I met Mayte after the MTV Icon show they did for Janet Jackson. We were at the after-party when my assistant, Viggy, noticed her. Viggy had worked for Prince for five years, so he knew who she was. I’m drinking champagne with Jermaine Dupri

When Viggy tells me he’ll be right back. I see him plow through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor to say hi to this beautiful girl. I’m like, “Go Viggy!” I go back to rippin’ it until a minute later when Viggy slugs me on the shoulder, turns me around, and introduces me to Mayte. She looked stunning, as amazing as she always does. I babbled at her, “Wow. Nice to touch you. You are gorgeous.” It was a pretty stock greeting. I kissed her on the cheek and watched her go back to the dance floor. I thought she was still married to Prince—lucky fucker. A little later Viggy asked me why I didn’t talk to her longer. “Dude, she’s Prince’s wife.” Not anymore, he told me. “Fuck! Where is she, dude? Go get her!” Viggy found her and God bless him for doing so.

I’ve got to be real here: Mayte does not have the kind of name that is easy to get right. Here’s how you say it: My-tay. I made Viggy say it a few times over in my ear so I wouldn’t fuck it up when I met her again. It was loud in there, and homie had to scream it for a minute until I got it right.

I already knew about Mayte before I met her; she was Viggy’s fondest memory of working for Prince. She was always cool to him, he’d gotten to know her well, and he’d been telling me how sweet she was for months. He had been on a mission, playing Cupid, telling me how we would be perfect for each other. Viggy isn’t a small man, he weighs in at about two hundred plus and is six feet tall—we don’t call him Big Vig for nothin’. Big Vig looked like Moses parting the Red Dance Floor when, for the second time that night, he grabbed Mayte and brought her back to my table.

It was awkward. Mayte and I had already met but there we were saying hello to each other again. I just stared at her like a homeless man looking at a steak. I thought she was incredible, but in my mind, she had been married to Prince—what the fuck would she want with me?

A few days later she called Viggy to ask him if I’d be interested in writing some music with her. I was excited, and maybe I was naive, but in my heart, I thought nothing else of it. She came over with her sister and we hung out in the studio, talked about music, played each other stuff that we loved and stuff that we were working on. I had never worked with a girl before and I was inspired right away. There was something sexy about connecting on that level with a gorgeous member of the opposite sex. At one point during the day, her sister left to do an errand, and Mayte and I took a walk out to my koi pond where we sat and talked for hours. We talked for so long that working together became secondary and getting to know each other took center stage. We had one of those conversations that stop time: We had so much to share that neither of us felt the hours passing by. We felt so comfortable, there in one of the most special, peaceful places in my house, that we let everything out. She shared her joy and pain: She was recently divorced from Prince and she’d lost a child just after birth. We talked about life and marriage. I’ve been a Prince fan for so long that to hear what he is really like was crazy. Both of us were adjusting to major life changes—my divorce from Pamela and the custody battle over our kids was about to begin. It had been a long time since I’d met someone I could discuss my life with so honestly and naturally.

That day I realized how small our world is. Back in 1994, I recorded “Welcome to Planet Boom.” It was my very first solo effort and it was all about rhythm. I couldn’t believe it when she told me she didn’t know anything about Mötley, but instead that’s how she knew who I was. I remembered hearing once that Prince used to play that song all the time. (I freaked when I heard that one of my favorite artists loved my song!)

Mayte and I bonded right from the start. It felt natural when we spent time together, so we started to see each other a lot. I had always wanted to be with a woman who could share my love of music. Mayte sang, she danced—fuck, can she dance—

and she loved being with me in the studio, writing and creating until the sun came up. I’d never experienced that before and I was lovin’ it.

During the first year of our relationship, I was going through a heap of shit. Mayte had no idea what she was coming into, but she was so supportive that there is no way I can ever thank her enough. She lived with me and lived in my house through some of the worst shit I’ve ever dealt with: custody battles, probation, and all the emotional fallout from my breakup with Pamela. All that shit was open wounds that I was trying to sew up. She was amazing with my kids—she treated my boys like they were her own. She loved them and they loved her—they still ask about her, all the time. She was the only thing that kept me going most days, and I feel completely unable to put down here in words how much that meant to me. Most women would have bailed after learning what my day-to-day reality was like at that time and how hard it was for me emotionally. It was ugly. Thank you, my Lit.

Mayte and I had an amazing relationship. We helped each other heal and grow. We also had a lot of fun together. We had our own language in which we talked like a couple of strange Europeans. She’s Puerto Rican, so she did that accent to the fullest, and I’d answer her in my best slimy Greek Guy imitation. People didn’t know what the fuck was up with us. I’d say, “Hhhello My Leetle. What arrrre ju doingk?” She’d say, “Nuthingk, Paapi. I waantt to suhhk jour dickkk.”

