Glamorama (25 page)

She breathes in but doesn’t move away.

“Are you going to complain about my behavior?” I ask.

“No,” she says.

“Come here,” I say.

Her eyes move over my body.

“Come here,” I say again.

She just stands there, deciding what to do, unmoving.

“Is there a … dilemma?” I’m asking.

“Victor,” she sighs. “I can’t.”

“Why?” I ask. “Come here.”

“Because it’s like you’re back from … outer space or something,” she says. “And I don’t know you.”

“You’re a little hard to unwrap too, baby.”

She lets her robe drop.

“I think we should maybe end the conversation here,” I say.

She kneels over me, pushing me back down on the bed, straddling my waist. I work one finger into her pussy, finally just easing it in, then two fingers, and her own fingers are rubbing her clit and I sit up and start licking and sucking on her breasts. I take my fingers out of her pussy and put them in my mouth, telling her how much I want to eat her pussy, and then I easily flip her onto her back and spread her legs wide apart and push them back so her whole pussy is spread out, available, and I start fingerfucking her while licking and sucking on her clit. I stick another finger in my mouth and slip it in between her legs, lower, until it touches her asshole, pressing lightly against it. I’m rock hard and I’ve pulled my pants down to my knees, my ass sticking up in the air, stroking myself off, my tongue way up her cunt, but then she pulls me up to her breasts, urging me to suck her nipples, and still stroking my prick I immediately move up and we start eating each other’s mouths, sucking hungrily, and she’s gripping my cock and rubbing it against her lower lips and then my cock’s sliding up into her
without any effort and she starts humping hard on it and I start meeting her thrusts and she’s coming and then the intercom buzzes and the doorman’s voice announces, “Lauren—Damien Ross is on his way up,” and we both freeze.

“Oh shit.” She stumbles up and grabs her robe off the floor and then she’s running down the hallway, calling out, “Get dressed—Damien’s here.”

“Oh shit, baby.” Panicked, I sit up, misjudge my place on the bed and fall off. I immediately pull my pants up and tuck my boner, aching and still stiff and wet, back into my Calvins.

“He’s early,” she groans, racing back into the room.
“Shit!”

“Early for
what
?” I ask.

When I turn around she’s at the closet, tearing through dresses and stacks of sweaters until finally she finds a black ladies’ hat—cool-looking, with a tiny red flower embroidered on its side—and she studies it for a nanosecond before shoving it at me. “Here.”

“What?” I’m asking. “
This
is your idea of a disguise?”

“Tell him you came by to pick it up for Chloe,” she says. “And wipe your face off.”

“Lauren, baby,” I say. “Chill out.”

“You shouldn’t have come over.” She starts moving down the hallway. “I’m an idiot for not throwing you out.”

“I thought we were having a pretty good time,” I say, following her.

“Well, that’s not what we should’ve been doing,” she yells. “That’s not what we should’ve been doing,” she whispers.

“Hey, don’t say that.”

“Let’s just find a place to stand and call it a weak moment,” she says. “You shouldn’t have come over.”

“Baby, you’ve established that—I get it, okay?” I follow her into the living room and find a casual place to position myself.

“No, stand
here,”
Lauren says, tying the sash on her robe. “As if we’re—oh god—talking.”

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?” I ask, calming down. “How hard you make my dick?”

“Just give me that damn hat back.”

“Chloe would more likely wear a rotting log around her neck.”

“She dates you, so what do
you
know?”

Damien walks in, holds up the cigar in his hand and says, “Hey baby,
don’t worry, it’s not lit.” They don’t bother to kiss and in a really serene way Damien nods at me, gives a cute little wave and says, “Hey Victor.”

“Hey Damien.” I give a cute little wave back.

“You’re everywhere today, huh?”

“Everywhere at once—that’s me.”

“Victor,” Lauren says. “Tell Chloe she can return this to me anytime, okay, Victor?” She hands me back the hat.

“Yeah, sure, Lauren. Um, thanks.” I look at the hat, turning it around in my hands, inspecting it. “Nice … hat.”

“What’s that?” Damien asks.

“A hat,” Lauren says.

“For who?” he asks.

“Chloe,” Lauren and I say at the same time.

“Victor came by to pick it up for her,” she finishes.

“When’s she gonna wear that?” Damien asks. “What’s the urgency?”

“Tonight,” I say. “She’s going to wear it tonight.”

The three of us look at each other and something weird, something a little too intimate, passes between us, so we all look back at the hat.

“I can’t look at this hat anymore,” Lauren says. “I have to take a shower.”

“Baby, wait,” Damien says. “I’m in a real rush. We have to talk about something.”

“I thought we already discussed what you want to discuss,” she says tightly.

“Victor,” Damien says, ushering Lauren out of the room. “We’ll be right back.”

“No problemo, guys.”

I check my messages: Gavin Palone, Emmanuelle Béart, someone from Brillstein-Grey, someone else who I’ve decided looks good with his new goatee. It’s freezing in the apartment. Everything suddenly seems slightly exhausting, vaguely demanding: the lifting of a spoon, the draining of a champagne flute, the glance that means you should go, even pretending to sleep. There’s a room somewhere and in that room all the tables are empty but all of them are reserved. I check the time. Next to my watch is a stray piece of confetti I’m too tired to brush off and I could really use some chips and salsa since I’m famished. I know who you are and I know what you said.

At the bar Damien pours himself a shot of Patrón tequila and stares
forlornly at his cigar. “She won’t let me smoke in here.” He pauses. “Well, not cigars.” I’m aware for the first time that Damien’s actually sort of really good-looking and in this light I can’t even tell he has extensions; his hair looks thick and black and strong, and I’m touching my jaw, limply, to see if it feels as hollowed out as Damien’s looks.

