Fatshionista (4 page)

“I don’t need
luck, my dear Millicent. I’ve got skills, mad skills. I’m a ninja lesbian;
these models never see me coming,” she laughed as she sank into a classic ninja
pose. The only thing ruining it was the backpack and the overalls. She looked
more like a college student launching a hacky sack than a ninja.

“Send him a text
and let him know we’re eating dinner and that it’s on me. Just dinner, though,
I’m not buying any drinks. I learned that lesson the last time when he ran up
that $100 tab. What man orders a Brandy Alexander after having three apple
martinis?”

We piled into the
waiting car; the one luxury Marta afforded us on show days was a car service.
This was not out of the kindness of her heart; I had just convinced her that it
might not look good to the TV crews to see her team heading down to the subway
after every show. Of course no one even really knew who her team was or
followed us to see if we hailed a cab or rode the bus. But Marta didn’t know
that…

Your mama
heard that the Ram Patel show was a capital H-I-T. The only thing missing was a
dying Nicole Kidman (cough cough) and the smell of 19
^th
-century
France (not upset about that at all). The lush but sophisticated offerings
reminded your mama of Rochas circa 2005, all trains and high collars, but with
the colors of the Indian subcontinent we have come to love and expect from
Patel. The big surprise was the showstopper tangerine dream of a dress. Your
mama expects to see the backward necklace trend all over the red carpet at next
year’s Oscars. Until next time, bitches, keep it sharp, keep it real, and
always keep it in fashion.

--February
16th “It’s just fashion, bitches” blog--

I was in Elvis’s
jungle room. How did that happen? One minute I was snuggling down in my bed
still covered in paperwork, hoping that my skin wouldn’t break out from my lack
of makeup removal, and the next minute I was reclining on a zebra print couch,
anxiously waiting for…something. My boobs looked huge in this sweater set, and
I was obviously sporting some vintage undergarments, as my chest looked like
two rockets getting ready to take off. Hold on…yep, saddle shoes.

And to the
strains of “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You,” in walked Elvis. No wait, not
Elvis. It was blue suede shoes man. What was he doing in my dream? What was he
doing in my dream looking like the sexiest man I had ever seen? Gone was the
ridiculous outfit from earlier today, and in its place was a black silk shirt,
and fitted—oh-so-fitted—black jeans. And those eyes—just as
blue as they had been this morning.

He slid down next
to me on the zebra sofa, crowding me a little so I had to lean back. Wow, that
really made my rockets soar. How did anyone ever wear these things and not bust
out laughing? I looked up at him; he did not seem to share my amusement with
the rockets. Now don’t get me wrong, he was staring, but not in
amusement.  It was as if he thought at any minute now they were going to
launch…in his direction.

Waves of
testosterone were coming off of him. He was a mix of Elvis and Zorro (what was
wrong with me that my fantasy was based on 1960s film stars?). He smelled like
that perfect combination of man and sex. You know that smell that could wind
its way into your brain and forever define what a man should smell like?
Houston, we were go for launch.

He leaned in, and
for some reason I kept leaning back, but now I had hit the arm of the couch and
there was nowhere for me to go. His hands reached for me and I tensed with
anticipation, but alas, it was just to unhook my sweater clip and remove my
cardigan from around my shoulders. Even without the sweater, I was still clad
in a fitted sweater shell and fifty pounds of undergarments.

My fingers were
inching to pop open those buttons on the silk shirt. I dug my nails into the
palms of my hands to resist the urge. With only one tiny shirt to my mountain
of clothes, I was determined to wait for him to strip first.

“Millie, my dear
Millie. You look like a sweet cupcake all wrapped up in this sweet little pink
sweater.” He leaned in to nuzzle my neck and inhaled. “You even smell like
sugar. Do you taste as sweet as you smell?” He lightly licked right under my
ear.

