by Young
Looking back, I had subconsciously charted my path towards a career in fashion. In 1968, nothing and certainly no one could deter me from being an aspiring fashion designer. As it was then and is now, my steadfastness on Fashion had brought me many achievements and continues to propel me daily.
That evening at Rules was a turning point for my Valet and me. Andy’s proposal had stirred a capriciousness I never knew I possessed. Even though my heart laid heavy with incertitude, I did not exhibit ruefulness at the dinner table. Where resolution once stood its ground, I was now paralyzed with dubiety and volatility.
Andy was my first love, and I loved him exceedingly and he with me. Yet our amorousness challenged the very foundation of our survival. Thanks to my scrupulous English guardian, we enjoyed a subliminal Christmas Eve dinner which otherwise would have been an ordeal. Not only did Mr. Pinkerton alleviate my BB and my pensive firmaments, but he also brought us closer.
That night Andy and my lovemaking took on a gradational magnetism that merged us into moksha.
Last Week of December 2014
My Email to Andy
Dear Andy,
I am sorry to hear about your ailment. I pray for your full recovery. Are you back in the saddle, rowing with your team?
I hope you had a delightful Christmas. Did you spend it with your siblings? Please send my regards to Aria and Ari.
Of course, when the opportunity presents itself, I would love to see you again and to catch up in person. I am open to suggestions even though I am unsure when our meeting will happen. LOL!
Love,
Young
Nip and Tuck (Chapter Fifty-Five)
“You know who cries the hardest in the Miss World pageant? The winner. Because she can’t win again, and winners always want to.”
Count Mario Luciano Conti
Second Week of October 1968
Copacabana Theatre, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
The Miss Brazil World pageant was already in flutter mode when our entourage entered the state-of-the-art performance hall. Glitzy banderoles and festive decorations hung from floor to ceiling as if Christmas had arrived early in Rio. Roundtables filled with pageant contestants’ families, friends, supporters and spectators talked animatedly in their native tongues over blaring background music.
When the larger-than-life master of ceremonies appeared before the enlivened crowd, a group of local band members was already onstage to begin one of Rio’s lavish annual celebrations; the crowning of the next Miss Mundo Brasil.
Wolf whistles and catcalls welcomed the opulently attired emcee, Roberto Pisani Marinho. The same Señor whom we’d met at the Copacabana Palace bar the evening before. This seasoned personality knew how to work his audience. While his sincerity had the assemblage in arrant attention, his one-liners also brought them to hilarity.
When the first round of contestants paraded on the extended runway next to our table; Ms. Ina Vargas, the ultimate beauty pageant insider, commented proudly, “Isn’t Ula beautiful? I trained her since she was 14 years old.”
The Count acknowledged, “You did a fabulous job, Ina. You sure know how to coach the participants to be the crème de la crème from thousands of hopefuls.”
“Thank you, Count. Your compliment means a lot to me. These girls were like babies when they came to me. But when I’m done grooming them, they are college graduates with diplomas in hand to conquer the pageant world,” the glamorous lady responded gleefully.
She added, “But winning the diamond-and-pearl crown comes with a price.”
Eberhardt queried, “And what price might that be?”
The Brazilian bombshell, Juliana Santos; pageant winner from a couple of years prior, pronounced, “I wouldn’t have won if I didn’t have surgical procedures done on my face and body. For these (she ran her hands over her curvaceous body), I am grateful to my mentor who advised me to have breast, cheeks and chin implants before the pageant.”
The women gave each other knowing grins.
The beauty queen resumed, “I work hard to have the perfect body. It’s like studying for a math exam to get good grades.”
Andy questioned, “But is it perfect if it’s been surgically enhanced? Are pageant contestants allow to have cosmetic augmentations to compete?”
The two females giggled as if they shared a secret understanding.
“My darling,” Ina replied jovially, “Like steroids in sports; surgical enhancements are the indecorous secret of the pageant world. It is not banned or frowned upon in our circle.
