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 onewants: 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
un
heterosexual,” 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
“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 onewants: 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
un
heterosexual,” 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
Similar Books
