collect his money when the case settled, and I set out to find a new attorney –– one that was interested in winning.

Upon the advice from Matt Hewlett, my helicopter instructor and close friend, I set up a meeting with Pam Thompson at Young, Kester and Petro in Park City.

“Dude, Pam is aggressive, she will win your case, man” Matt assured me. My first impression was quite a bit short of spectacular. I arrived at their office and was greeted by an extremely tall and frail-looking woman who appeared to be in her mid to late forties. She had small beady eyes, and she looked like she was squinting. Her hair was bleached blonde, with dark roots, and fluffed up on top, with bangs in the front. Her voice was coarse, like she was a smoker.

“Hi, I’m Pam” she said, her hand extended. “Adam Baker – nice to meet you.”

“Have a seat – Sarah, my associate, will be joining us in a second.” She gestured toward some wooden, worn out mission-style chairs. A couple of moments later, what appeared to be an 18-year old girl walked in with a clipboard and some pens. She was very plain, brunette, and extremely soft- spoken.

“Hi, I’m Sarah.” she said, shaking my hand. I figured she was Pam’s secretary.

Over the next hour I did most of the talking, explaining what had happened with the case, and what I thought was a fair outcome. They seemed surprised at the recent rulings and assured me that if I decided to engage them, I would be their ‘number one’ case. Pam explained that she was relatively “new” in the legal profession, and that Sarah was the more experienced attorney whose advice she would draw on frequently. Hindsight translation: every hour that I should be billed for the work of one attorney, would now require the work of two attorneys because one was inexperienced.

Pam demanded $20,000 as a retainer, right up front. I wasn’t even sure I was going to hire them, but I was feeling pressured, and I knew I was up against a tight timeline. I needed them up to speed before the next court date. I signed the check.

Secretly I believed that a female attorney would “understand” me better since I seemed to get along better with women. I also thought it might look more favorable to the judge, who also happened to be a woman. Clearly, I didn’t know anything about the legal system.

Christmas 2007 came and went, and so did the March 2008 court date. This time, the commissioner’s ruling was worse than before. This time, he ruled that I could not sell or dispose of any of my assets to pay attorney’s fees. This meant that I could no longer make money in the way I was used to. For several years, I had bought and sold real estate, planes, and cars and turned a profit. The attorneys knew this would leave me legally dead in the water with no ability to leverage my assets to make money. I had to get creative.

Pam and Sarah now knew that my money was tight. They claimed they were going to help me leverage some of my assets. Almost daily Pam would call with some idea on how to help me “lighten” my material load. I trusted her judgment and said yes to almost every idea she put in front of me. Her husband needed a new truck to drive around –– I had three. She would “lease” one of the trucks for what was equivalent to an hour of her work each month, and let him drive it.

I had several horses, and Pam loved horses but had none of her own.

She proposed that she would pay for board on two of my best horses in exchange for letting her keep them in Park City and ride them whenever she wanted. I agreed to it. Though I’d never let anyone ride my horses in the past, I thought it was the right thing to do.

Next Sarah called, and said she’d just gotten married and needed some furniture for their new apartment. She said Pam had indicated that “everything was for sale” and wanted to know if she could come “shopping” in my home for some furniture, pennies on the dollar. Luckily, I was out of town and escaped that one.

The divorce was granted (under bifurcation) that next month, in April. That meant that Sandie would continue to draw out the legal battle as long as she could, but we both now had the freedom to remarry.

I was excited. I called Jen and told her she could start planning a wedding. I knew how important it was to her to get married and even though I’d told my buddies to hit me in the head with a shovel if I ever decided to marry again, this time it was different. This was really going to be the LAST time.

Jen and I were married that June in a huge estate overlooking Lake Tahoe. Everything about the wedding was perfect, and Jen was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen. As she walked toward me standing under the altar I started to tear up. I finally knew what love really was. It actually surprised me how different I felt this time, compared to all the other weddings. I was a hardened son of a bitch before I met Jen. But this woman had changed me.

