My Darling Jean,

I know that you are still mad at me. I can understand that. During the course of our lives and our relationships, we all do things that we regret. Some people regret not living their lives to the fullest. Some people regret not showing their partners the love they deserve. Some people regret working too much and not being there for their family. I too have regrets. In this case, I regret paying for and participating in a sadomasochistic prison-themed orgy. But honey, now that I have admitted it, I am sure that we can talk this thing out and stay together.

I have needs — needs that I am not sure that you can satisfy. Those needs involve getting whipped and sexually humiliated by a woman much younger and more attractive than you (while she’s wearing either a military uniform or prison garb, of course). I don’t really know what to tell you. I just went with my heart on this one. I apologize. I really didn’t think to ask you about it. You know what they say, it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission. I am pretty confident that applies double with respect to prison camp-related S&M. It’s not very likely that you would have given permission. (Or is it? Can we discuss this? It would make things a lot easier if we could do this kind of thing at our country house on weekends.)

It’s not that I don’t love you. I love you with all my heart. It’s just that you are my wife and mother to my children. I would not want to debase you by making you act out these silly little fantasies of mine, unless of course you were thirty to forty years younger, had perkier breasts and a tighter ass, and a penchant for dressing up in period costumes and making me scream like a bitch. I wouldn’t do that to you, darling. I respect you too much for that. Also, to properly fulfill my fantasy, there would have to be five of you, and I don’t see that happening. Unless of course you involved your nieces. Then maybe we could talk.

Most importantly (well, most importantly outside of the whole “infidelity with prostitutes” thing), I do not want you to think that I am in any way a Nazi. That S&M sex romp was German prison-themed, not Nazi-themed. I have no idea where the media got this Nazi thing from. Sure my father was a prominent World War II British fascist. Sure my mother and father got married at Joseph Goebbels’ house in Berlin with Adolf Hitler as a wedding guest. Sure I used to be involved in fascist politics. Sure the hookers in the video were speaking German, wearing what appear to be military uniforms, checking for lice on me, and donning outfits that looked suspiciously like concentration camp victims’ clothing. But where’s the proof? Where’s the evidence? Those are just facts that may or may not lead to an inexorable conclusion. If you must know the truth, the fact is that Nazi-free German prison S&M parties are all the rage right now. If anyone should know that, it’s me. It’s just like the media to rely on historical details and videotaped evidence to jump to unfair conclusions. Typical. Much like my S&M fetish. (Everyone does it, honey, I’m no different than the next guy — well, if the next guy also likes to be tortured in order to achieve sexual release).

As you know, I am suing the News of the World over that Nazi thing. I can’t stand the thought of the good Mosley name being dragged through the mud like that. (Note to self: mud dragging? Sexy.) That lawsuit is going to clear my name once and for all, and when we are done with the long and explicit trial that will receive international publicity and expose my bizarre sexual predilections and fetishes to the world, we can live quietly and let this whole thing blow over. It’s a good plan, honey. You’ll have to trust me, much like I trust dominatrix prostitutes who whip my exposed ass. Although it looks dangerous, you won’t get hurt, unless of course you ask them to hurt you in order to sustain the erection you get from being abused and degraded. My analogy is breaking down, darling, but I think that you know what I mean.

We can even make money from this whole embarrassing incident. I am claiming a lot of damages from the newspaper due to their spurious lies about me. A lot of damages. In fact, “very big” damages for breach of privacy. You can bet those damages will be very big, much like my erection was that afternoon when the hooker was picking fake lice out of my hair. But you don’t need to hear that — this letter is about us two, not me and the other five.

I know that I have done you wrong, darling. I cannot apologize to you any more than I have already, and I want to make it up to you somehow. If we are going to make our marriage work, we are going to have to work at it. I am willing to work at it. You know what they say, work shall set you free. It sounds better in its original German, “arbeit macht frei.” Hmm, perhaps that wasn’t the best turn of phrase in the circumstances. Still, we can do this. I love you, and it hurts me every moment we are not together, and not a good lacerated-ass hurt. Please call me.

Love,

Your Maxie

P.S. - Darling, I won’t be in town for your birthday next week. I have a, er, um, meeting in Minehead, Somerset that night.