t first, of course, I was pretty keen to the idea. I mean, she heard that I thought “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” was the best movie I’d seen all year. So when she got my number through mutual friends and called me up, I was stoked. You see, I’m a bit of a romantic at heart, so when Kate Winslet asked if I wanted to go get some coffee sometime, I naturally assumed that’s what she really meant. Maybe we’d play miniature golf or I’d meet her parents or something. I guess she didn’t see it that way. No, let me tell you, this bitch is crazy. We’re talking borderline sexual predator here.

At first, it started innocently enough. After our first date (on first dates, I tend to go on cruise control and let the female set the pace. Our first date didn’t stop ’til breakfast, na’mean?), we’d leave little dirty messages on each other’s answering machines. Or maybe I’d visit her at a movie set and we’d have some fun in her trailer. All the while, I respected her boundaries and she mine. But these days, Winslet is taking it to the next level.

Next thing I know, she’s calling me at work, asking when I have a few moments to spare. She calls me at three in the morn’ for obscene booty calls. And anytime Sam Mendes, her husband and the director of “American Beauty,” is gone for work, she’s calling me before his car even leaves the driveway.

When I asked her about Sam, she gets casual and dismissive. “Sam’s OK, I guess,” she says as she pins me, “but he can’t get my rocks off like you, babe. Besides, ‘Road to Perdition’ was long and boring.”

“I still haven’t seen it.” I mumble.

“Trust me.”

You know that scene in movies where the husband comes home and the wife’s lover has to leave, half-naked, out the bedroom window. Out into thorny bushes and expensive attack dogs?

That’s me.

My romantic self will get the better of me sometimes. And I can’t help but turn to her and ask what she sees me as.

“The best damn shag in this town.”

“Fair enough.”

I suppose sometimes it can be more trouble than it’s worth. We agreed to keep it a secret (“Can’t give those paparazzi an inch. Now bite my shoulder, please.”) So it’s not like I can brag to my friends about this. When actors and actresses win an Academy Award, you never hear them thank their mistresses or back-door men when they win. No, it’s usually the director, or some teacher who gave them great acting advice in school or, God forbid, their spouses. I suppose no one will ever know about Kate Winslet and me. And yeah, I’ve thought about calling her up and ending the whole thing, but the perks are nice. I’m enjoying the free movie passes and the gifts. I also get the preferred treatment in any fine restaurant in L.A., even when I’m not with her. I wonder if those Hollywood restaurant owners just know everyone’s secrets. Besides, it’s Kate Freakin’ Winslet. I am more than a little curious to see how long this gravy train is going to last.

[Special thanks to Clayton Scrivner]
jordan@red-mag.com