For my fortieth birthday, Mayte threw me an amazing party. She did it in my favorite place, the place where we first got to know each other, the place I call the Garden of Truth—my Japanese garden. It was a surprise and I had no idea. She did it right. I wasn’t home that day, so she picked me up, blindfolded me, and handed me a watermelon martini—the official house drink in Tommyland. As she drove us up the long winding road to my house, I knew where we were going and I became Mr. Bummer Surprise-Party Guy. “We’re going up to the house, right?” I said. She tried to keep the mystery alive and said, “No, we’re not! No way.” Believe me, I know the roads around my house better than the cats who repair them. I was like, “Oh. Here we go, we’re going through the tunnel!” She’d say, “No, we’re not!” And I’d say, “Okay, one more turn and we’re there!” When we got there, Mayte led me down to the garden, while I kept saying things like, “So we’re walking by the pool now, right?”

It didn’t matter that I knew where we were. When we got to the garden I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had transformed it into the best present I could imagine: an outdoor sushi restaurant full of my closest friends. I had told her that I had always wanted to do that. She heard me and made that dream come true. There were tables all around the koi pond, candles, the sushi chef doing his thing, and familiar faces as far as my eyes could see. I had it all: I was in my favorite place with my favorite people. What more could you want?

My birthday party was a lot smaller than Puff Daddy’s—thank God. Mayte and I went to that one, and if you haven’t read any of the magazine or newspaper articles about it, let me tell you—it was crazy. He threw it in Morocco and chartered two 747s to fly hundreds of his closest friends in from New York and Paris. Mayte and I went with my friend and coproducer Scott Humphrey, and we realized we were in for it right away. We’re taxiing down the runway, and Puffy gets on the PA and says, “Once we get to forty thousand feet and this motherfucker levels off—it’s on y’all!” And on it was. Champagne, the Hen, boom boxes, dancing—all of it—and his mom is on the plane!

Everyone is feeling Irie,* even the stewardesses, and at one point I think: “If I see the pilot walk back here and party up I’m gonna freak!” It reminded me of the Crüe on our private flights but with a helluva lot more people. This was the Nonstop Hip-hop and We-Don’t-Stop Airbus to Africa.

After ten hours on the soul plane we finally land in Morocco and the big red carpet is rolled out for us motherfuckers. We exit the airport and we see everything that is Marrakech: camels, snake charmers, men playing those long, crazy Middle Eastern trumpets, belly dancers, and drummers everywhere. The first thing I heard was women singing in traditional Muslim style: that strange yell that is somewhere between a chant and a yodel. All of us pile into a shitload of Mercedes limos that are lined up, waiting to take us to the hotel, while Puffy cruises to this crazy palace he had all to himself.

It was a four-day party. There were a few pre–birthday party parties, the birthday party, the day after the birthday party party, and the afterparty for the day after the birthday party. Somewhere in there, everyone spent a day at a lake riding camels, Jet Skis, four-wheelers, horses, chicks—just ripping it up and eating barbecue. There were models from New York and Paris getting all crazy all over the place. Puffy was walking around in one of those Moroccan white linen suits, taking it all in. (Everyone had bought one by the end of the trip. Mine is upstairs in my closet. It’s almost like a dress, or a muumuu. Nah, I guess it’s more like a tent. Now I know what girls feel like when they wear a dress with no underwear—it’s fuckin’ cool.)

Mayte, Scott, and I spent a day walking around the souk, which is the huge maze of an open-air market that is fucking crazy. We were having a great day—until I got bit by a monkey. This guy comes up to us, pimping the little guy for money. Morocco is a Third World country, so people make money however they can. I love monkeys because we had one in my house when I was a kid, so I was psyched. When I go to touch this monkey he grabs my finger, puts it in his mouth, and chomps down on it, hard as fuck. Oh, damn. I’m thinking about all of the diseases going around Morocco and how I’ve probably just gotten all of them. I was lucky, that fucker didn’t break my skin. I couldn’t believe it when the guy asked me for money! I wasn’t going to pay for a monkey bite. That’s fucked up.

Mayte and I were together for two years. She moved in with me and we shared everything. I asked her to marry me in 2002 on New Year’s Eve. We were at my house with my sister and her children, Mayte’s parents, and my boys. After we ate dinner, as it got close to midnight, I couldn’t wait any longer. I asked her father if I could marry his daughter and he gave me the go-ahead. I hadn’t planned to do it that night, but I got so excited that I couldn’t wait. I took a Gummi Bear ring from the kids’ candy jar and put it on her finger. I promised her that I’d get her a real ring, told her that it would be something special, but I had to know if she’d marry me. She said yes.

