Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 9


I love cocaine. I’ll never deny that. But a steely-eyed punk rolling up and pointing a gun at me is just the bucket of ice-cold water in the face that I needed. Downey Jr. was right. There’s a multi-million dollar business with my name on the door. I can NOT go out like this. My hands are trembling as I google-search the number to Silver Hill Hospital. Knowing exactly how long it will take me to finish the shit I just bought—why waste it?—I schedule a stay at their lovely rehab facility. Check-in is next Tuesday. 12 noon.

previously…                                                                                                                                                            Pt. 1…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 8


After our transaction, Rudi feels comfy enough now to drive me home. We’re cruising along the FDR when I spot a sporty Jaguar as it pulls up alongside us. The back window lowers. The barrel of a big gun slides out. It’s BOYZ IN THE HOOD 2016! I scream, duck, and Rudi jams his foot on the gas. We careen down the drive, weaving in and out of traffic, while tomorrow’s headlines flash before my eyes! Finally Rudi skids toward the exit lane on 63rd St. He screeches around the corner, barreling west, and doesn’t slow down until we’re at 1st Ave.

Crush cap by LISA MCFADDEN Millinery

previously…                                                                                                                                       to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 7


Rudi takes 138th Street over to the Concourse, then heads north to 173rd. He parks tight between two cars near Morris Avenue and invites me to sit back and relax as he gets out, disappearing into an apartment building. The street is quiet and dark so I finish off the last of Gabriel’s gift. And then I wait, opening the iTunes app on my phone. Sade. I sing along. This. is. no. ordinary love. No ordinary love. You got that right, girlfriend. Twenty minutes later Rudi reappears. I feel my body uncoil with relief. He gets in and dangles an eight ball in my face. 300.00. Are you kidding me?! He’s not.

previously…                                                                                                                                       to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 6


Rudi meets me on 138th St., in front of Deedee’s beauty salon and tarot card parlor. He has the eyes of an angel. And doesn’t look a day over 19. But he’s quite tastefully attired and driving a fully loaded Maserati Levante SUV. 100 grand. Paid for in cash. Wanna bet it wasn’t? He smiles and tells me to get in. Oh-oh. I know better than this. Everything in me is screaming—do NOT get into the car! But my need is screaming louder. Way louder. I open the passenger door and slide in. Ooooo. It’s niiii-ice up in here.

Rudi’s jacket is by Schott NYC

previously…                                                                                                                                       to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 5


At home, after coughing up 39.95 on an online people-finder site, I locate a phone number for Benay, a friend from the old days. And she connects me with Rudi, a young dealer in the South Bronx. But he won’t come to me. I have to go to him. Benay wants to tag along but I shake her with the promise that l’ll stop by her place later. You know I’m not doing that! I take off my diamond hoops, lace up a pair of Converse hightops and hop a bus in front of Carnegie Hall to the Lexington Avenue subway. From there I catch the number six train. We’re headed uptown, baby. 138th Street.

Winona is wearing Roberto Cavalli pants.

previously…                                                                                                                                       to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 4


By Friday afternoon, the cocaine Gabriel left is damn near gone. And that’s what I think about all through lunch at Lure Fishbar with lovely Lonni and her mom. They’re hot to sign with WINONA, INC. But I’ve got enough cool blonds on the roster. Afterwards, we chat outside and I can’t get my shades on fast enough. Who sees me and stops in his tracks? My old pal, Downey Jr. He looks into my eyes and the son-of-a-bitch can see that I’m up to old tricks. He pulls me aside, fingers digging into my arm, and delivers a brief tongue lashing. “You’ve got way too much to lose now. Don’t be foolish!”

Winona is wearing Celine. Robert Downey Jr. is wearing Ermenegildo Zegna

previously…                                                                                                                                       to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 3


Gabriel returns to Panama on Monday morning. What’s left of the coke he leaves with me. I’m sure we went through an eightball since Friday night. And there’s at least another eighth of an ounce left. Maybe more. I consider flushing it. But I’ve never flushed good coke, or even bad coke, in my life. Stop playin’. Inside an old shoebox, I find the one glass vial I saved—it’s 18k gold cap and spoon still gleaming like the day I bought it. I can’t stop giggling. But I’ve got to keep calm and stay on the sneaky. Belle would kill me if she found out. And Desi? He loves blow as much as I do. He’d want in.

bootie by Jimmy Choo

previously…                                                                                                                                          to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 2


At my place, I invite Gabriel to fix himself a drink at the bar before excusing myself to slip into something a little more get-attable. When I return, waiting on the glass-topped coffee table are four neatly cut lines of blow. Hello! I can’t even recall the last time I’ve seen cocaine. Gabriel leans forward and does two lines. Smiling, he holds out the rolled-up benjamin to me. I hesitate, for just a moment, before dismissing all the alarms going off in my head. Falling to my knees, I do the remaining two. Fifteen minutes later, we’re fucking like bunnies. There goes the weekend. And 11 years of sobriety.

…previously                                                                                                                                       to be continued…

Falling Off The Wagon. Again. Pt. 1


Carl and Fran Kublick live in the penthouse of my building. They’re hosting a small dinner party tonight to unveil their latest acquisition, an oil painting purchased during their travels to Panama over the summer. The gallery owner’s son, Gabriel Luis, has flown in to supervise the installation. He’s tall, he’s tanned, and he’s a firecracker! Sizzling hot and full of himself. We’re seated next to one another during dinner. And we leave together right after dessert.

Winona is wearing Cushnie et Ochs

…to be continued



Everybody has a weakness. Winona’s weakness is cocaine. In and out of rehab for almost a decade, she thought she’d gotten passed that wild and willful stage in her life but during a quiet and uneventful October weekend, a hot, young Panamanian appears with a mole on his cheek and a fat eight ball in his pocket. And down the rabbit hole she goes.

Part 1…