In the summer of 2011, I was asked by GQ to write an open letter to DSK. We all know the story. He’d been arrested in May and cuffed and dumped in Rikers Island soon afterward. Upon release, he’d rented out a rich loft in SOHO to plan his defense. Throughout the summer, the case took on a roller coaster ride of gossip and intrigue both in France and the US as the prosecution proved to be more dysfunctional than the defendant. As we entered the dog days of August, with the case tipping in DSK’s favor, I (GQ) fired off this letter, just to let him know he might have beaten the rap, but not the court of public opinion.

Dear DSK:

Regardless of how it goes for you today (and right now it looks pretty good), there’s one thing that won’t go away. The sperm you left on the wall. Sorry dude but sperm on a wall’s a career ender. Sperm on a blue dress, you can survive. But sperm on a wall? Shit, Berlusconi’s Bunga room doesn’t even have that.

And frankly DSK, you’ve over 50. You’re not supposed to be having sex at all, and if you do, you’re supposed to be having heart attacks while doing it. Look at your contemporaries: Tyson, Kobe, William Kennedy Smith, Tupac. Being accused of sexual assault is a young man’s game. You’re twice these guys age! Who the hell do you think you are? Colonel Kurtz? There’s no old timers game in sexual assault. Want to know why? Because it’s too gross to think about it.

Yet like French wine, you seem to be getting stronger with age. Hell apparently you even had a call girl the night before; which is fine, but answer me this. Where are your handlers? You’re the most important banker in the world with a sex fetish, and you’re in NYC rolling solo? That’s like my kid loose at Toys R Us with a wad of fifties.

The only thing more dysfunctional than your personal life DSK is the prosecution across the aisle. Part of that team I sense wants to drop the case toute de suite (seeing your accuser’s credibility is in question) while the other half wants to take it on talk shows (which ALWAYS helps one’s credibility.) And then there’s the issue of another woman filing charges against you in France, which is weird, because you may end up getting acquitted in New York, but have to remain in the US, so as not to face charges in France. Which means you’re Bizarro Roman Polanski!

The story over there is even crazier. Something about a young woman whose mom you already slept with and who also happens to be the goddaughter of your ex-wife? DSK you need to write this down. There’s a guy named Franzen over here stealing all your shit.

But why would you want to go back anyway? Your own party hates your guts since you blew up their only chance to beat Sarko. Now they’re back to pinning their hopes on guys with handlebar mustaches who ransack McDonalds.

Dude stay. If you play it right you can write a book about the whole affair. Americans do that kind of thing, and you’ll find it’ll help with the legal bills. Then you can hook up with Spitzer and Anthony Weiner and pitch a thing like The Dudes’ View. (Actually, that’s a good idea.) You can be the French Curly to their Larry and Mo. Your style’s more American than French anyway. 1) You like money and 2) you like money, which never really jibed anyway with you being Socialist. I have to admit though that 100-buck pasta you ordered the night you were released on bail was very socialist. That 50,000 dollar a month pied-a-terre in SoHO too. And all those Republicans who said Obama’s healthcare was socialist. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. Give me some of that socialism.

Thanks to you DSK, we now know what swarthily is. It’s Euro post-45 swagger. And you Monsieur DSK are swarthy. The French press whined that the NYC cops humiliated you by not letting you shave before your first court appearance. Au contraire. It made you the French James Brolin. Keep it going. Cultivate it into a tanned, dose of gold hiding under the open white shirt, not afraid to bust out the Speedo swarthiness. Then you can laugh when other sexing politicos like John Edwards go off and do time while you’re in Ibiza sipping rosé.

A good shrink will probably tell say you did this all on purpose. That it was one big auto-destructive move on your part, which is probably true. You didn’t want the presidency of France anyway. Who would? Let someone else deal with European debt, Khadafi, and those farmers who burn tires on the highways. Sarko just wants the job, so he doesn’t have to stay at home and change diapers.

BTW. A lot of people back home still think Sarko set you up; that this whole hotel maid thing was part of a bigger campaign to smear you. Is that true? If so, you must be pretty paranoid; fearing each time you come out of the shower, there’s a woman there trying to put her mouth on your penis. I’d be scared too. I’m just not sure my wife would buy it though. “Honey, you know I’m afraid the fille-au-pair is trying to set me up.”

In any case, if things do break your way today and you end up returning to France, thanks for the memories and the newspaper sales; and oh, you might want to check back with the hotel before you fly out. Apparently they still have your sperm at the front desk, along with the cell phone you left behind.

Au revoir et bon voyage,

GQ