“It’s cool,” I say.

“Victor, what are you doing here?”

I hold up the hat.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Really?”

“Hey, I heard about Junior Vasquez DJ’ing tonight,” I say, elegantly changing the subject.

Damien sighs tiredly. “Great. Isn’t it?”

“How did that happen?”

“On the record?”

I nod.

“Some special-events impresario called,” Damien says. “And—voilà.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I start, feeling daring.

“What is it?”

“Where did you guys meet?” I ask. “I mean, you and Lauren.”

He downs the tequila, gently places the glass back on the bar and frowns. “I met her while we were both having dinner with the world’s richest people.”

“Who?”

“We’re not allowed to give out those names.”

“Oh.”

“But you’d know them,” Damien says. “You wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Cool.”

“Hint: they had just spent the weekend at Neverland Ranch.”

“Would you like a Mentos?” I ask.

“I need a favor, Victor.”

“I’d do anything for you, man.”

“Please don’t grovel.”

“Sorry.”

“Will you take Lauren with you to the opening tonight?” Damien asks. “She won’t come otherwise. Or if she does she’s threatening to come with fucking Skeet Ulrich or Olivier Martinez or Mickey Hardt or Daniel Day-fucking-Lewis.”

“That would be cool,” I consider. “I mean if we could get Daniel Day-Lewis—”

“Hey,” he snaps. “Watch it.”

“Oh yeah. My apologies.”

Damien still has traces of this morning’s mud mask next to his right ear. I reach out and flick a speck gently away.

“What’s that?” he asks, flinching.

“Mud?” I guess.

He sighs. “It’s shit, Victor. It’s all shit.”

I pause. “You had …
shit
on your face?” I ask. “Whoa, dude. Don’t go there.”

“No. My
life
, Victor. My whole fucking life. It’s all shit.”

“Why, guy?” I ask. “When did this massive dumping occur?”

“I have a girlfriend, Victor,” Damien says, staring straight at me.

“Yeah—” I stop, confused. “Alison?”

“No. Alison’s my
fiancée
. Lauren’s the girlfriend.”

“You guys are engaged?” I gasp involuntarily and when I try to hide the gasp, I gasp again. “Oh, I knew that, dude. Um, I knew that.”

Damien’s face hardens. “How did you know that?” he asks. “Nobody knows that.”

Pause, then semi-effortlessly, in a tight voice while holding my breath, out comes: “Man oh man this town, guy.”

Damien seems too depressed to not accept this. A long pause.

“You mean,” I start, “like getting-married
engaged
?”

“That’s usually what it means.”

“So I’ve heard,” I murmur.

“When did
you
and Lauren get so close?” he asks suddenly.

“I really don’t know her at all, Damien,” I say, squeezing the hat. “She’s a friend of Chloe’s.”

“She said she went to school with you,” he mutters. “She said you were—and don’t take this the wrong way—a total asshole.”

“I won’t take that the wrong way.”

“I can see that your self-esteem is pretty high today, huh?”

“It’s funny—I thought she went to school with
you
, man.” I chuckle lamely to myself, bowing a little, eyes half-closed. “Didn’t you guys go to school together, m-man?”

“Victor, I’ve got a fucking migraine. Just, y’know,
don’t.”
He closes
his eyes, reaches for the Patrón, stops himself. “So—will you do it? Will you take her?”

“I’m … taking Chloe.”

“Just take Lauren with you guys.” His beeper goes off. He checks it. “Shit. It’s Alison. I’ve gotta go. Tell Lauren goodbye. And I’ll see you at the club.”

“Tonight’s the night,” I say.

“I think it’ll work,” he says. “I think it won’t be a disaster.”

“We’ll see, man.”

Damien reaches out his hand. Instinctively I shake it. Then he’s gone.

I’m standing in the living room, taking a long time to notice Lauren leaning in the doorway.

“I heard everything,” she murmurs.

“That’s probably more than I heard,” I murmur back.

“Did you know they were engaged?”

“No,” I say. “I didn’t.”

“I guess I’m coming with you guys tonight.”

“I want you to,” I say.

“I know you do.”

“Lauren—”

“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” she says, brushing past me. “Damien thinks you’re a fag anyway.”

“An … important fag or an unimportant fag?”

“I don’t think Damien bothers to differentiate.”

“If I
was
a fag I think I’d probably be an important one.”

“If we continue this conversation I think I’d probably be entering the Land of the Nitwits.”

She turns off the TV and holds her face in her hands, looking like she doesn’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do either, so I check my watch again.

“Do you know when the last time I saw you was, Victor?” she asks, her back to me.

“At … Tower Records?”

“No. Before that.”

“Where?” I ask. “For god’s sake, don’t say the Calvin Klein show or in Miami.”

“It was in ‘The Sexiest Men in the Galaxy’ issue of some crappy magazine,” she says. “You were lying on top of an American flag and didn’t have a shirt on and basically looked like an idiot.”

I move toward her.

“How about before that?”

“In 1985,” she says. “Years ago.”

“Jesus, baby.”

“When you told me you’d come pick me up. At Camden.”

“Pick you up from where?”

“My dorm,” she says. “It was December and there was snow and you were supposed to drive me back to New York.”

“What happened?” I ask. “Did I?”

A long pause, during which the phone rings. Fabien Baron leaves a message. The phone rings again. George Wayne from London. Lauren just stares at my face, totally lost. I think about saying something but then don’t bother.

“You should go.”

“I am.”

“Where?”

“Pick up my tux.”

“Be careful.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m a sample size.”

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