Pam called shortly after we’d returned from the honeymoon and asked if she could stop by the house. Thinking it was a social visit (my relationship with Pam was starting to get more friendly, less professional) I had Jen make dinner and set the table.

Pam showed up, sat at the kitchen table, and was all business. “Adam, I need to know how much cash you have saved up that you can put toward this case.”

I was caught a little off guard, and looked nervously over at Jen, not knowing what to say.

“I don’t know an exact number Pam. Why?” Her eyes got narrow and she pursed her thin, bright pink lips.

“Adam, in order for me to continue with this case, I need you to pay me in advance. I can’t afford to do all this work and take the chance of not getting paid. What do you have that you could sell?”

I was surprised. Every month I’d paid her bill within days of receiving it. I didn’t know why all of a sudden she was so worried about my finances.

“How much is it going to take to finish the case?” I asked. I wanted her to cut to the chase. “At least another hundred thousand. And that’s if we don’t go to trial.”

Jen stood up from the table and started to walk away. I could tell she was pissed that Pam was shaking us down.

“I guess I could sell my Ferrari. It should bring about $120-130,000 all said and done.”

Pam looked relieved. “That would be good. You need to do that as soon as possible. I will hold the funds in an interest bearing account. Every month Sarah and I will take a minimal draw, $1,000 apiece, and leave the rest in there as a cushion. If you sell your Ferrari, and give all the money to me, I will finish your case to the end, Adam Baker. I will even take it to appeal, if it comes to that.”

It sounded fine to me. I had a guarantee that Pam would finish the case out, and not quit on me. That gave me some hope for the future, and a huge feeling of security. I sold the Ferrari within a week, and wrote Pam a check for the proceeds.

Our son came into the world in August, and our lives had been pretty quiet up until that point. It was almost as if Sandie’s attorney’s decided to wait until we had a brand new baby to turn up the heat on making our lives hell. All of a sudden, we were getting knocks on the front door at all hours of the night. Cars were parked out in front of our home constantly watching our home and our every move. We were being followed daily to the gym, the dry cleaner, and even the grocery store.

The very night we brought the baby home, I drove to the airport to pick up Jen’s mother who had flown in to help us. While Jen was at home with the baby (now three days old) there was a loud knock at the door. She looked out the peep hole, and saw two men with guns holstered at their hips, jackets pulled back just enough so that their firearms were unconcealed, standing at the door. Jen was so scared she called me in a panic. She was still crying when I finally made it home from the airport.

I was fed up. Even though my two young boys, Cody and Korbin still lived with us in our Utah home, I knew it was not safe for Jen and I and the new baby to continue living in Salt Lake. We decided to move most of our personal belongings to our condo in Vegas, and I let the boys go live with their mother. It was a heart-wrenching decision, but in the end, I knew it was best for my sons to not be displaced and living under the constant stress and harassment from Sandie and her people.

Right after we got settled into the Vegas house (my wardrobe alone took up the entire loft and we were stuffed into the place) Pam called with another “business proposal.” Pam’s husband, Dave, owned Park City Helicopters, a touring company. Dave was already leasing one helicopter for the business, but the maintenance and operating expenses made it so that the lease didn’t pencil out well. My Robinson R44 was brand new – with less than 200 hours on it. I’d had several offers to lease the helicopter from other parties, and the going rate on the R44’s was $5,000 a month with guaranteed hours. I’d done my homework long before Pam’s call, thinking up ways to create income with my assets.

“Adam, Dave wants to lease your helicopter from you. We would keep it up at the Heber airport, and pay you $250 an hour. We will take care of the maintenance and fuel.”

I was shocked at Pam’s unfair proposal. “Pam, the going rate on leases is $500 an hour. I would also need a minimum of hours guaranteed.”

Pam was quiet – I knew she was pissed that I wasn’t going to just hand over my favorite toy to her and Dave so they could profit from my situation.