On one hand, I was
trying to dissect the food metaphors; what did it say that even in my dreams
with a hot man I was thinking about food? On the other, yeah, I was all right
with any analogy that consisted of his mouth tasting my body.

“Millie, sweet
Millie. Tell me what you want.” He moved over to the hollow of my neck, the
crewneck of the shell limiting his ability to discover more skin.

“More”—it
was the only word running through my mind. More lips, more warm touches, more,
more, more.

“Please, please
tell me you have a degree in mechanical engineering and know how to get me out
of these undergarments.”

The feel of him
chuckling against my skin somehow resulted in my legs stretching out on either
side of him and him slipping down between them. At least from the waist down I
wasn’t encased in Lycra. Nope, nothing but silky panties, capri pants, and
bobby socks. The saddle shoes were lost in the shuffle.

“As a matter of
fact, I have a master’s degree in ancient American foundation garments. I have
just the right tools to extricate you and your bounteous assets from this
ridiculously constraining contraption.”

“Tools? That
sounds a little industrial.” The way this dream was going, it wouldn’t surprise
me if I looked up and he had morphed into Edward Scissorhands and was cutting
me out of my unmentionables.

“Mmmmmm,” he
sighed against my collarbone. “Nothing of the sort, my dear. These will be all
I need to get the job done.” He held up two lovely hands lightly sprinkled with
dark hair and long lean fingers that were itching to get to work.

“Please, please
put them to work.” And with that, he quickly lifted my sweater over my head,
revealing what could only be described as the most unattractively hideous white
monstrosity of an undergarment. What was wrong with me that I had this gorgeous
specimen of manhood and I couldn’t even dream myself into a modern-day Playtex,
let alone something from the Victoria’s Secret catalog? One of the few perks to
being a plus-size woman was the plus-size bosom that usually came with the
package. You would think my subconscious imagination would house these
beautiful babies in something soft and lacy, something that would entice this
sexy beast of a man to rip it off with his teeth.

But sadly, no. I
conjured up something out of a 1950s
Good Housekeeping
ad.

“Millie, I must
insist in removing this horribly confining garment from your person. Your
beautiful breasts are practically crying out for liberation, and I am not a man
who can sit idly by while there are damsels in distress,” all of this being
said while he slowly made his way down the front of my chest, coming to rest at
my naval, where the offending garment finally stopped.

“Yes, please.
Please. Let the removal begin.” At this point, I could barely keep my eyes
open. I was already anticipating the feel of that black silk shirt against my
breasts: silky smooth and warm from his skin.

He pressed one
hot kiss on my nipple, hidden deeply under the padding, but still there. I
could feel his hot breath and the tip of his tongue. I couldn’t stop my toes
from running up and down his legs and parting my legs a little farther, making
room for him to settle more firmly against me.

“Millie, I can’t
stop tasting your skin; you taste like spun sugar, like sweet, warm woman.” He
pressed his hips deeper into mine, and I could feel just how hungry he was for
me. And my pleasure was barely tempering the frustration I felt at the layers
of clothing between us.

He slid his arms
around my back, searching for the hooks while gently biting down on my earlobe.
“Yes,” I sighed, leaning up so he could make quick work of the hooks.

“Millie, I can’t
seem to find the hooks. Do you have hooks on this thing?”

What? Was it
possible that somehow I had imagined myself in an impregnable undergarment that
the sexiest man I had ever met found impossible to remove? What the hell was
wrong with me? It must be him, it must be. He wasn’t trying hard enough.

“I’m sure it’s
back there, look around. Come on, it’s a bra, granted one that should be on
display in a museum, but those tools you were so proud of should be able to
make short work of anything, right? Come on, come on!” My voice rose as my
desire level fell. What kind of dream man couldn’t even get my clothes off?  

“Don’t snap at me!
This is your dream; you put yourself in this ridiculous contraption. Look at me:
shirt, pants, and underwear. Easily removed. What do you expect me to do, cut
you out of this?”

