Intrepid Kitty Go dispensed sensible caveats: If you don't want unwanted attention, “why live your life flagrantly? If you don't want anything written about you? STAY HOME!” (Or Behave.) Obviously these cautionary truths would just slip like uncooked pasta when hurled across the amphetamined skulls of notorious society page pseudo-royalettes who have been publicly pilloried in Brian Gorrel's sensational blog. I have avoided writing gossips, second-hand information or slanderous rumors because of its denigrative nature. True, first-hand accounts however are a different banana.
Last night, at Tabu, I saw three members of the ill-famed Gucci Gang defiantly carousing around like it's still the heyday of their supposed social circuit supremacy.
Nicodemus, Mapplethorpe, Nicodemus' cute intern and myself decided to go to Tabu after all. We were busily swapping pleasantries with various acquaintances including Sorrenti (the young glamour and advertising photographer) Junya (the designer of avant-garde frocks), two advertising art directors and a handful of mdels we worked with in various projects in the past.
Then the GG retinue swooped in. The plump architect , the ex of the spoiled anorexic and the married realty heir and executive who is alleged to be also batting for the same team if you get my drift. They were summarily ignored by most of the revelers and it somehow felt odd that they are now the subject of ostracism of plebeians. The Universe was a sordid sense of irony.
“Can we get that table”” Realty Heir asked the busboy. He was wearing a dull-colored shirt one size smaller. His nipples threatened to rip through the body hugging shirt.
The busboy stammered something because the table pointed at has an acrylic tabletop tent that said “reserved.” Obviously not for them.
This made me feel sorry for these dethroned circuit self-anointed supremes. They can't command for a nice spot nowadays so why still insist on putting a brave face in public? Eventually they got the table and settled and got showered by dense, wordless resentment, snide shrugs and rolling eyeballs from commoners. So much about the fantasy of leading glamorous lives.
As I have always said, your common sense and self-restraint is inversely proportional to the amount of intoxicant you gargle. This is proven true once more because a lot later into the morning hours, lubricated by alcohol, The Heir began chatting up decent looking men who approached their table. The manner with which the conversations are carried out reminds me of this Warhol painting:
Then much later, he hit the dance floor and grinds with a chic skank. His crotch almost swapping epidermal layers with her ass.
Does the first lady know? Should we let her know?
Way much later he went out of the bar and stood at the street corner. His driver pulled a BMW just a little off the front entrance of the bar. He went in the passenger seat. Then Sacred Pink Cow!
A thin and short, pimp-looking twink sidled inside the car with another skank.
They slammed the door and I can't conclude whether it's the contraband or the alcohol that made them do the most heedless act: while they were probably negotiating, they pressed their phones and the bright glow made them visible through the tinted car window. Something was exchanged. The twink guy exited the car and The Heir and the skank drove off.
“Yehey!” I cheered in my head. “He's hetero after all!”
Hetero, possibly. Monogamous, well, anyone can launch a debate. I just witnessed that very open, public display of lack of discretion. So did a lot of onlookers outside the bar.
Or was it deliberately staged? To tell everyone, hey! I prefer oysters than salami!
Later, much to my surprise, when I came back inside the bar, The Heir IS already inside! Dancing, drinking beer!
Whoa! That was a quick ride around the block!
And I will not entertain malicious thoughts that if it wasn't shooting a quickie, then it was a fix me a snortie.
Whichever the case, either way, in the name of democracy take it from Andy:
EXCLUSIVE: DUTERTE & XI CONVERSATIONS
2 days ago