“Just go with it, Victor,” David sighs. “Like I really even care.”
“You’ll be folding twenty-dollar sweaters at the Gap soon enough anyway,” I mutter.
“My little minnows,” Didier calls out. “It’s time.”
“Say, shouldn’t David have like some beach moss or some kind of sand covering his face?” I ask.
“Okay, Victor,” Didier calls out from behind the camera. “I’m looking at you like you’re naked, baby.”
“Didier?” one of the twins says. “I am naked.”
“I’m looking at you like you’re naked, Victor, and you love it.” A longish pause while Didier studies the twin, then he decides something. “Make me chase you.”
“Uh, Didier?” I call out. “I’m Victor.”
“Dance around and yell ‘pussy.’”
“Pussy,” we all mumble.
“Louder!” Didier shouts.
“Pussy!”
“Louder!”
“Pussy!”
“Fantastic yet not so good.”
Speedos after Bermudas, baseball caps are positioned backward, lollipops are handed out, Urge Overkill is played, Didier hides the Polaroid, then sells it to the highest bidder lurking in the shadows, who writes a check for it with a quill pen. One of the boys has an anxiety attack and another drinks too much Taittinger and admits he’s from Appalachia, which causes someone to call out for a Klonopin. Didier insists we cup our balls and finally incorporates the camera crew from “Fashion File” into the photo shoot and then everyone except me and the guy who fainted go off for an early lunch at a new spot in SoHo called Regulation.
23
Moving fast through autumn light up the stairs toward the offices at the top of the club, Rollerblades slung over my shoulder, a camera crew on the third floor from (unfortunately) VH1 interviewing power-florist Robert Isabell and the way everyone dresses makes you realize that lime and Campbell’s-soup orange are the most conspicuous new colors of the season and ultra—lounge music from the band I, Swinger floats around through the air like confetti saying “it’s spring” and “time to come dancing” and violets and tulips and dandelions are everywhere and the whole enterprise is shaping up into everything one wants: cool without trying. In the office photos of pecs and tanned abs and thighs and bone-white butts are plastered over an entire wall along with an occasional face—everyone from Joel West to Hurley Thompson to Marky Mark to Justin Lazard to Kirk Cameron (for god’s sake) to Freedom Williams to body parts that could or could not be mine—here in JD and Beau’s inner sanctum, and though it seems like I’m tearing down Joey Lawrence 8×10s on a daily basis, they’re always replaced, all the guys so similar-looking it’s getting tougher and tougher to tell them apart. Eleven publicists will work this party tonight. I bitch to Beau about croutons for seven minutes. Finally JD walks in with E-mail printouts, hundreds of faxes, nineteen requests for interviews.
“Has my agent called?” I ask.
“What do you think?” JD snorts, and then, “Agent for what?”
“Loved that piece you wrote for Young Homo, JD,” I tell him, going over the newly revised 10:45 guest list.
“Which one was that, Victor?” JD sighs, flipping through faxes.
“The one called ‘Help! I’m Addicted to Guys!’”
“Point being?” Beau asks.
“Just that you are both very unheterosexual,” I say, stretching.
“I might be a homo, Victor.” JD yawns. “But I’m still a man—a man with feelings.”
“You are a homo, JD, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.” I’m shaking my head at the new pinups—of Keanu, Tom Cruise, various Bruce Weber shots, Andrea Boccaletti, Emery Roberts, Jason Priestley, Johnny Depp, my nemesis Chris O’Donnell—covering the wall above their desk. “Jesus, it takes nothing to get you little mos turned on. A good bod, a nice face—Christ.”
“Victor,” Beau says, handing me a fax. “I know for a fact that you’ve slept with guys in the past.”
I move into my office, looking for some Snapple or a joint. “I dealt with that whole hip bi thing for about three hours back in college.” I shrug. “Big deal. But now it’s strictly the furburger era for me.”
“Like that plastic vagina Alison Poole’s a big improvement over—who?—Keanu Reeves?” JD says, following me.
