Jenna
I walked into the restaurant in sneakers, a welcome relief from high heels. Le Bern was a Michelin starred restaurant but I just couldn’t handle stalking around in stilettos and a mini-dress, not after a fashion show where I’d been wearing almost nothing. Instead, I’d gone for comfort in a wrap dress, something that showed off my curves without being overtly sexy, and had paired it with flat shoes, cute New Balances that were urban and trendy.
I threw the maitre’d a bright smile even as he looked at my outfit askance.
“Madam?” he said politely, as if hoping I would go away.
No such luck. “Reservation for Rafe Connor,” I said with a warm smile. Something I’ve realized since switching careers is that charming with honey can get a lot more done than being a straight-up bitch. Maybe it’s because of the atmosphere in fashion. Girls are expected to be docile, like furniture almost, so it was unexpected and even discouraged to have an opinion.
Normally, I would have shut that down immediately, making my views known, even forcing them onto other people. But my initial attempts to be my old self had backfired.
“Hey I think this hem should be longer,” I’d said at my first fitting, pointing to the tiny little swim skirt I wore over my bikini bottoms. “It would hang better if it was longer, especially since it’s cut on the bias.”
Jason Alexander himself, international designer extraordinaire, had shot me a dirty look but said nothing.
“Ms. Walsh,” interrupted his assistant, “I’m sure you can understand that we’re short on time with the show in five days. Besides, Mr. Alexander designed this piece himself, all the hemming was done with a five nine model in mind.”
“I am five nine,” I ground out. “I didn’t lie on my comp card. I’m just saying that I think this skirt would do better with a little more material, maybe look a bit more flattering.”
This time, the designer spoke himself, his voice pure acid.
“Listen, you’re not getting paid for your opinions, so just hang tight, yeah?” he drawled nastily, his Australian accent thick. “We only hired you because we had to, our brand owed your agency a favor. Get out if you don’t like it, see if you’ll get work anywhere else after you critique a designer.”
And I’d shut my trap immediately. He was right, I was a model, there to show off the clothes and I’d had no idea that the Alexander brand had been forced to hire me. God, what strings had Deborah pulled? Humbled, I stood silently, letting the wardrobe assistants pinch and fuss, Alexander ignoring me entirely after that.
And I’d expected to be fired, I admit. Evidently I’d committed some crazy breach of protocol, offending the artistic types. But instead, when I got a call from my agency about the afternoon’s incident, it was the opposite – Alexander was inviting me to a private party.
“Do I have to?” I’d asked. “I thought that douchebag hated me,” I confided to Deborah.
“No, of course you don’t have to,” she said reassuringly. “But Jason Alexander is a hot young designer whose star is on the up and up. Keep an open mind, you know? You never know what will happen.”
And so I’d agreed, showing up an expensive loft in Tribeca. Shaking my head resignedly, I held tight to the champagne I’d brought. Hopefully a fancy bottle of Chateau L’Anglais would put him in a good mood.
But my instincts weren’t off. The minute the door opened, I saw that I’d been duped. I’d been invited to a gay party – Bears and Twinks, to be specific. The bears were great big guys, hairy and beefy, and the twinks were their boytoys, simpering and eighty pounds at most. Not that I have anything against gay men, I just didn’t expect to be the only female in a room full of grinding gay dudes.
“Hey sweetie!” called Jason, sashaying forward in a caftan. He was built like a tank and I could see right through the gauzy material. Nope, he didn’t shave down below. “Glad you could make it last minute,” he sang insincerely.
“Th- Thanks for inviting me,” I stammered weakly, holding forth the bottle of wine. “This is Chateau L’Anglais, I hope you like it.”
“Oh we only drink French,” he’d said dismissively. “But thanks anyways. Make yourself at home … if you can find a spot.”
Because I could see now that this was actually a gay sex party. We were in someone’s private apartment and they’d covered every item of furniture with plastic so that people could get down.
And the guests weren’t wasting any time. The twinks were taking it in every conceivable position, showing off the elasticity of their bodies, their willing and supple limbs bent like circus acrobats. I could see spatters of semen everywhere, pooling and drying on the plastic tarp, condom wrappers strewn about.
“Make yourself at home!” Alexander echoed in a singsong voice, before disappearing into the crowd.
And I could have cried, I could have thrown a tantrum per my old ways, but instead I grit my teeth and made myself stay. It was tough, I admit. I witnessed more depravity that I’d ever imagined in my life and not that kind that’s soft-core.
After about two hours, I said goodbye to Alexander, thanking him graciously for inviting me, although I’m not sure he could hear given that his face was planted in some other man’s butt. But I’d learned a lesson … know your place, don’t think you can get away with murder because you’re a pretty blonde. This is New York City where anything can happen, and that included my date with Rafe Connor.