Electroboy (13 page)

Mark and I start spending a lot of time together socially, although we only talk about business. For dinner we go to Trattoria dell’Arte, one of his favorite restaurants. He delights me with clever sketches on a small pad as we wait for our meal to be served. He draws a faceless man carrying a dollar sign on his back. Another faceless image with a television as a head. Sometimes they’re very good, even usable. I’ll give them to his idea person, Lis Fields, when I go to work in the morning, and she’ll throw them into a pile, to be turned into actual drawings and later, if approved, paintings. The food comes to the table, and Mark stops everything he’s doing; he is very serious about eating. I talk about the possibility of getting him on
Letterman
, and he likes that—he loves to see himself on television or read about himself in the gossip columns. I tell him about an upcoming exhibition in Tokyo that he will have to attend that will be huge—maybe more than a hundred pieces of his work. I explain that it’s a new client of mine, Art Collection House. “Wow!” he says, never getting too excited about anything. But he tells me that he’s never seen sales look so good. It never feels like a real business—it just feels like we’re playing around. Almost like the paintings aren’t real either. It’s like we’re printing our own money. And we’re just making it all up as
we go along. One day I’m a publicist, the next day I’m an art dealer. The energy is so powerful that I feel like I could show up at a hospital operating room and perform arthroscopic surgery successfully and nobody would even notice that I had absolutely no training at all. Mark encourages me to continue my sales efforts and I’m happy because I’m still working with my other clients. His brother Indrek, who pitches in with a little bit of sales work and some photography, is not pleased with our financial arrangement and in general is not happy at all with my presence at Kostabi World. He keeps a close eye on me and literally looks over my shoulder, walking into my office to see what I’m doing, or following me around the studio.

The grand opening of Kostabi World takes place in November, with a huge press party for about a thousand invited guests. The morning of the opening is a busy one for me—hanging paintings, setting up the physical space, the lighting and the music. Allison lures me to the East Side to help her to find something at agnès b. to wear that night. As much as I gripe that I don’t have time, I relish the thought of adding one more thing to my to-do list. The tension of the last-minute deadline, finding the perfect thing at the last possible minute, thrills me. It’s a silly sort of heroism. She never seems to have the confidence to shop on her own, and I like going with her to manage the situation. After a few hours we choose the perfect outfit—a low-cut black sweater and skirt that get her a lot of attention that night. Everybody comments on her body, which never fails to delight me.

Twenty paintings hang in the newly renovated gallery, an enormous space about the size of a football field. I have orchestrated the entire event, from invitations to cocktail napkins. I instruct the caterer to set up tables of live mermaids—scantily clad women decoratively surrounded by hors d’oeuvres. This makes a huge splash. Because Mark is opposed to alcohol (there is always a rumor circulating about an incident in high school where a
bunch of drunk high school guys roughed him up), juice is served in champagne glasses. For dessert, chocolate chip cookies and milk (in champagne glasses, of course). Mark wears a bright red suit and really stands out among the crush of people. It’s mostly a trendy downtown crowd, models and artists mixed in with “new” collectors—yuppies, stockbrokers, investment bankers, and lawyers—rushing to invest their recent bonus checks in the most talked-about art. This is art as commodity, and people are looking to make money quickly. But some serious collectors are lurking about, too, just in case they might miss out on an opportunity. The art scene had already gone through a wave of artists like Haring, Schnabel, Salle, Fischl, and Basquiat and everyone had seen their prices skyrocket, and none of these “new” collectors wanted to miss out on a golden opportunity. I’m busy squeezing through the crowd to find Mark so I can introduce him to editors and writers who want to meet him. For the first time there is a buzz about Kostabi and his work that puts him into the limelight of the art scene for a brief moment. At 2:00
A.M.
, when the last guest leaves, we have offers on four paintings, which we didn’t even expect. Mark seems thrilled as we recap the night. “Did any celebrities come?” he asks me. “I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” I tell him.

