Days before my 30th birthday, I was naked in a swanky Manhattan hotel room, gazing at the Hudson out a floor to ceiling window, waiting for a former NFL player to join me for the evening. At the time I assumed that this was just going to be one more in a long string of interesting hookups -- like the Afghanistan veteran who'd been deployed three times, or the lanky white boy with the Japanese name courtesy of his adoptive parents, or the male model with a business degree from the University of Phoenix. What I got instead was a months-long relationship that gave me a rare window into the life of the celebrity mistress -- a life far less glamorous than I had once assumed.
I'd never been drawn to celebrities, and I didn't really care much for sports, but somehow I'd found it hard to resist the giant gentleman who'd approached me at a bar the night before. He was charming, he was funny, and it didn't hurt that he had a couple of Super Bowl victories under his belt. After an hour or so of chatting, we ended up outside, making out like teenagers just steps from the West Side Highway as I promised to meet him at his hotel room the following night.
The morning after meeting my new paramour, I prepared myself for our evening together the way every modern girl does: by Googling him. Making my way through Web page after Web page, I watched videos of his sports victories, read stories about his post-football accomplishments, and, eventually, discovered t...
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