Superficial

by Andy Cohen

  I did a radio interview at Sirius XM and met with Scott Greenstein, who offered me my own channel. Radio Andy? I told him I was really intrigued. I could program my own radio channel and be on it and be in charge of everything. Jax and Lisa Edelstein were on WWHL. I went into Jax’s dressing room before the show and he introduced me to his publicist and I asked him why he was wasting his money on a publicist. So that was kind of rude to say in front of the poor PR guy, but Jax is a bartender! It just seems weird not to use the Bravo person. Someone called into the after show and yelled at me for outing Kevin Spacey—which I told her I did not do, and Lisa Edelstein backed me up. After the show, which was on an hour early tonight, I stayed and had a drink in my office with the dog and an overwhelming sense of loneliness. The book stuff is winding down. And now what? Went home and just felt sad. Nobody to call. Nobody to talk to. Nothing to show for anything. What good is this new apartment going to be if it’s me and the dog alone? I watched The Lego Movie (great!) until very late and fell asleep.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2014

  Woke up with a nasty crick in my neck. And went to bed with staples in my head! (More about that later.) John came over to shower and write because the email servers are down at Embassy Row because of the Sony hack. Took Wacha to get dry cleaned and he tried to direct me the opposite way down West Eleventh Street. That dog knows where he doesn’t want to go. Amy Sedaris and Deepak Chopra were on the pretaped show and man, was the energy weird. He is a weird dude. I can’t decide if he’s a total farce or just at peace or what. Maybe a peaceful farce? Why not? Amy thought she was horrible (she wasn’t) and that he was way weird (he was). The live show was Kyle and Gabrielle Union. We had male models revealing what was under their skirts and they all got really drunk and stuck around after. One of them was going out of his way to be provocative and flirty, which always seems like a waste of time for a straight guy. His ball somehow came out of his underwear at one point, which Kyle—and I think her daughter (not Portia)—saw too. Kyle said it’s the first ball she’s seen in years that’s not Mauricio’s. Anyway, the guy who showed us his ball did the thing of “Let’s take a selfie with your phone” and then “Oh, I love that; text it to me” so now he has my number, which I had no problem with. I started getting texts on my way home and then ultimately, as I was about to get into my bed (on top of which Wacha lay in a pretzel formation), a dick pic arrived. As I looked at it, the mirror that’s leaned happily against the wall for the past ten years decided either to make a run for it or to send me a message about not chasing straight models, and tipped and fell onto my head with a SMACK! I fell on the bed and put my hand on my head—blood. Wacha was so flipped out he ran onto the couch and wouldn’t look at me as I ran around the living room putting paper towels on my head and yelling at him to help me. He ran into his crate.

  I got my shit together and walked over to the new ER at Thirteenth and Seventh—thank you, Lenox Health, for coming in after St. Vincent’s closed. They gave me a shot, a CAT scan, and then three staples in my head! I was shaky and felt very alone. Texted with John Hill, who was going to come be with me if I needed it. I told Kyle where I was and she said, “See, you should’ve come to Tao with us!” Funny! She was kidding and very sympathetic and offered to come help. She then told me about a friend of hers who woke up blind the other day, so that made me feel better about my staples. Got home around 3:00 a.m. and Wacha refused to come out of his crate. He was so scared. He fucking barked at me when I tried to get him out, which pissed me off and made me so sad. I was lying in my bed screaming across the apartment, “Are you KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? Are you REALLY not going to come sleep with me tonight? I need you!!!!!” And then I tried again, really chipper like nothing happened. “C’mere, buddy! Waaaaa-cha!”—patting the bed like nothing happened. I lay awake for at least an hour. Mad at the dog. Worried about my staples. Looking at the dick pic. Wondering if Wacha would ever sleep in my bed again. Left the door of my room open in hopes he would come in in the middle of the night.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 3, 2014

  Wacha trotted into my bedroom at eight forty-five this morning, so I was grateful for that. Called Wendy’s husband, Kevin, again because he has not called me back and I need to resolve his non-issue issue of NeNe Leakes “shading” Wendy during a game of Silk du Soleil. It was the first day in about six weeks that I had nothing to do, so I stayed in all day being mellow and taking care of my staples—which required nothing, but I was so conscious of them all day. Got word at 5:00 p.m. that the book is holding at number 5 on the NYT bestsellers list. Woo-hoo!