“It is common for contestants to remove a rib or two to make their waist smaller, to have breast augmentation, nose reshaping or eyebrows lifted. Not to mention dental amelioration. These are de rigueur procedures.”
The swimwear parade began when Ms. Vargas finished her explanation. Rounds of applause, wolf whistles, and catcalls; especially from the men, emboldened the contestants down the catwalk.
As the participants strutted by, Juliana asserted with pride, “When a fashion model sashays down the runway, it’s about the clothes she is wearing. But in a beauty pageant, the woman is the center of attention. The clothes are secondary.
“I am 23 years old, and I already had eighteen surgical procedures. I had breast implants, cheekbones bioplastic sculpting, silicone remolding in my chin, a sharpened jawline, pinned back ears and liposuction on my waist and back. These improvements are totally subtle. They don’t leave marks or scars on the way I looked before.”
My teacher inquired, “If the augmentations are so indistinct, why do you bother putting yourself through the agony? Surgeries can go askew under a surgeon’s hands.”
“Cosmetic enhancements can assist us to reach our goals. I want to be a spokeswoman for women who don’t feel pretty or perfect. If she tries, she too can fulfill a dream she wants to realize,” Ms. Santos attested.
“Sometimes, I feel like I am studying to become a doctor. I work on my figure to get it to where I desire it to be. My current profession is to compete in other international beauty pageants. My doctorate is in body measurements,” the ex-pageant winner mused out loud.
My Valet queried, “How can you be proud of your body if it’s not really you?”
Juliana riposte, “I work very hard to be in shape. I follow a strict diet, work out, and cosmetic augmentation regimen so I can be proud of myself. Besides, there are no rules against the use of cosmetic enhancements in beauty competitions. The only rule is to be born a woman.”
The evening wear parade and the final round of the 1968 Miss Mundo Brasil were in full swing. Sparkling gowns with plunging necklines in vibrant shades peregrinated down the catwalk to the bossa nova song – Garota de Ipanema (The Girl from Ipanema). Sung by none other than the international Brazilian superstar singer, songwriter, and guitarist, João Gilberto.
I was glued to the contenders’ splendiferous dresses as they floated by. Yet, my ears were also eavesdropping on our table’s conversation.
Like me, Mario, the accomplished fashion photographer oohed and aahed as each contestant undulated to the rhythmic sensuality of The Girl from Ipanema; as if the song was written and sung especially for them.
The Count commented, “I know some people don’t respect beauty contests, but this event is truly spectacular. Besides being beautiful, these girls are also intelligent. It takes quick-wittedness to answer the questions Roberto posted to them.”
The pageant groomer declared blithesomely, “Girls under my wings are trained on posture, fashion, makeup, public presentation, speech eloquence, and attitude. I don’t endorse anorexia, but I do run a brutal selection process. Once, I turned away a high fashion model because she refused to gain weight. Beauty queens are not skinny rabbits.
“My proteges signed official contracts that neither my staff nor I encourage them to undergo cosmetic augmentations and they must inform my agency if they had had work done. My girls’ health and well-being is my concern, and we, pageant organizers don’t want to be sued for suppor
ting nip tucks. Before-and-after photographs are bound to surface if a contestant hits it big. If a participant’s cosmetic surgery goes awry, there will be a significant scandal and my agency, and I will suffer the consequences. That said, I am sure there are at least ten women on stage tonight who had augmentations on their physiques.”
I blurted, “But Juliana mentioned that she would not have won the crown if you had not encouraged her to have cosmetic surgery.”
“Be careful what you say, boy. Ina did not pursue me to go for the operations. I went willingly. It was my then trainer and mentor who counseled me that some enhancements would improve my chance to win.” Ms. Santos corrected my proclamation.
She continued pragmatically, “Millions of people from around the world watch this annual contest. The winner will achieve overnight stardom. She will grace international and national magazine covers and be invited to co-host a variety of media programs. She will also be the spokesperson for dozens of commercial products. The financial rewards are immense. That is the reason contestants go through great lengths to snatch the title.”