I’m bouncing back and forth from the art world to my other clients. The day after Thanksgiving—the biggest shopping day of the year—is my official William & Clarissa launch at F.A.O. Schwarz. For several weeks friends have been helping me assemble the product: folding boxes, inserting liners and the bottles, and sealing them. My entire apartment smells like citrus. There is no room at the store to do this, and the product can’t be shipped fully packaged across the country without being damaged. I can’t believe I am promoting a fragrance for children—what am I doing? Finally, we ship everything to the display booth at the store. I am supervising a manager and thirty employees part-time on-site, and
am responsible for the entire production and success of the operation. The first day is a nightmare. Tens of thousands of people come through the store, thousands of units sell, and the display needs to be restocked constantly. I’ve unwittingly gotten myself into a full-time retail job. But it does pay well: $3,500 a month plus bonuses. What won’t I do for money? I’m standing around crying children and spraying them with perfume. I can’t decide which is more absurd, Kostabi paintings or children’s fragrances.

I leave the world of children’s lotions, potions, and powders for a few days to chaperone Mark to an opening at the Hanson Gallery in Beverly Hills. I have never been so struck with how little real enthusiasm there is for Mark and his work among respected artists and art dealers. Scott Hanson is a slick dealer who makes “exclusive” deals with Kostabi World and sells Kostabi paintings in addition to limited-edition lithographs. These deals prevent other U.S. galleries from selling editions of Kostabi lithographs. Occasionally a couple of lesser-known stars from television will appear at an opening and be photographed with Mark, who has absolutely no idea at all who they are because he doesn’t watch TV. People dress for these openings as if they’re going to the Oscars. Some approach him and, almost as if they have a prepared speech, just deliver a curt compliment. Mark seems extremely uncomfortable tonight and walks around the gallery with his hands behind his back. At this show it’s clear how much of a manufactured celebrity he is—he can dress for the part in an outlandish costume, he can be photographed in the role, but he doesn’t know how to interact with clients. He’s like an unsigned painting. These shows drag on for hours, until Scott takes a group of us for an uneventful celebration dinner at Spago, where he toasts to the success of Mark’s newest show, even though there’s really nothing that anyone hasn’t seen before. Mark thanks him awkwardly, and there’s very little dinner conversation. Soon Mark is yawning and has his elbows on the table, tired from jet lag, so the party breaks up
unusually early. The next day I take the earliest flight to San Francisco, where I stop by the Wolf Schulz Gallery and buy a painting by Remi Blanchard.

After dinner at Stars, I come back to the Stanford Court Hotel feeling very drunk and horny. I take a cab to the Tenderloin, a seedy part of town, but I don’t find much open except some bars. I love walking through this area because I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. Small gangs of kids and drunks hang out on street corners. I can’t find a cab (having forgotten that San Francisco doesn’t really have cabs roaming the streets like in New York), and it seems to take forever to walk back to the hotel. I cruise the empty lobby waiting for some kind of action. Anything. It’s unusually quiet except for two people behind the front desk whispering. They’re working. They can’t leave their post to come upstairs and fuck around with me. And I’m not going to ask them for suggestions for crazy things to do at 2:00
A.M.
in San Francisco. I think about calling a cab and taking a ride across the Golden Gate Bridge, but I don’t know what’s to see on the other side. And anyhow, the point is, I’m horny. I want some kind of sex. Finally, I give up on the desk clerks, go upstairs to my room, and read an ad in a local newspaper for a Kurt and Karin. A couple into three-ways. It appeals to me. Young, German, male and female. Attractive, twenty-three and twenty-five years old. I call and a guy with a slight accent answers. He describes himself—tall, muscular, good definition, six-feet-one, 180 pounds, smooth body, blond hair, blue eyes, well-hung—and his girlfriend—sexy, firm, five-feet-seven, 115 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, 36D tits, 26-inch waist, great ass, tight pussy. I ask what they get into. He says just about anything except he doesn’t get fucked and she doesn’t get fucked in the ass. Straightforward. How much? $300 an hour, $150 for each additional hour. Cash. They can be over in about forty-five minutes. He has to call me back at the hotel to confirm. Here’s the part where I have to give him my real name. No big deal. The
phone rings and it’s confirmed. Silly technicality. I start folding my clothes and putting them away and cleaning up the room a little bit. I drink an Amstel Light, put some coke out on a glass tabletop, and do a couple of lines with a crisp rolled-up bill. I bought this stuff from a friend in Los Angeles who promised it was pure. It’s pretty good. I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with the little mouthwash in the bathroom. I’m checking the clock and flipping through the channels in a trance. There’s a loud knock at the door, and I panic for a second. It’s the Germans. I run to the door, look through the peephole, and see the two blonds. I open the door and invite them in. I realize I don’t remember her name. Kurt and something. Karin. They’re very impressive—they look like they could both be on the German Olympic ski team. Kurt and I shake hands. I ask them if they’d like a drink or a line of coke, and they step right up to the table and do a line. Karin asks for a Diet Coke. The television is still on, some bad movie with Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn. She’s whining. We’re all sitting on the couches feeling a little bit uncomfortable and talking about San Francisco; I make some stupid comment about earthquakes. They’re just visiting the States for a year, living here for a few months and then going to L.A. I give Kurt three $100 bills, and he puts them into the pocket of his jeans and thanks me. I’ve been in this situation too many times before. Two months ago in Miami. Karin asks me if I’m here on business. I tell her I’m attending a medical conference; I’m a doctor tonight. My mother would be proud. Karin tells me it’s a very nice room. So let’s get started.