“Let me do some more research on that. I can tell you right now we can’t guarantee hours. We don’t know how much work Dave will have.” She cut the conversation short before I could do any explaining.

I was getting tired of things. Every single one of my acquaintances were acting like sharks circling in the water at the smell of blood –– the blood from my impending financial ruin. Pam called several more times to try and convince me to lease the helicopter to Dave. Ultimately, I just gave her some bullshit excuse that I didn’t want Sandie’s attorneys to find out we were doing any business together, since it couldn’t be considered an arms-length transaction. After that, her calls were less and less frequent, and my case obviously took a back burner. But mostly, she was just livid about the situation.

On Christmas Eve, we got a call from our neighbor that a sheriff had posted something on the door at our Salt Lake house. I asked her to scan it in and email it to me right away.

The timing was impeccable. It was a Writ of Execution, stating that Sandie’s attorneys would be selling our home at a sheriff’s auction in 90 days, unless we paid the outstanding $106,000 in attorney’s fees that were awarded to their firm early in the case. I felt sick.

I couldn’t believe that they could do this to us, especially since the case hadn’t yet gone to trial.

I called Pam right away. She said she had been out of town and knew that Dolowitz was scheduled to see the judge to get something signed, but that she was in Houston visiting her son for Christmas and couldn’t make it to the hearing.

I knew I was fucked, but Pam assured me they would get another hearing to speak to the judge and contest the sale, since it was an asset that was currently being fought over. I rested a little easier that Christmas, hoping that Pam was right, but in the back of my mind, I knew that we would never live in that house again.

The hearing in front of the Judge Lindberg was scheduled for February 2009. Once again, Pam lost another argument. The judge ruled that the home would be sold to “satisfy the court” and pay the judgment. Pam stammered away, but wasn’t prepared to lose, obviously, and had no clear line of reasoning to counter the judge’s decision. After a couple of minutes, she just thanked the Judge and sheepishly walked back to her seat, shoulders hunched.

I was so furious, I stormed out of the courtroom without even speaking to Pam. How could she lose my house for me? She didn’t even question the Lindberg’s decision, or offer any counterpoints to Dolowitz’s lies.

I knew it seemed like I was starting to become paranoid, but too many things weren’t adding up. First, why, all of a sudden (seemingly parallel to my rejection of her first extortion attempt to lease my helicopter to her husband) did Pam seem like she was willingly losing every argument? It didn’t even seem like she cared, much less had prepared adequately for any of the recent hearings in front of the judge and commissioner. It had also started to make me a little nervous when she’d confided in me her new “strategy” –– to befriend the counsel (Dolowitz and Sarandos) on the other side so that they would “go easy” on us, therefore making it easier to obtain information.

The only advantage I saw in this flawed strategy was for the opposition. Pam was foolishly forthcoming with information, yet not smart enough to glean anything of value from the other side. I was at a loss –– my world was crashing down around me, and everything Pam, my attorney I’d paid over $150,000 to had attempted, and had promised me, had failed. I would have been better off walking away from Sandie at the beginning, rather than try to fight her.

The house was set to be auctioned off at a sheriff’s sale in February, 2009. In a desperate attempt to save the house, I filed for bankruptcy, which gave me an automatic stay. It gave me 30 days of breathing room and a much-needed chance to reposition.

To the contrary, further disaster ensued. Pam and Sarah wrote me a nasty letter, detailing their plan to quit the case. They said that we had a “fundamental” difference of opinion on the outcome, and that without another $50,000 in extortion money they would be unable to continue. I immediately thought back to that day at my kitchen table, where Pam promised she’d take the case to the end.

I’d been betrayed, and didn’t know what to do. I had ways of coming up with the money, but would I get a fair outcome even if I did? My sources were telling me that Pam and Sarah had switched sides. Instead of working on what was fair for me, they were cavorting and sharing information with Sandie’s attorneys. They were pressuring me to settle and withdraw from the case so that Sandie could put the AOL Time Warner penthouse up on the market.