“Dude, Keanu and I have never gotten it on,” I say, moving over to the stereo. “We’re just ‘good friends.’” I’m scanning my CD rack: Elastica, Garbage, Filter, Coolio, Pulp. I slip Blur in. “Did you know that Keanu in Hawaiian means ‘cool ocean breeze’ and he won the Japanese Oscar for his role as the FBI agent turned surfer in Point Break?” I preprogram tracks 2, 3 and 10. “Jesus—and we’re afraid of the Japanese?”
“You have got to stop having sex with Damien’s girlfriend, Victor,” Beau blurts out, whimpering. “It makes us nerv—”
“Oh shit,” I groan, throwing a CD case at him.
“If Damien finds out he will kill us, Victor.”
“He’ll kill you if he finds out I’m really opening up my own club,” I say carefully. “You will be implicated no matter what. Just, um, slide into it.”
“Oh Victor, your nonchalance is so cool.”
“First of all I don’t understand why you little mos think I’d be fucking Damien’s girlfriend in the first—”
“And you lie so well too.”
“Hey—who the hell’s been listening to ABBA Gold? Oh wait—let me guess.”
“Victor, we don’t trust Damien,” Beau says. “Or Digby or Duke.”
“Shhh,” I say, holding a finger up to my lips. “This place could be bugged.”
“That’s not funny, Victor,” JD says grimly. “It could be.”
“How many times do I have to tell you guys that this town is filled with horrible human beings?” I groan. “Get—used—to—it.”
“Digby and Duke are cute, Victor, but so wasted on steroids that it would make them quite happy to beat the living shit out of you,” Beau says, then adds, “As if you didn’t need it.”
I check my watch. “My father’s gonna do that to me in about fifteen minutes, so spare me,” I sigh, flopping onto the couch. “Listen, Digby and Duke are just Damien’s, er, friends. They’re like bouncers—
What?”
“Mob, baby,” JD says.
“Oh Jesus,” I moan. “The mob? For who? Banana Republic?”
“Mob, Victor.” Beau nods in agreement.
“Oh hell, they’re bouncers, guys.” I sit up. “Feel sorry for them. Imagine dealing with cokeheads and tourists for a living. Pity them.”
Beau loses it. “Pity you, Victor, once Damien sees that goddamn photo of you—ouch!”
“I saw you step on Beau’s foot,” I say to JD very carefully, staring over at them.
“Who are you protecting, JD?” Beau gasps. “He should know. It’s true. It’s gonna happen.”
I’m up off the couch. “I thought this was all taken care of, JD.”
“Victor, Victor—” JD holds his hands up.
“Tell me now. What, where, when, who?”
“Did anyone catch that he didn’t ask the most important question: why?”
“Who told you there’s a photo? Richard? Khoi? Reba?”
“Reba?” JD asks. “Who in the fuck is Reba?”
“Who was it, JD?” I slap at one of his hands.
“It was Buddy. Get away from me.”
“At the News?”
Beau nods solemnly. “Buddy at the News.”
“And Buddy says …”
I motion for him to go on.
“Um, your fears about a certain photo are, um, ‘intact’ and the, um …” JD squints at Beau.
“Probability rate,” Beau says.
“Right. The probability rate is that it will, um …” JD squints over at Beau again.
“Be published,” Beau whispers.
“Be published are, um …” JD pauses. “Oh yeah, ‘up there.’�
��
Silence, until I clear my throat and open my eyes. “How long were you going to wait until you fed me this tidbit of info?”
“I paged you the minute this rumor was verified.”
“Verified by who?”
“I don’t divulge my sources.”
“When?” I’m groaning. “Okay? How about when?”
“There really is no when, Victor.” JD swallows nervously. “I just confirmed what you wanted me to. The photo exists. Of what? I can only guess by your, um, description yesterday,” JD says. “And here’s Buddy’s number.”
A long pause, during which Blur plays and I’m glancing around the office, finally touching a plant.
“And, um, Chloe called and said she wants to see you before Todd’s show,” JD says.
“What did you tell her?” I sigh, looking at the phone number JD handed me.
“‘Your poorly dressed bitter half is having lunch with his father at Nobu.’”
“I’m being reminded of a bad lunch I haven’t even had yet?” I cringe. “Jesus, what a day.”
“And she says thanks for the flowers.”
