So many women and so little time

Kevin Cowherd

September 11, 1991|By Kevin Cowherd

A LOOK at Geraldo's diary:

Oct. 16 -- Ran into Candy Bergen at Universal party. She wants me. At least that was my impression when she peeled off her clothes and began swinging from the chandelier after spotting me in the buffet line. We ended up making mad, passionate love in the pantry next to two delicately carved ice swans. God forgive me, I stole a case of Dinty Moore stew. In the little cans. It's my favorite.

Nov. 25 -- Raisa Gorbachev called. She wants me.

"Darling, come to my villa in the Crimea," she said in that funny sing-song voice. "We'll send Mikhail out to wait on line for a tomato. The old goat will be gone for days!"

Soviet women are insatiable. But I cannot go. It's sweeps week and we have a strong lineup of shows. Monday: People who set their hair on fire. Tuesday: Nazi lesbian biker chicks. Wednesday: Suburban housewives who eat dirt. Thursday: Infant plane crash survivors raised by wolves. Friday: Sex-starved women of the Crimea (via satellite).

Dec. 5 -- Poor Jane Pauley. She wants me. We met in the Green Room during a taping of Letterman and then made love in the janitor's closet. There were tears in her eyes when it was over; later I discovered I'd been stepping on her toes with my cowboy boots. I also slipped a can of Pine Sol disinfectant under my shirt. No doubt I will rot in hell for my sins.

Dec. 22 -- Arrived in London and who's the first person I run into? Yoko Ono. She wants me.

"Geraldo!" she cried. "Do you remember the night we smoked that incredible Moroccan hashish with John? And when he passed out, you and I made mad passionate love and then had breakfast in that darling little tea shop, where you stole those biscuits?"

"I will never forget it, Coko," I said.

"Uh, that's Yoko," she said.

Whatever. I see now why John was always threatening to leave her. No one likes a woman who's constantly correcting her man.

Jan. 1 -- Ohhhhh, madre de Dios! Geraldo's head is pounding! Too much champagne last night. To usher in the New Year, I made love to Linda Evans, Lynda Carter, Linda McCartney and Belinda Carlisle at a gala party at the Sheraton. They all want me.

What are all these bath towels and little bottles of shampoo doing here? Was Geraldo a bad boy again? Move over, Hitler and Joe Stalin, Geraldo will be joining you in the Eternal Flames shortly.

Feb. 3 -- Meryl Streep wants me. At Jerry Weintraub's party the other night, she sidled up to me and whispered: "Hey, wanna sleep with Streep?"

"Wanna know Geraldo?" I countered.

She thought that was devilishly clever. We made love in the Jacuzzi, out by the stables and in Jerry's bedroom. On the flight back to New York, I discovered three silk neckties embossed with the letters JW in the pocket of my trench coat. Take me now, Satan.

March 14 -- Geraldo is feeling the winter doldrums. And no wonder: haven't had sex since before breakfast. Maybe I'll give Barbara Walters a call. She wants me. Except she never shuts up when we make love. Always asking stuff like: "If you were a tree, Geraldo, what kind of tree would you be?"

What kind of stupid question is that? The woman will drive you crazy. Trump is right: Go with the younger ones. They're too dumb to carry on a conversation.

April 22 -- Here's a bombshell: Marlo Thomas called. She wants me. Says she's tired of Phil's whole act: the white hair, the sensitive man routine, the servile manner in which he scurries about the studio audience with his microphone. Can you imagine what the New York Post would do with this? "DONAHUE'S WIFE: GERALDO BEST SEX I EVER HAD!"

"I can't blame you for lusting after me," I tell the poor creature. "There is only one Geraldo."

I promise to make love to her in the boiler room of their East Side apartment building the next time I'm in the neighborhood.

Besides, it's on the way to Carly Simon's place.

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