Others hinted that Pam was promised the helicopter if she could get me to relinquish it in mediation. My gut told me that Pam could no longer be trusted, and I decided to **** it. **** all of it. **** the divorce case, the attorneys, and most of all, **** Sandie.

We packed up the house in Sandy, Utah in two days, and took everything we could fit in two U- Hauls. I dedicated the next 30 days to liquidating or leasing out anything and everything that wasn’t liened. That included every vehicle, plane, boat…and every piece of real estate they hadn’t bothered to put a lis pendens on.

By the time they’d realized what had happened, I’d be long gone. I knew there was no fair outcome to be had. Sandie’s political connections had already bought the outcome of the case, and I was going to lose everything anyway. Like she’d been quoted telling several mutual friends, she wasn’t going to be happy until I was “working at McDonald’s.”

Sandie had been scorned, left for a younger woman, and, unlike the rest of her exes, I refused to stick around hoping for a ride on the gravy train. I didn’t want kiss her old, saggy, prolapsed asshole, the bitch’s filthy money – money that had been made by stealing from people who didn’t have it, by lying to them, promising them a life that Nu Skin knew would never become a reality for 99.9% of the people who joined their pyramid scheme.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 09:31 AM

Chapter 28

Once I was back on the outside looking in, the decadent and corrupt world I’d been living in was suddenly beginning to make sense. Rumors were passing through all the social circles quickly, and a friend from the DEA in Utah called me up out of the blue.

“Was your ex-wife named Sandie Tillotson?” he asked. “Yeah, why?” I said.

“Just wondering. I was talking to one of my commanding officers today about some tips we had gotten about some private jets flying out of Salt Lake. Her name came up.”

“Really? What did you hear?” I asked.

“We have an informant that has told us large quantities of heroin are coming from Asia directly into Utah on private jets. There are not too many private jets that fly into Salt Lake City, if you know what I mean. Have you ever seen anything?”

I immediately thought back to the brick of heroin I found a couple of years ago at Sandie’s house. “All the times we’ve ever flown overseas in a private jet, we have never been stopped at customs.

And we have always brought back a ton of luggage. I also know Sandie has some accounts in the Cayman’s that she deposits suitcases full of cash into. So how did her name come up?”

“At the beginning, our investigation was pointing us in a certain direction, towards the jets that fly back and forth to Asia all the time. A certain lead we were pursuing was quickly quashed from someone higher up. So, without saying too much, I was just wondering what you knew.”

“That’s pretty much it. I can tell you that she has a lot of political connections, and she is close friends with a lot of powerful people. She makes some pretty high-dollar contributions on and off the books.”

“I guess that makes sense.” “Yeah, I guess it does.” I said.

“All right man. Well, you take care. Talk to you soon.” He hung up.

Money, power, sex. It made the world go round. I wondered if in fact Sandie was involved with drug dealing for the money, or for the thrill? It didn’t make sense that she would put herself at such risk when she already had so much money. But, for Sandie, it was never enough. I was done with her anyway, but I halfway hoped at some point she would be investigated for all the **** that shewas involved with –– tax evasion, smuggling money overseas, drugs. The one thing I learned about money was that it could buy you almost anything you wanted, and almost any one you wanted. Almost.

Doc Bunkum
09-15-2014, 09:36 AM

Chapter 29

I hadn’t seen my son Erik in years. As soon as the “Turnabout” drug rehab program was done, Erik refused to come back to live with Sandie and I, and went to live with his mother.

Instead of getting better, he got worse. It wasn’t long before he was addicted to heroin, had dropped out of school completely, and was living on the streets with a group of junkies. I blamed it on his mom, Lisa. Her “be the kids’ best friend” parenting style and lack of discipline and rules for the kids had always set them up for failure.

As soon as Erik moved in with her, he had no direction, no expectation, no curfew. He could do as he pleased, with no interference or supervision whatsoever from his mother. I attributed it to the fact that he was upset with us for putting him in rehab to begin with. I soon learned that wasn’t the case.