His temper now
matched mine. How did we go from hot, sexy, steamy sweetness to snappy sarcasm?

“Just do it! Just
get it off; my God, how hard is that? Do I have to do everything myself? I
can’t even count on seduction in Elvis’s jungle room, for God’s sake. Just
shoot me now, shoot me now.”

I woke up face
down in the pillows with my hands behind my back, trying to unfasten the
imaginary undergarment.

Oh God. What was
wrong with me? I dreamt of a gay man seducing me while I was wearing an upper
body version of a chastity belt? I was completely insane. And horny. And
insane. And horny.

And the refrain
continued as I stumbled into the shower and started my day.

****

The next four
days passed in a blur of shows. Thankfully New York Fashion Week was coming to
a close, and with that, my team and I would have a chance to look back on our
triumphs and our failures of the past week. It was during those times of
reflection that I made the necessary changes and adjustments that would
culminate in an even better week next season.

It also meant I
had a chance to relax and catch my breath, even if it was just for a few short
weeks. Fortunately, or unfortunately if you were asking my social calendar, resort
wear had become much more popular over the last ten years, and those
collections took almost as much effort to display as the traditional fall and
spring. When designers first introduced resort wear, it was mostly through look
books and private viewings, but in the last few years, many popular designers
were presenting their collections in traditional runway shows.  I was
grateful the fall/winter ready-to-wear collections had moved on to Paris and
Milan, taking with them the media, the critics, and the spectators.

We seriously
needed some time to regroup, and I needed a break from sixteen-hour workdays.
Thankfully there had not been a repeat of the Elvis jungle room fantasy. Maybe
my poor, affection-starved self would also cut me a little slack and let me
catch my breath before sending me back down that particular rabbit hole.

Another blessing
bestowed upon me this time of year was Marta’s yearly tradition of following
the shows to Europe and then spending time there reconnecting with old friends.
Although their numbers were shrinking, her peers from her days on the catwalk
still loved to get together and reminisce about the old days and how fashion
back then meant something and how now it was all shock value and children
prancing around in outfits that cost as much as some developing country’s gross
national product.

She was to leave tomorrow
morning and would be gone for a glorious four weeks. It was as if I had won the
lottery: spring in New York and no Marta. This was my Shangri-La; this was what
I waited for every year. It was like Christmas and my birthday all wrapped up
together.

We had one final
staff meeting with her before she headed out. Hopefully it would be short and
sweet. As we all gathered in the tiny conference room for the weekly staff
meeting, there was a new face at the table. A beautiful face; a beautiful,
young, and extremely chiseled face. If she wanted to, the new addition to the
table could cut glass with those cheekbones. She looked familiar, but I wasn’t
able to place her.

I leaned over to
Lizzie on my right. “Who’s the Kate Moss wannabe? And why does she look so
familiar?”

Lizzie was trying
to stuff the rest of her mini-muffin in to her mouth and answer me all at the
same time. “Whell. Shweh isth.” Muffin = 1, comprehension = 0.

“Swallow first;
everyone is still piling in. Just curious to know who she is. Don’t choke
trying to tell me.” It never paid to be the last one around here to know
something.

“Scarlett
Marshall. She modeled for a few years before she got bored and realized there
were bigger and better ways to take advantage of her father’s position at
Marshall Publishing.”

Ahh, that was
where I recognized her. Not the runway; most of the models tended to blur
together from one season to the next. It was the society pages. Scarlett
wrapped around some gorgeous new man or being escorted around by her publishing
giant of a father, C. Marshall. No one knew what the “C” stood for. Rumor had
it he was named after a body part and didn’t think Colon demanded the level of
respect he felt he deserved as the president and CEO of one of the largest
publishing companies in the world. So Colon Marshall disappeared and C.
Marshall was born. I had yet to hear of anyone with the balls to call him Colon
to his face, but it was routinely bandied about behind his back.