  Signing with Wacha at Barnes and Noble at the Fashion Institute of Technology. It was such a great crowd—really ethnically diverse and the youngest so far anywhere. Liza came and looked after Wacha, who got about twenty dog toys as gifts, so he was all set. All I could think of was that I have three staples in my head. “I can feel the staples,” I thought. It started to hurt to smile. Went to the show and was a drama queen about the staples. Rachael Ray and Jenna Bush were on and they were gabby and fun. Jenna said she wants to set me up with someone and asked what my age limit is. I guess the guy is in his fifties, and I can just imagine some fancy Republican.

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2014—NYC—BOSTON

  Today I got two messages that Wendy Williams’s husband doesn’t want to talk to me and told me to stop calling him. Am I living in some kind of parallel universe where calling to make up with someone over something idiotic that I didn’t do is the wrong thing to do? I guess that’s the end of that. Lifetime wanted to buy the show, too. And I’m a Wendy fan! Maybe it’s time for new management. I flew to Boston and immediately wished I’d taken the train. I’m gonna change my flight to DC on Sunday to a train trip so I can do work and enjoy it.

  If you’re famous, you always want the hotel clerks and the airline people to know who you are because they control your destiny in very important ways, so I wasn’t excited when the gay guy behind the desk of the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel asked me for my ID three times and how to spell my name. Maybe he was just being a cunt, which would explain why he put me in a back closet on the executive concierge floor while assuring me that I was eligible for free, can’t-miss apps from 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. daily. I walked into the room, with its view of a wall and its smell of I don’t know what, and wondered why I wasn’t staying at the Four Seasons. I started unpacking, still considering whether I should try to get another room or move or what when I decided to go to the app area to get a complimentary cup of tea. A woman behind the desk there asked me how my room was and I said it was maybe the worst one in the hotel, but seemed okay. She knew my entire itinerary in Boston, had my book, and immediately put me in a massive suite!

  At the Q and A and signing at the JCC, a woman asked me what my idea of true beauty was, which I thought was such an amazing question. I talked about my disdain for fillers and said that inner beauty was the most beautiful thing of all. People wrote paragraphs on their Post-its that they then wanted me to put in their books with my tired-ass hands (like: “To my best friend in the world and favorite Real Housewife of…,” “Close your legs to married men, trashbox,” “Go to sleep, wig,” etc.). I couldn’t do it. What happened next seemed innocuous in the moment, but stayed with me: A man who’d asked a question about Howard Stern earlier got his book signed and said his lady loved my show. I looked up into his deep dark eyes and saw two permanently indented dimples on a weathered, handsome face and we had a fleeting connection. I told him his wife has great taste in men and he said that she’s not his wife. He left, but there was something between us that was hanging in the air. If she wasn’t his wife, did I have a chance? A minute later the man returned with a business card and said he forgot to give me his cell number and that he and his lady wanted to share a joint with me. Oh, and he said his name was Jake and when we shook hands, his was like a baseball mitt. After days of people handing me their cards, résumés, and notes, I was used to being handed stuff, but I made sure to put his ca
rd in my right pocket because there was something about him. In the car on my way to meet Erik Borg and his friends I took the card out and it was for a motorcycle repair shop in New Hampshire. Could there be anything hotter than a motorcycle-repair dude from New Hampshire? I don’t like giving my number out but remembered I had a second phone, my Microsoft Batphone, and sent him a text asking where the party is. (I’m subtle.) He didn’t believe it was me; then said he was at a Chinese restaurant with his girl, Angela, and I should meet them. I said, even better, when you drop her off meet me for a drink somewhere. He said they don’t do anything apart from each other, which I found to be a very interesting choice of words. I complimented his tan (if there’s one thing I love more than a motorcycle-repair guy, it’s a tan motorcycle-repair guy) and he said they’d just been to Sandals and sent me a pic of them. The lady friend—Angela—was quite attractive, tall and blond. But wait: is Sandals a swingers-type place? I always thought it was, but I could be totally wrong. And what about the wording of his text? “We don’t do anything apart from each other”—what does anything mean? Suddenly my mind was swimming with memories of every Penthouse Forum I read at summer camp. Met Erik Borg and went to a couple bars with him and his friends but in the back of my mind I was thinking of the straight couple I’d been talking about meeting for years who would take my virginity from me so I don’t die without having loved a woman. When I got home, at around two, I texted Jake and told him to be honest and tell me exactly what he really wanted from me. Fell asleep with a Christmas Eve vibe.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2014—BOSTON