Andy intimated, “Aren’t beauty pageants a showcase for male fantasies of what an ideal woman should look like?”
“I beg to differ,” Ms. Vargas countered. “I took Juliana into my fold because she is self-assured and her confidence commands attention in front of the camera.”
She looked to the photographer for his approval before she recapitulated, “For the most part, Juliana’s physique is natural and not sculpted. She is five feet nine inches tall with a dancer’s body. She towers over most of the men around her; except for you guys at this table. She commands attention when she walks into a room.”
Ms. Vargas had the final word before Señor Marinho crowned the 1968 Miss Brazil World winner - Señorita Martha Maria Vasconcellos, who would become the 1968 Miss Universe.
“I took a rough gem and created Juliana, the ultimate beauty queen. I brought her to life, and along the way, I make some minor changes to the unpolished diamond. By the time I am finished, I had created a brilliant,” Ina deliberated with satisfaction.
The First Week of January 2015
My Response to David’s Christmas Letter
Hi David,
I am glad you bonded with Jacob, your grandson, via a shared interest in fantastical beasts. From your description of the lad, he sounds like an intelligent young man. Like my ex-Little-Brother (LB), Helius. From my experience, people who encounter preternatural creatures are gifted communicators between our world and other parallel realms. These individuals possess high intelligence quotient and are exceedingly sensitive to their surroundings. I am speaking for myself. LOL!
I hope your relationship with Jacob continues to strengthen and you can be a mentor to him in everything. He sounds like a sweet adolescent. I look forward to hearing more of his mythical encounters. Keep me posted.
Best wishes,
Young
I Don’t Know How To Love Him (Chapter Fifty-Six)
“There are three constants in life... change, choice, and principles.”
Stephen Covey
New Year’s Eve 1968
Catacombs - Earl’s Court, London, England
After ringing in the new year with Uncle James at the River Restaurant in the luxurious Savoy Hotel; Andy and I, like most young bucks in the late 1960s, made our way to the steamier side of town. We went clubbing in our formal attire. Our garb was out of context to the customary denim and jeans, the BLUF (Breeches and Leather Uniform Fanclub) dress codes or the unisex getups that gay men embraced so fervently.
A crowd had already gathered outside the Catacombs when we arrived. Back in the late sixties and seventies, this hedonistic establishment located in Earl’s Court had a long tradition of sybaritism and was a haven for beer-drinking backpackers from Down-Under. This neighborhood was also the heart of London’s gay nightlife.
It was at this dingy underground dance club that gay Londoners new to disco were introduced to Donna Summer’s famous hit – Love to Love You Baby. It became their national anthem. This discotheque was also the hangout for the well-known English comedy actor, Kenneth Williams. He had been spotted regularly to flounce down its rickety stairs with an entourage of “sisterly” comrades.
Like every fluid metropolis, London continues to attract the LGBTQIA plebeians of its day; even when the once predominantly ‘gay districts’ had moved to other areas. Earl’s Court was and still is a place of notoriety for its transient population. Back in its heyday, this was the stomping ground for Australians and New Zealanders on temporary visas. The sizeable Victorian mansion blocks in the vicinity offered cheap rentals to many trampers and acquired the nickname – Kangaroo City.
It was at the Catacombs that Andy, and I met Michael, a good-looking New Zealander who had rented one of these outposts. As we stood in line to enter the overcrowded nightspot, the New Zealander struck up a conversation with us.
“Are you guys local?” the mustachioed man queried.
“We are from the United Kingdom and are visiting my charge’s guardian in London,” my chaperone responded pretentiously.
The leatherman stared at us before he remarked, “You guys are not dressed for the Catacombs.”
My Valet was about to comment when the turquoise-pink-haired doorman waved us in. He apparently liked what he saw. We jumped the queue to Michael’s chagrin who had already waited an hour to enter.