“What flowers?” I ask. “And will you puh-leeze stop staring at my bulge?”
“Twelve white French tulips delivered backstage at the Donna Karan show.”
“Well, thank you for sending them for me, JD,” I mutter, moving back to the couch. “There is a reason I’m paying you two dollars an hour.”
Pause. “I didn’t … send the flowers, Victor.”
Pause. My turn. “Well, I didn’t send the flowers.”
Pause. “There was a card, Victor. It said, ‘Ain’t no woman like the one I’ve got’ and ‘Baby, I’m-a want you, Baby, I’m-a need you.’” JD looks at the floor, then back at me. “That sounds like you.”
“I can’t deal with this right now.” I wave my arms around but then realize who might have sent the flowers. “Listen, do you know this kid named Baxter Priestly?”
“He’s the next Michael Bergin.”
“Who’s the last Michael Bergin?”
“Baxter Priestly’s in the new Darren Star show and in the band Hey That’s My Shoe. He’s dated Daisy Fuentes, Martha Plimpton, Liv Tyler and Glenda Jackson, though not necessarily in that order.”
“Beau, I’m on a lot of Klonopin right now, okay, so nothing you’re saying is really registering with me.”
“Cool, that’s cool, Victor.”
“What do I do about Baxter Priestly?” I moan. “He of the faggy cheekbones.”
“You jealous fuck,” Beau hisses.
“What do you mean, what do you do about him?” JD asks. “I mean, I know what I’d do.”
“Amazing cheekbones,” Beau says sternly.
“Yeah, but what a lunkhead. And I don’t want to suck him off,” I mutter. “Hand me that fax.”
“What does Baxter Priestly have to do with anything?”
“Enrolling him in a total-immersion English course wouldn’t hurt. Oh shit—I’ve got to get going. Let’s get down to business.” I squint at the fax. “Does Adam Horowitz go under Ad-Rock or Adam Horowitz?”
“Adam Horowitz.”
“Okay, what’s this? New RSVPs?”
“People requesting to be invited.”
“Shoot. Run through ’em.”
“Frank De Caro?”
“No. Yes. No. Oh god, I can’t do this now.”
“Slash and Lars Ulrich are coming together,” JD says.
“And from MTV, Eric Nies and Duff McKagan,” Beau adds.
“Okay, okay.”
“Chris Isaak is a yes, right?” JD asks.
“The perfect cutie,” Beau says.
“He’s got ears like Dumbo, but whatever. I guess I’d do him if I was a fag,” I sigh. “Is Flea under F or does he have like a real name?”
“It doesn’t matter,” JD says. “Flea’s coming with Slash and Lars Ulrich.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “Isn’t Axl coming with Anthony?”
“I don’t think so.” Beau and JD look at each other uncertainly.
“Don’t tell me Anthony Kiedis isn’t coming,” I groan.
“He’s coming, Victor, he’s coming,” Beau says. “Just not with Axl.”
“Queen Latifah? Under Q or L?” JD asks.
“Wait,” I exclaim, while going over the Ls. “Lypsinka’s coming? What did I tell you guys: we don’t want any drag queens.”
“Why not?”
“They’re like the new mimes, that’s why.”
“Lypsinka is not a drag queen, Victor,” Beau scolds me. “Lypsinka is a gender illusionist.”
“And you’re a little mo,” I snarl, ripping down a photo of Tyson in a Ralph Lauren ad. “Did I ever tell you that?”
“And you’re a fucking racist,” Beau shouts, grabbing the crumpled page from me.
I immediately pull out a Malcolm X cap I got at the premiere—signed by Spike Lee—and shove it in JD’s face. “See? Malcolm X cap. Don’t accuse me of not being multicultural, you little mo.”
“Paul Verhoeven said God is bisexual, Victor.”
“Paul Verhoeven is a Nazi and not invited.”
“You’re a Nazi, Victor,” Beau sneers. “You’re the Nazi.”
“I’m a pussy Nazi, you little mo, and you invited Jean-Claude Van Damme behind my back?!?”
“Kato Kaelin’s publicist, David Crowley, keeps calling.”
“Invite David Crowley.”