  Woke up a forty-six-year-old virgin and checked my phone wondering if today was going to be the day I lost my gold-star status. There were several long texts from Jake with a jaw-dropping answer to my question: They have been dating for years and they have fooled around with a few women but never a man, and Angela has said for years that the only two guys she would ever want to be with outside of Jake are Paul Walker (who is dead) and me (who is gay), so neither will ever happen. He said that now that they’re suddenly communicating with the one free pass on her list, they talked all night and started to take the idea seriously. As for Jake, he has never been with a man but is open to it with limits. I said I have never been with a woman but am open to it with a couple but need assurance he would participate. He said he would, but there was stuff that is off limits. He sent me an incredible picture of him and his lady that left very little to the imagination and we decided to meet up after my signing tonight and have a few drinks and see what happens. A hotel suite, a book tour, a free pass, a swinging New England couple—the Penthouse Forum letter is basically written and I began an entire-day freak-out about the possibility of finally losing my virginity. At forty-six. In a threesome with a tan motorcycle mechanic from New Hampshire and his “lady.” What I did next should surprise no one. I told everyone I knew: Amanda (“holy shit what did Grac say”), Grac (“holy shit what did Amanda say”), Liza (“be careful and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want”), Bruce (“look at his cock in that picture!”), Hickey (“sweetie are you KIDDING? DO IT.”), SJP (via email—she said “remember everything”), Mark (“dude!!!”), and Kelly (“Jake’s very handsome and Angela is beautiful and I am very happy for you”). I texted Jake at one o’clock asking if he was excited and he said he was so excited he had to smoke pot. My kinda guy. We kept saying we were going to vibe it out, ride the wave, nothing was for sure going to happen.

  I had a signing at the Palm, a lively Q and A and photos where I didn’t hug anyone to death, then off to Brookline Booksmith, where I ran through a massive line that stretched around the corner giving everybody high fives on my way into the store. They sold out 450 books. My arm hurt so badly by the end but it was strong enough to text Jake and tell him and Angela to “find a cozy spot in the lobby bar” (total Penthouse Forum playbook move) and I would join them. When I eventually nervously went down, Angela said she had bet him a thousand bucks I would be a no-show or a catfish. The headline was that beyond being very attractive, it turned out that these two are actually really cool, normal people. Angela was having a hard time separating being my “fan” from sitting there trying to have a normal conversation that might lead to some sexy time, which added a layer of awkwardness, whereas Jake was an open book, game for anything, and even occasionally engaged in some footsy under the table. We talked about everything. It became clear, though, that Angela wasn’t going to take my virginity, that for her this was about the experience and it wasn’t going to go that far. This was kind of a relief because when faced with this (albeit very pretty) woman, I was terrified. She went to the bathroom a couple times and I asked Jake about his feelings about being with a guy. I reassured him that I know he is not gay. Also we talked about his hair loss, and I said his hair doesn’t define him and that his face can carry off anything, which was a relief to him. He nervously asked me if I would ever write about this experience in a future book and I said of course not. (NOTE TO SELF: Call Jake.) We went up to the room and Jake rolled a joint and I will say this: I did things with a girl for the first time in thirty years, but I did not lose my virginity in Boston. When they left I gave Jake a big homemade cake from a fan at the bookstore. It turns out Jake loves cake!

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2014—BOSTON—DC

  Texted all my friends for the whole journey to DC to let them know I am still a gold star, but that my mind was officially blown by the experience. Then got in a long text thing with Jake analyzing what went on last night, and he was wondering if he is gay. I assured him he is not, he’s just open and freaky. We barely did anything.

