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I'm in a love triangle with Mick Jagger-again.

Two weeks ago a girl I'd been pursuing for a couple of months finally kissed me in a bar. In addition to being a sexy, dark-skinned beauty, she's difficult, complicated and something of a handful. In other words, totally irresistible. I couldn't believe my luck and, as it turned out, I was right. A couple of days later she gave me the bad news: She was involved with another man. He was a bit of a playboy, apparently, but all his friends assured her he was completely besotted. In fact, they'd never seen him like this with anyone before. So she was flying to London to spend some time with him. Maybe, if things didn't work out, she'd call me.

I found out the following day it was Jagger.

This is the second time I've lost a woman to the 55-year-old Rolling Stone and, frankly, I'm getting a little tired of it. To lose one woman to Mick Jagger may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose two looks like carelessness.

To tell the truth, the first time it happened I felt rather flattered. The woman in question was a gorgeous Chilian girl known-inevitably-as the Red Hot Chile Pepper. Okay, I didn't like being dumped for a married father-of-six but it did mean I was only two degrees of separation from some of the most beautiful women in the world. It was like a right of passage. I might have lost the game but I was playing in the big league now.

The second time around, it's not so much fun. 30 years ago, when Mick Jagger was still the Satanic Prince of the counter-culture, I might have understood. But he's a grandfather now, for heaven's sakes. What do women see in him? With his spindly little legs, oversized head and enormous, Negroid lips he looks like a badly-drawn caricature. He has the face of a mummified horse.

He also exhibits all the 'bad' masculine traits that feminists have trained us to deplore. The girl I like has just flown to London to be with him, even though the Brazilian model who's carrying his love child has just flown to New York. The term 'love rat' doesn't begin to do him justice. He's the Bill Clinton of Rock 'n' Roll.

Yet women find him absolutely irresistible. What's going on?

Part of it, no doubt, is his considerable wealth. In addition to his estate in Richmond, he owns houses in the Loire Valley, Texas, Mustique and New York. According to the London Sunday Times, which produces an annual list of the 1,000 richest people in Britain, he's worth £150 million. That kind of money is guaranteed to impress even the most jaded supermodel.

There's also his image to contend with. Somehow, in spite of being the most commercially-minded Rock 'n' Roll figure since Colonel Tom Parker, Jagger has managed to cling on to his cool reputation. No one could seriously describe him as a rebel but some small, vestigial part of him remains untamed. As a result, he's as welcome in the Bowery as he is in the stately homes of England.

Above all, there's his sexuality. Jagger's hallmark as a performer has always been his pan-sexual eroticism. He has the louche manner of a jailhouse slut, the pouting coquettishness of a sex kitten, yet he's always been unmistakably heterosexual. He's able to incorporate aspects of feminine sexuality into his persona without seeming homosexual; he's camp without being a sissy. For some reason, women are powerless to resist this combination.

All this is complemented, of course, by his allegedly superhuman powers as a lover. You'd assume that his years of substance abuse would have taken their toll on his virility. Not a bit of it, apparently. When I asked his most recent conquest what on earth she saw in him, she told me he was the best lay she'd ever had.

"He's got the most incredible stamina," she panted. "We're talking five times a night."

"He must be on Viagra," I replied confidently.

"Absolutely not," she said. "The only things he takes are vitamins."

Whatever those vitamins are, I'd like to get hold of some.

I should point out here that I only have this woman's say so for any of this. It's possible that she was making it all up to spare my feelings. After all, if you're going to be passed over by a woman, it might as well be for the world's most notorious shagger. I would have felt a lot worse if she'd told me she was rejecting me for Harold Evans.

However, I'm inclined to believe she's telling the truth. Given the kind of life she leads, their paths would certainly overlap and, from what I know of him, she's very much his type. She's well-born, independently wealthy and a member of the Jet Set. The chances of her selling her story to the tabloids are pretty remote.

So, Jerry, if you're reading this, I'd call your divorce lawyer without delay. At this very moment, he's probably shacked up at Browns Hotel with my friend, throwing money away on baubles and champagne. Do I have to draw you a diagram? If I were you, I'd start proceedings straight away and screw the bastard for as much as you can get.

The New York Press