One day, shortly after our new baby was born, I got a phone call out of the blue from Erik; he wanted to come see me. He’d heard through the grapevine I was divorced from Sandie, and wanted to stop by and see the new baby. It was weird hearing from him, because in spite of my efforts, Erik had remained distant. But I was excited. I had often wondered about him and wished I could find a way to rebuild my relationship with him. I wondered why he’d turned to drugs and threw away his life so young, and worried that I was somehow responsible.

About an hour later I saw an old cream colored Infiniti G20 pull up. Erik emerged. He was tall, thin, and pale with shoulder length black hair pulled over one side of his face. For being 21, I thought he’d be bigger, like I was. He wore head to toe black: an open trench coat, black t-shirt, and tight black jeans with chains attached hanging from the waist. I opened the front door and smiled, hoping for a hug or a handshake. He lowered his head and said in a boyish voice “Hi Dad” and walked in. Jen stood behind me holding the baby. I introduced them, and Erik grabbed his little hand and shook it, looking at him like he’d never seen a baby before.

“So, I can’t believe you finally got away from Sandie” he said.

“Yeah, things finally got too crazy. We were never right for each other, anyway.” I admitted. “Well…the reason I came over is because I wanted to tell you something.” He glanced over at Jen, and she quickly got the hint, excusing herself to go upstairs and feed the baby.

“What’s up?” I asked, wondering what he wanted. I was used to my kids coming and asking for money, I assumed it was something like that. Erik was quiet, scratching at the back of his hand at a scab with his long, dirty fingernails. His face was so thin and pallid, it looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. I just sat there, looking at him, waiting for him to talk. It was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“I wanted to tell you why I didn’t come back to live with you after Turnabout.” Now he was itching his other hand, nervously. He never looked up. I waited for him to finish.

“It was because of Sandie. Something happened before she sent me away.” I wasn’t sure whether to interrupt, or let him keep on. He was silent.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She called me up to her room when you were gone one day” he said. “She said she found something in my bedroom and wanted to talk to me about it.”

“What did you do?”

“I went up to her room and she told me to close the door. When I turned around she had taken off her robe and was naked.”

“What?” I said. Erik stared at the floor, afraid to go on. I began to feel sick at what I might hear next, but I had to know.

“So what happened?” I said.

“She told me to walk over to the bed, so I did. I was scared. She walked up behind me and undid my pants, and then pulled down my boxers. She started touching me. . .”

“What the hell. . .”

“. . .Dad, she made me do stuff. And then she said that if I ever told anyone, she would kick my brothers and sisters out of her house, and we would live on the street. She said she would take everything away from us.”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked at my son, and remembered the story others had told me about two underage boys Sandie had molested in New York. Now I knew that wasn’t the case. The proof was right in front of me: the pain on my son’s face.

“Erik, I should have known. I am so sorry.” There was nothing I could say.

Erik sat there, empty. I felt like it was my fault, and that I should have known that something was going on. Erik changed in many ways during those years with Sandie, but I never suspected that she had abused him. I always thought he had gotten into drugs because he was a typical teenager and was hanging with the wrong crowd. Now I knew that he had gotten into drugs as an escape.

I had failed him as a father. I should have paid more attention to him and been around more. I had moved my sheep into the den of a wolf, and left them there unprotected.

Sandie Tillotson was a woman who was in charge of charities for children –– the Force for Good –– who some people thought was the “Mother Theresa” of all things to do with kids. She was respected in the community because of her financial success and business acumen, but she craved power –– the power and control to destroy the lives of others, at her will. And she used that power in all the worst ways, buying and selling people like they were the cheap products her company sold, discarding them when she was done with them.

I was just going to pick up the pieces of my ruined life, and try to rebuild something with my new wife and family. I was just going to move on. But I couldn’t now, not after what Erik told me. My son wasn’t the first child Sandie molested, but he should be the last.

The truth needed to be told about Sandie Tillotson: the billionaire who had it all, and it still wasn’t enough.