Glamorama (13 page)

“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 one
wants: 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 shrug. “Big deal. But now it’s strictly the furburger era for me.”

“Like that plastic vagina Alison Poole’s a big improvement over—who?—Keanu Reeves?” JD says, following me.

“Dude, Keanu and I have
never
gotten it on,” I say, moving over to the stereo. “We’re just ‘good friends.’” I’m scanning my CD rack:
Elastica, Garbage, Filter, Coolio, Pulp. I slip Blur in. “Did you know that Keanu in Hawaiian means ‘cool ocean breeze’ and he won the Japanese Oscar for his role as the FBI agent turned surfer in
Point Break
?” I preprogram tracks 2, 3 and 10. “Jesus—and we’re
afraid
of the Japanese?”

“You have got to stop having sex with Damien’s girlfriend, Victor,” Beau blurts out, whimpering. “It makes us nerv—”

“Oh shit,” I groan, throwing a CD case at him.

“If Damien finds out he will
kill
us, Victor.”

“He’ll kill
you
if he finds out I’m really opening up my own club,” I say carefully.
“You
will be implicated
no matter what
. Just, um, slide into it.”

“Oh Victor, your nonchalance is so cool.”

“First of all I don’t understand why you little mos think I’d be fucking Damien’s girlfriend in the first—”

“And you lie so well too.”

“Hey—who the hell’s been listening to
ABBA Gold?
Oh wait—let me guess.”

“Victor, we don’t trust Damien,” Beau says. “Or Digby or Duke.”

“Shhh,” I say, holding a finger up to my lips. “This place could be bugged.”

“That’s not funny, Victor,” JD says grimly. “It could be.”

“How many times do I have to tell you guys that this town is filled with horrible human beings?” I groan. “Get—used—to—it.”

“Digby and Duke are cute, Victor, but so wasted on steroids that it would make them quite happy to beat the living shit out of you,” Beau says, then adds, “As if you didn’t need it.”

I check my watch. “My father’s gonna do that to me in about fifteen minutes, so spare me,” I sigh, flopping onto the couch. “Listen, Digby and Duke are just Damien’s, er, friends. They’re like bouncers—

What?”

“Mob, baby,” JD says.

“Oh Jesus,” I moan. “The mob? For who? Banana Republic?”

“Mob, Victor.” Beau nods in agreement.

“Oh hell, they’re bouncers, guys.” I sit up. “Feel sorry for them. Imagine dealing with cokeheads and tourists for a living. Pity them.”

Beau loses it. “Pity
you
, Victor, once Damien sees that goddamn photo of you—ouch!”

“I saw you step on Beau’s foot,” I say to JD very carefully, staring over at them.

“Who are you protecting, JD?” Beau gasps. “He
should
know. It’s true. It’s gonna happen.”

I’m up off the couch. “I thought this was all taken care of, JD.”

“Victor, Victor—” JD holds his hands up.

“Tell me
now
. What, where, when, who?”

“Did anyone catch that he didn’t ask the most important question: why?”

“Who told you there’s a photo? Richard? Khoi? Reba?”

“Reba?” JD asks. “Who in the fuck is
Reba?”

“Who was it, JD?” I slap at one of his hands.

“It was Buddy. Get away from me.”

“At the News?”

Beau nods solemnly. “Buddy at the News.”

“And Buddy says …”

I motion for him to go on.

“Um, your fears about a certain photo are, um, ‘intact’ and the, um …” JD squints at Beau.

“Probability rate,” Beau says.

“Right. The probability rate is that it will, um …” JD squints over at Beau again.

“Be published,” Beau whispers.

“Be published are, um …” JD pauses. “Oh yeah, ‘up there.’”

Silence, until I clear my throat and open my eyes. “How long were you going to wait until you fed me this tidbit of info?”

“I paged you the minute this rumor was verified.”

“Verified by who?”

“I don’t divulge my sources.”

“When?” I’m groaning. “Okay? How about
when
?”

“There really is no when, Victor.” JD swallows nervously. “I just confirmed what you wanted me to. The photo exists. Of what? I can only guess by your, um, description yesterday,” JD says. “And here’s Buddy’s number.”

A long pause, during which Blur plays and I’m glancing around the office, finally touching a plant.

“And, um, Chloe called and said she wants to see you before Todd’s show,” JD says.

“What did you tell her?” I sigh, looking at the phone number JD handed me.

“‘Your poorly dressed bitter half is having lunch with his father at Nobu.’”