Everyone was happy, everyone was hugging, and everyone was drinking champagne. We had cans of Silly String and we shot it all over the place. It felt so right: Mayte is amazing, she was my best friend, my partner, and she brought so many new things into my life. She has a huge, warm, loving family and I loved being around that. They have a tradition around the holidays—they make pastellas. They’re wrapped in banana leaves and made of plantains, yucca, pork, garbanzo beans, and stuff I don’t even know about. It was amazing to watch Mayte and her family tear up the kitchen, making a huge batch of those things. They’re delicious. Of course they are—they’re made with love.

While Mayte and I were together, I recorded my most recent record, Never a Dull Moment. She was supportive, she had ideas, she was an honest critic, and she helped me in so many ways. I love that record and I’m proud of it—it was an evolution for me. I was able to express myself more honestly than I ever had, because I knew myself better than I ever had. I was truly on my own this time: There weren’t many guest stars, it was just me. To make that leap with my best friend and lover by my side was a first for me and it was amazing. I would play her songs, she’d be excited to listen, and she had great ideas of how to make it better. We wrote songs together—another first for me. I felt that everything I was doing was in the right place. Mayte got it. My ex-wives supported what I did but they weren’t musicians. Maybe I expected them to understand what they really couldn’t—music wasn’t their language.

Mayte sung on that album and when I toured she danced in the show. She was hot as fuck—she is hot as fuck! She had showed me a video of her dancing with Prince, and I freaked. Mötley had had dancers, but let’s face it—they were more like strippers. Mayte is a real dancer. Our friend, Brian, a choreographer, came down to rehearsals and worked out a routine with Mayte. I put together some crazy beats for her to dance to and we arranged a light show to highlight her dancing. I loved playing a show with my girl every night. I loved sharing the high you get after a show with the woman I was sharing my life with. It was the first time I’d been on tour with my girl. And most girls would be jealous of so much shit that happens on tour, but Mayte wasn’t. Every night I’d go to the front of the stage with a camera that was hooked to the big screens behind me. It was the Titty Cam because I’d only point it at all the girls flashing their tits. If that wouldn’t piss off the average woman, I don’t know what would. Mayte didn’t care—actually, she fucking dug it. She’d either be down in the audience filming all the crazy chicks with her own camera, or she’d be at the side of the stage checking out the video Breast Buffet.

I don’t think Mayte ever got over losing her first child. She had always wanted to be a mom and that was the only problem we had in our relationship. She really wanted children right away. The timing was terrible for us: She was talking about having children while I was fighting just to keep mine. I had never thought about having any more children than my boys. For a minute I thought that it would be rad to have a little girl. Then I thought about how protective I’d be when she became a teenager. I thought about her going on dates with guys and how motherfucking horny teenage dudes are—fuck, how motherfucking horny all dudes are. I didn’t like the thought of that one bit—until I figured out how I would handle it. When the guy showed up to take my daughter out I’d pull him aside. “Whatever you do to my daughter, I’m gonna do to you,” I’d tell him. “You kiss her, I’m kissing you. You suck her titties, I’m gonna suck your titties. You fuck her, I’m fuckin’ you.”

I felt a lot better after that.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came one day when I was sitting by the pool studying a deposition, preparing for an appearance in court the next day. It was the middle of the trial surrounding Daniel’s death, and I was taking the stand the next morning. Mayte came and sat next to me because she wanted to have “A Talk.” Again, bad timing—really bad. We had been engaged for more than a year and Mayte wanted to know where the relationship was going, when we were going to get married, and when we would start a family. A part of me thought that she was being really selfish and that turned me off. The other part of me didn’t blame her. We had been in limbo for a while, mostly because of the drama going on in my life. Her biological clock was ticking and her life was on hold: I couldn’t give her everything she needed and deserved. I told her that if she wanted to go she should because she should be in a relationship with someone who could give her what she wanted. Right then, there was no way I could be that guy. She asked me why I asked her to marry me. I said, “Because I love you.” Sometimes that isn’t enough.

We had been through so much bullshit together—bullshit that had nothing to do with our lives together but that affected us to the point that we started fighting a lot. Please believe, you do not want to fight with a Puerto Rican woman—you will lose. There wasn’t any solution for us: She wasn’t happy, I wasn’t happy, and neither of us would budge. We broke off our engagement in the summer of 2003, and I’m happy to say that we’re still friends. It is hard for me sometimes, because in my heart I think that if we had met at a different time and place in each other’s lives we would have been together forever. I’ll always love you, my Little.