“Oh, people like Kato, Victor.”
“Have they seen his last movie, Dr. Skull?”
“It doesn’t matter: people totally lock on to the hair.”
“Speaking of: George Stephanopoulos.”
“Who? Snuffleupagus?”
“No. George—”
“I heard you, I heard you,” I groan dismissively. “Only if he’s coming with someone recognizable.”
“But Victor—”
“Only if”—I check my watch—“between now and nine he gets back together with Jennifer Jason Leigh or Lisa Kudrow or Ashley Judd or someone more famous.”
“Um—”
“Damien will have a fit, JD, if he shows up solo.”
“Damien keeps reminding me, Victor, that he wants a little politics, a little class.”
“Damien wanted to hire MTV dancers and I talked him out of that,” I shout. “How long do you think it’ll take me to make him eighty-six that little Greek?”
JD looks at Beau. “Is this cool or useless? I’m not sure.”
I clap my hands together. “Let’s just finish the late RSVPs.”
“Lisa Loeb?”
“Oh, this will certainly be a glittering success. Next.”
“James Iha—guitarist from Smashing Pumpkins.”
“Billy Corgan would’ve been better, but okay.”
“George Clooney.”
“Oh, he’s so alive and wild. Next.”
“Jennifer Aniston and David Schwimmer?”
“Blah blah blah.”
“Okay, Victor—we need to go over the Bs, and Ds, and the Ss.”
“Feed me.”
“Stanford Blatch.”
“Oh dear god.”
“Grow up, Victor,” JD says. “He owns like half of Savoy.”
“Invite whoever owns the other half.”
“Victor, the Weinstein brothers love him.”
“That guy is so gross he’d work in a pet store just so he could eat free rabbit shit.”
“Andre Balazs?”
“With Katie Ford, yes.”
“Drew Barrymore?”
“Yes—and dinner too.”
“Gabriel Byrne?”
“Without Ellen Barkin, yes.”
“David Bosom?”
“Okay, but party only.”
“Scott Benoit?”
“Party only.”
“Leilani Bishop.”
“Party.”
“Eric Bogosian.”
“Has a show. Can’t make dinner. Will come
to the party.”
“Brandy.”
“Jesus, Beau, she’s sixteen.”
“‘Moesha’ is a hit and the record’s gone platinum.”
“She’s in.”
“Sandra Bernhard.”
“Party only.”
“Billy, Stephen and/or Alec Baldwin.”
“Dinner, party only, dinner.”
“Boris Becker.”
“Uh-huh. Oh my god, this is sounding more and more like a Planet Hollywood opening you’d never want to eat at,” I sigh. “Am I reading this fax right? Lisa Bonet?”
“If Lenny Kravitz comes, she won’t.”
“Is Lenny Kravitz coming?”
“Yes.”
“Cross her off.”
“Tim Burton.”
“Oh god I’m hot!”
“Halle Berry.”
“Check.”
“Hamish Bowles.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Toni Braxton.”
“Yes.”
“Ethan Brown?”
“Oh, I don’t care what’s real anymore,” I moan, and then, “Party only.”
“Matthew Broderick.”
“Dinner if he’s with Sarah Jessica Parker.”
“Yes. Antonio Banderas.”
“Do you know what Antonio said to Melanie Griffith when they first met?”
“‘My deeck is beeger than Don’s’?”
“‘So you are Melanie. I am Antonio. How are you doing?’”
“He’s got to stop telling interviewers that he’s ‘not silly.’”
“Ross Bleckner.”
“Check.”
“Michael Bergin.”
“Check it out—right, guys?”
“David Barton?”
“Oh, I do hope he comes with Suzanne wearing something cute by Raymond Dragon,” I squeal. “Party only.”
“Matthew Barney.”
“Yes.”
“Candace Bushnell.”
“Yes.”
“Scott Bakula.”
“Yes.”
“Rebecca Brochman.”
“Who’s that?”
“The Kahlúa heiress.”
“Fine.”
“Tyra Banks.”
“It’s all I can do to just hold myself until I calm down.”
“Yasmine Bleeth.”
“I am shuddering with pleasure.”
Glamorama Page 9