Kurt takes off his T-shirt and jeans, and Karin does the same. I pull off my T-shirt, and it gets stuck on my head for a few seconds, an odd moment. I step out of my jeans. We’re all sitting in our underwear, just kind of looking at one another and snorting lines of coke. Kurt pours himself a vodka. Karin takes off her bra and out come these beautiful breasts. I think they’re real. Kurt says something in German. It kind of sounds like va-va-va-voom. He scoops up a small amount of coke from the pile and puts it on her left nipple and licks it off and asks me if I want to do the same. I drop some on her other nipple and snort as much as I can, then
lick off the rest. Finally he takes off his bikini briefs and she takes off her panties, the two of them get into the king-sized bed together, and they start kissing. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I guess I’ve paid for orchestra seats. I’m fascinated by how powerful Kurt’s back and butt and legs look but also by how much control Karin has of him in bed. He starts fucking her. She’s guiding him, taking his cock inch by inch and encouraging him the entire time. All in German, of course. Now I guess it’s an opera. Her legs are wrapped around his waist and he is thrusting into her and talking to her in a sweet voice. He keeps asking me to come closer to watch his cock slide into her pussy. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Kurt comes and fades into the pillow. By this time, my briefs are off, and I start playing with Karin, gently teasing her breasts and feeling like we’ve done this a hundred times before. She gets between my legs and starts sucking on my cock and I feel pretty high from the coke and I’m hoping that I can stay hard enough from the coke to fuck her. I’m fucking her and she feels so familiar to me that it’s eerie. I’m thinking about fucking Allison and it feels good, but not as good as being with Allison. And her hair doesn’t smell like Allison’s hair, it smells like some kind of gel; Allison’s smells like the most wonderful combination of oils and herbs. And Kurt’s talking to us and coaching me to fuck her harder and his accent is getting stronger and he’s sounding like an SS officer and then I think about Munich and having to ship paintings there and then I finally come. I have to go home to New York. Shit. $300 for a forty-five-minute fuck. Expense it.

Allison and I are being pushed further and further apart because of my intense involvement in my career. My mind is disjointed; my thoughts whirl; I have to be in three different places at once and feel like I can’t turn down projects or invitations. When I’m in Los Angeles on business I can only stay a couple of days until I have to turn around and come back to New York to take care of a client or a press event because I’m only a one-man show. Things
are moving unusually fast, even for me. Dr. Dworkin suggests that I make more time for Allison.

I become completely obsessed with improving our relationship because I am terrified of being abandoned. I do whatever I can to keep things going—taking her out to romantic dinners and buying little gifts, Limoges boxes and perfume—but these are gestures only. There are days when our staying together seems hopeless, when we are nothing more than roommates sharing an apartment and having casual sex. She does her nails and I watch TV.