  Checked into the W in DC and I guess the lady had never heard of Bravo or me—fine, but once again alarming in a hotel check-in situation—but then all the other staff members came and said hello, gave me business cards, and told me to please let them do whatever they can for me. I went upstairs and found that the lady had given me their version of the back closet I’d gotten in Boston. I didn’t even walk in the room; I just went back downstairs fully realizing that I have officially become that douchey hotel guest and said, “I’m kind of hoping there might be a different room,” and they immediately put me in a WOW Suite, where I took a bath and talked to Jake on the phone and told him again that he is not gay. Went to the Palm, where I got to hang with, and shush, Bruce’s sister, Andrea, during the Q and A portion of the event. Then back to the hotel to rest for one hour before my car didn’t show up for my Wolf Blitzer Q and A. Went to two Starbucks stores, both of which were closed, but got the chicks at the second one to open up for me because they recognized me. Posted an Instagram with them, which seemed to make them happy. I am exploiting all kinds of celebrity privilege. Q and A at the synagogue with Wolf was fantastic. It was more of an interview about me than about the book, per se. We thought of his tag line, which is, “I may be a wolf, but I can make a situation out of any room!” Something like that. Signed 490 books in record time.

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2014—DC—NYC

  The train ride to New York was so lovely and emo. I spent it texting and putting off every bit of work I meant to do with my three hours—watching an Atlanta cut, reading magazines, making a photo album for family. Instead I listened to Pink Floyd and my mind wandered. Bethenny called to tell me she shot the best scene she’s ever shot in her whole time on camera, with her former stepfather in Miami. As she was telling me the details I walked into my apartment and was greeted by the sweetest hug from Wacha, who just sat in front of me and burrowed his head into my chest. I had to get off with B so I could experience it fully. I can’t get over the fact that this warm, soft puppy is mine and is as utterly devoted to me as I am to him. I mean, we can’t actually talk to each other, but that’s semantics. Tonight was the Super Bowl: NeNe and Kim together live. Kim walked in and said, “Fuck, I look good!” After the show she showed me her new boobs and nipples, then wanted to show me pics of her tits right after surgery and I told her not to because it would ruin any chance o
f me sleeping with a girl. NeNe wanted to go out gay because she had the day off tomorrow and I said I couldn’t handle it, which is officially a first for me. I did wind up meeting them at Tao for some overpriced, greasy food. Do people actually like the food there?

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 2014

  Made a plan with Teresa for lunch. I told her I would meet her anywhere—her days before she goes to jail are numbered, three weeks and counting—but she said she’ll meet me in the city. So we’re going to Morandi on Thursday. We both seem to want to see each other before she goes away. Taped DVF and Hugh Bonneville. Went on a date with the guy Jenny McCarthy set me up with. He has an accent and uses a lot of hashtags on Instagram. He has an amazing backstory about what it took to get a green card. Not sure there will be a second date.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2014

  It’s pouring rain today. Wacha’s walker, Sherman, came in the apartment and I didn’t hear him but Wacha did. I opened my door and he left and I stayed in bed until ten forty-five. Lunch at Del Frisco’s and then, as some sort of book promo tie-in that I still don’t understand, I read “The Night Before Christmas” onstage to a group of kids during the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. I was not thrilled about being onstage with a bunch of actor-y kids, but it turned out they were very cute and turned my Scrooge-ness around. Michael C. Hall cancelled for our 2:00 p.m. pretape for tomorrow with Olivia Munn and so we are scrambling. Dan Rather can’t do it, nor can Alan Alda, Christine Baranski, or Padma. I think we’re gonna wind up with Willie Geist, who we should’ve just booked in the first place. Went to the new Italian place that opened where Cole’s Greenwich Village was. They got it totally right. I sat at the pizza bar and it was perfect. All night was spent trying to book another guest. I emailed Willie Geist and texted Padma—didn’t hear from either and texted Anderson, who said he has a shoot tomorrow afternoon. Went to bed without a second guest.