Get a load of this crapfrest for a story-thing!
The signs proclaimed this was the new era of Givenchy apparently, but Riccardo Tisci was just so 4 years ago. I fingered his necklace eating up my neck tonight, and thought about what I prat he is. And how all the little girls sucking it up to him with hopes of modeling, designing, breathing his air, were just as bad, but mostly worse.
Anyway, I had gotten this necklace for free.
“Shove off.” I motioned to the camera man, who shrugged and went right on with his job. Last I checked his name was Tad, but, then again, who can keep track of those little suffocating space monkeys?
I was standing on the fringe of the crowd, getting a good whiff- it was the usual scene, including that b i c h Carson, who was across the room bimbo-ing it up for one of the male models who just happened to stop by. Her bouncing blond head shot a million plots of revenge that were sure to make me hell-bound, if only I believed in that sort of thing. But it was so early in the game, and, anyway, I'm beginning to wonder if the girl is even worth the effort anymore, when there's so much fresh meat in this city, and William was so last season.
But, where's the fun in that?
“Hey, look lady, you just gonna stand there? I need to get some good TV.”
Tad the camera boy drooped out from under his baseball cap [which he wore with a suit. Some white trash effort to dress appropriately, I suppose.], pleading for his minuscule paycheck. I smiled, made the come hither finger gesture, leading him into the fray.
Riccardo had some gravitational pull going on in the center, with small clumps of socialites orbiting around. Closer to the corners, the clothes sat on display- I'd already made the rounds, but found nothing I liked that I didn't already own. A waitress with a champagne tray passed, and I delicately scooped one up, gliding by with out a thank you or second thought. We passes Carson too, and I turned around to mouth a dirty little word to the world as we went. Then, luckily, found myself in the presence of just the boy I wanted to see.
He had all 6”4' of himself stuffed into a tight little suit, back against us at first, until he turned with a great big luscious lip smile. It was really such a good thing he wasn't attracted to women, or else this could've gotten dangerous.
“Hey, yourself. Where have you been?.”
“Oh,” a coy little grin. “Around.”
This was Angel Gutierrez, a scrumptious hunk of meat and the closest thing I have to a real friend.
We exchanged a cheeky kiss-kiss before he pulled me into his little crowd. All men, all of whose names slipped my mind.
Oh, except this one.
“...and this is-”
“I'm Alastor O''Niel.” This one held out his hand, the other clutching a glass of some sort of ultra dark liquor. And you must be...”
“Vivienne Waldorf.” I returned his greeting. He was checking me out so bad, I might as well humor the poor man.
“Vivienne, of course. You must be on that show. Angel here has been mentioning it...says it's garbage-Oh... I probably shouldn't have repeated that.” Alastor O'Niel winked at the camera, chucked, then went back to his drink. “So what do you do, Vivienne?”
I am torn between thinking this Alastor character is some sort of play boy sleeze, gross and trying far too hard, or giving in to my fragile hormones and keep up this game of small talk with a man who wasn't normally my type, but still sort of gorgeous, in that about-5-years-my-elder sort of way. He has the kind of refined goth boy demeanor, with dark hair that's gelled to messy perfection, black on black suit, these round, gray eyes stuck in this perpetual peer, extra-prominent cheek bones, white white skin and white white teeth. It all really caught me off guard-I had only wanted to say hey to Angel.
“I work for a culture magazine, creating layouts. Slowly making my way to the top, right.”
He nodded. “I do know all about that-I actually own a chain of nightclubs in the states, and those started from a pathetic little bar I inherited from my father. It's not easy, but it pays off in the end.”
“He was just talking about expanding into Europe,” Angel cut in, “Weren't you, Al?”
Al. What a pathetic cheapening off such a deadly name.
“Yes.” But Al/astor/ still only could concentrate on little old me, as I blushed away and the rest of the group broke out into conversation of how much France needed a cool night club. Or something. No stranger to this dumb little dance of flity-eyes, silent lips, I excused myself before I could be cornered, me and the champagne and the space monkey. Much to his obvious dismay. Angel barely even noticed.
After skipping of story time, I felt I had to at least attempt something.
Space monkeys courtesy of Fight Club. Thanks Chuck.