In the meantime, D'Amato has been doing what any lonely, spurned former politician would do: squeezing in a lot of quality time with women half his age. Power is supposed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac, but losing power only seems to have increased D'Amato's daffy charm. "Just the other night," says Peter King, who recently dined with D'Amato at the Capital Grille in Washington, "there were younger women coming over to our table and saying hello to him. I felt like saying, 'Hey, wait -- I'm the guy who's still in office!' "

If anything, since he left office, D'Amato's companions have gotten younger, and in some cases wilder. Out are the wealthy widows and Hamptons socialites; in are the downtown girls with passports to the other side of the velvet rope.

The most outrageous member of this new club is Candace Bushnell, the blonde stunner who chronicled her own dating misadventures in Sex and the City, now a hit series on HBO.

"This is the thing about Alfonse," Bushnell says. "I don't know about in the rest of the country, but in New York, he's as famous as any celebrity. When you walk down the street with him, people literally lean out of their cars and yell, 'Hey! Senatah!' " Plus, she adds, "he's fun, he's charming, and he's emotionally up-front -- he doesn't play games."

She and D'Amato met in February at a party celebrating the launch of Cablevision's MetroGuide. The senator was instantly smitten. He started ordering rounds of Cosmopolitans for the table, which included Sex and the City producer Darren Star and Times reporter Alex Kuczynski, and he made a toast to the beautiful women in his midst. Later that night, he escaped with Bushnell to Elaine's, where much dancing and one of the two reported canoodles took place. The couple subsequently showed up at Rao's and other Italian haunts about town. They spent the weekend at Mack's place in Palm Beach. D'Amato even bestowed a nickname on her, which in the senator's universe is the equivalent of landing a place on his speed dial. He called her Bushie.

The relationship didn't work out. But so what? D'Amato clearly thinks the world of her. "She's charming, she's stunning, she's a provocateur, just like me," he gushes. "I love it. You know? We used to play these games on her computer. We'd play hearts. Ever play hearts on the computer? It'll drive you nuts. We'd sit in the car, and I'd say, 'No! Do this! Shoot the moon!' "

After Bushnell, there was Dara Torres, the blonde, six-foot Olympic medalist and Tae Bo infomercialist. Donald Trump introduced them on his airplane, which at the time was bound for Florida. "They got along great," Trump reports. "He was stunned by her beauty."

So are they going out?

"I can't tell you what happens when the lights go out," says Trump. "But I think they're going out. Ask him."

D'Amato: "We're just friends. Besides, Dara's in California right now, training for the Olympics."

The tabloids, D'Amato declares, have sabotaged his love life. "I don't think it does much for any serious relationship that you might want to have," he says. "I think it could be a deterrent."

The subtext here has a name, of course: Hilary Geary. To this day, Trump partially blames D'Amato's Senate defeat on his broken heart. "Breaking up in the middle of his campaign," he notes, "didn't exactly help his psyche."

The first time I mention Geary, D'Amato pouts: "I refuse to discuss my broken heart." But later, at the bar of the W Hotel, waiting for the movie-memorabilia auction to begin, he orders two glasses of champagne and hands me one.

"Who's the love of my life?" he glumly asks.

"Hilary Geary," I answer.

He's off and running. "I didn't have my priorities straight," he says. "I was more into politics. I didn't see what a great lady she was." Without thinking, he starts to dictate. "You can just say, 'It's obvious that the senator's heart lies with one person, and that's Hilary Geary -- and when asked about it, he wouldn't deny it.' "

"Wayne-ster! How are ya?"