“I’m being reminded of a bad lunch I haven’t even had yet?” I cringe. “Jesus, what a day.”

“And she says thanks for the flowers.”

“What flowers?” I ask. “And will you puh-leeze stop staring at my bulge?”

“Twelve white French tulips delivered backstage at the Donna Karan show.”

“Well, thank you for sending them for me, JD,” I mutter, moving back to the couch. “There
is
a reason I’m paying you two dollars an hour.”

Pause. “I didn’t … send the flowers, Victor.”

Pause. My turn. “Well,
I
didn’t send the flowers.”

Pause. “There was a card, Victor. It said, ‘Ain’t no woman like the one I’ve got’ and ‘Baby, I’m-a want you, Baby, I’m-a need you.’” JD looks at the floor, then back at me. “That sounds like you.”

“I can’t deal with this right now.” I wave my arms around but then realize who might have sent the flowers. “Listen, do you know this kid named Baxter Priestly?”

“He’s the next Michael Bergin.”

“Who’s the last Michael Bergin?”

“Baxter Priestly’s in the new Darren Star show and in the band Hey That’s My Shoe. He’s dated Daisy Fuentes, Martha Plimpton, Liv Tyler and Glenda Jackson, though not necessarily in that order.”

“Beau, I’m on a lot of Klonopin right now, okay, so nothing you’re saying is really registering with me.”

“Cool, that’s cool, Victor.”

“What do I do about Baxter Priestly?” I moan. “He of the faggy cheekbones.”

“You jealous fuck,” Beau hisses.

“What do you mean, what do
you
do about him?” JD asks. “I mean, I know what
I’d
do.”

“Amazing cheekbones,” Beau says sternly.

“Yeah, but what a lunkhead.
And
I don’t want to suck him off,” I mutter. “Hand me that fax.”

“What does Baxter Priestly have to do with anything?”

“Enrolling him in a total-immersion English course wouldn’t hurt. Oh shit—I’ve got to get going. Let’s get down to business.” I squint at the fax. “Does Adam Horowitz go under Ad-Rock or Adam Horowitz?”

“Adam Horowitz.”

“Okay, what’s this? New RSVPs?”

“People requesting to be invited.”

“Shoot. Run through ’em.”

“Frank De Caro?”

“No. Yes. No. Oh god, I can’t do this now.”

“Slash and Lars Ulrich are coming together,” JD says.

“And from MTV, Eric Nies and Duff McKagan,” Beau adds.

“Okay, okay.”

“Chris Isaak is a yes, right?” JD asks.

“The perfect cutie,” Beau says.

“He’s got ears like Dumbo, but whatever. I guess I’d do him if I was a fag,” I sigh. “Is Flea under
F
or does he have like a real name?”

“It doesn’t matter,” JD says. “Flea’s coming with Slash and Lars Ulrich.”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “Isn’t Axl coming with Anthony?”

“I don’t think so.” Beau and JD look at each other uncertainly.

“
Don’t
tell me Anthony Kiedis isn’t coming,” I groan.

“He’s coming, Victor, he’s coming,” Beau says. “Just not with Axl.”

“Queen Latifah? Under
Q
or L?” JD asks.

“Wait,” I exclaim, while going over the Ls. “Lypsinka’s coming? What did I tell you guys: we don’t want
any
drag queens.”

“Why not?”

“They’re like the new mimes, that’s why.”

“Lypsinka is
not
a drag queen, Victor,” Beau scolds me. “Lypsinka is a gender illusionist.”

“And you’re a little mo,” I snarl, ripping down a photo of Tyson in a Ralph Lauren ad. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“And you’re a fucking racist,” Beau shouts, grabbing the crumpled page from me.

I immediately pull out a
Malcolm X
cap I got at the premiere—
signed by Spike Lee—and shove it in JD’s face. “See?
Malcolm X
cap. Don’t accuse
me
of not being multicultural, you little mo.”

“Paul Verhoeven said
God
is bisexual, Victor.”

“Paul Verhoeven is a Nazi and
not
invited.”

“You’re a Nazi, Victor,” Beau sneers. “
You’re
the Nazi.”

“I’m a pussy Nazi, you little mo, and you invited Jean-Claude Van Damme
behind my back?!
?”

“Kato Kaelin’s publicist, David Crowley, keeps calling.”

“Invite David Crowley.”

“Oh, people like Kato, Victor.”

“Have they seen his last movie,
Dr. Skull
?”