The quirky doorman who was attracted to Andy, commented as we passed through the threshold, “Handsome, you look cute in a tux. I’ll talk to you as soon as I get a chance. Meanwhile, have fun, boys!”
Whiffs of amyl nitrite permeated throughout the space when we entered the dimly lit basement. A sea of bobbing heads and semi-naked bodies greeted us as if we had stumbled into Satan’s abyss. Candlelit cubicles lined the dance floor periphery. These areas were for exhausted revelers to recharge before they took to the floor again.
We headed to the bar since the booths were fully occupied. I was overcome by an urge to order a Pimm’s No. 1 (a gin-based fruity liqueur). Little did I realize that this cocktail would have me in nausea.
Since Andy’s university acceptance announcement, my heart had laid heavy on my future’s variability. His imminent departure and my incertitude to remain in London had me in a tailspin. I was torn between my career resoluteness or to follow the man I love, and alcohol offered me a temporary release from these imperceptible issues.
Although Andy cautioned against my alcoholic requisition, when his back was turned, the barman took my order. My lover and Michael chatted animatedly when I took a sip of the Pimm’s. After the third sip, my head spun like the vinyl disc at the DJ booth. The enticing music and the unprincipled carnality drew me to the dance floor. Before I knew it, I had discarded my clothes amidst a group of semi-naked men. Under the revolving disco lights and the men’s enticing physiques sent me into a daze. A pair of hands pulled me away from the obstreperous assemblage when I was about to blackout. I was rushed out of the club to regain my composure. Refreshing air filled my intoxicated lungs. Michael threw his leather jacket over me while Andy wrapped me in his arms.
The New Zealander suggested, “Both of you should come to my flat to chill until this chap is strong enough to make it home.”
We followed the man.
At Michael’s Bedsitter
Michael was a neat freak. Although his accommodation was tiny, the compartmentalized cupboards, shelves, and drawers were methodically organized to house his leather wear and regular work clothes. I would never have guessed this New Zealander to be a Leather-Queen if I had met him at the florist or supermarket where he works.
The soothing music and the strategically placed floral arrangements added an artsy feel to his bedsitter. As we sat on the bed, his nimble fingers reached to fondle my guardian’s groin while his other hand caressed my buttocks. Our lips soon met in a three-way lock. His captivating eyes observed our tongue dance like a captive hawk as we relish
ed our intimacy with urgency. Prompted by our captive kisses, our manhood sprang to attention. Not only did Michael’s masculine leather garb enlivened my concupiscence, but it also conjured my imagination to fantasize to what lay beneath that commanding uniform. Our French kisses sent me into an aphrodisiacal abyss I found difficult to resist.
Although BDSM (bondage, dominance, and sadomasochism) was not new to me, Michael’s passivity to Andy’s advances ensnared my fascination to chronicle our liaison on camera. I whipped out my portable and snapped away at our steamy tryst as they sucked my hardness to throbbing velocity.
My camera framed the couple’s lubriciousness as if I was witnessing my lover and my intimacy. Out of the blues, lamentations of despondency gushed to the forefront. Emotional surges of our impending separation flooded my quivering physique. I wept as the rousing eroticism played out before me.
When my lover noticed my snafu, he whispered, “Are you okay?”
“I’m overjoyed to witness your pruriencies,” I lied.
The duo resumed their passionate amorosity. Droplets of disquietude trickled down my eyes as I continued to photograph the dominant and the submissive’s electrifying coitus.
The leatherman in harness and jock wasted no time to envelop my Valet’s palpitations into his anal orifice while his oral fissure engulfed my stiffness with enthusiasm. He pleaded for more when I held his cranium firmly on my groin. The New Zealander groaned in ecstasy as we plowed into him without clemency. No longer able to maintain his fiery avidity, his deliverance sprayed onto the bed. Andy’s massiveness exploded into the submissive’s twitching derriere before his heaving torso slumped against the New Zealander’s sudoriparous hind. Precipitated by their spritely intensities, I blasted my cherished pride into the leatherman’s oral void which he devoured with glee.