Calvin Walker
My friend Jeffrey J. Rojas calls me up the other day and tells me that he’s got some invite he wants me to join him for. A preview of evening gowns designed by some Russian broad who I’m sure is able to “design” a collection thanks to taking her gown off for the right billionaire tycoon some many moons ago. I’m not sure how J.J. knew anyone in that group but he was always being invited to events throughout Manhattan and these events always ended up being absolutely ridiculous.
Once, in a penthouse in Chelsea, I excused myself to the restroom to do an easy bump and found J.J. on his knees not with one of the servers but with the husband of whoever was hosting the party. It really was comical. The husband jumped up, knocking J.J. over and he didn’t even bother pulling his pants up! He just snatched me into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. J.J. cursed under his breath as he got back up onto his knees.
“I’m so sure this door has a fucking lock on it,” I said through my laughter. I was wearing a black 3.1 Phillip Lim dress with a keyhole feature in the front that allowed my breasts to play peek-a-boo. Yes, I flaunt them. No, I’m not ashamed. I hate to say it but…YOLO! Anyway, the husband locks the bathroom door and then starts looking me up as if I was supposed to suddenly undress and engage in his extramarital affairs. I only started laughing harder, reached into my clutch and took out my vial.
After we left the party, I told J.J. that I was never going to another event with him. In the back seat of the cab, he cooed at me and petted my arm telling me I was “the most glamorous blonde bombshell in all of the land of this dying city.” His Argentinian accent always made me smile and this time was no different. So when I got a call from him saying he had to make an appearance at this collection preview, I told him I would naturally be his date.
It was to take place on a Thursday afternoon which obviously meant it would be beyond stuffy. I elected a simple black gown with long sleeves and aired on the side of conservative when seen on the hanger. On my body was a different story. Chucking on more than enough jewelry to fit in with the other prostitutes I’m sure would be there, I went to retrieve my cell phone from the front room and stumbled back in shock. J.J. stood looking out my window over Central Park, a barely there joint poised between the tips of his thumb and forefinger.
“This last puff is for you, darling,” he said, turning to face me. His hair was slicked back, his olive skin seemed to glow and his ensemble was immaculate. Crisp white button down underneath a navy blazer, gray trousers with a small cuff and a beautiful pair of Paul Smith brogues that I was fond of for some reason. He looked great if not slightly creepy considering he had someone got around my doorman and found a way into my apartment.
“No thank you. Let’s get going,” I said. He took a final drag from his joint, stubbing it out in a nearby ashtray. With our arms linked together, we exited my apartment and made our way to the top floor of an apartment building on the Upper East Side. It was a beautiful space that actually took my breath away for a moment. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting, especially from some snobby no-talent having whore. And before I even had time to blink, J.J. was off air kissing. I saw big doors near the back of the apartment and went that way to discover it lead to a wraparound terrace.
My apartment wasn’t shabby but this? This specific view made my heart flutter. Just then, I felt a pair of hands on the small of my back. J.J. was already set to leave. I turned with a smile on my face and looked into the eyes of a complete stranger. Smile gone, I put my left hand on his chest and gently pushed him back.
“I’m sure your mail-order bride doesn’t mind you stepping out on her but I’d rather not play that way today,” I said. Polite! The man, an older White property holder of some sort, leaned in for a kiss. This time, my hand pushed his face away. He was gorgeous and smelled like a mixture of citrus and vanilla which was strong enough to take in but not overpowering. He wore an incredibly tacky pinstriped suit but you could tell that the body he kept under it was probably in great shape. We ended up making out and somehow my right tit found its way out of my dress.
Of course that’s when his wife comes outside looking for her husband. He was the one who took my boob out but he just backed away from me with his hands up in front of him as if he just stepped on my shoe and was silently apologizing. There was no time to put the girl away so I just covered her up the best way I could with my arm.
J.J. thought it was a fucking riot, laughing the entire time we rushed from the apartment. I’m glad he could laugh at the situation as he wasn’t the one the hostess was shouting death threats at in her native tongue. Even though I was visibly shaken by the disastrous terrace affair, I was able to breathe a little easier once I found myself in the back seat of a taxi. As J.J. and I whizzed through the city back to my apartment, I told myself I should be worried about what the wife was screeching in Russian but all I could think about was when I would bump into the husband again.
To be continued…
Kate Upton (IMG Models) for Vogue Italia November 2012 shot by Steven Meisel
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Fictitious Fashion is a flash fiction series that finds inspiration from imagery found in fashion magazines and brand campaigns.
