24
By the time I arrive at Industria for today's photo shoot I'm getting that certain feeling of being followed, but whenever I look behind me it's only bicycle messengers carrying models' portfolios for Click, Next, Elite, so to stamp out the paranoia I duck into Braque to grab a not-too- foamy decaf latte with skim milk and Alison keeps beeping me as I move through an enormous series of white empty spaces. The guys- nine of us, some already in bathing suits-are just hanging: Nikitas, David Boals, Rick Dean, newcomer Scooter, a couple of guys I'm not really sure about, including a waiter from Jour et Nuit, hunky with dreadlocks, who's being followed around by a camera crew from "Fashion File," a pair of twins who work at Twins on the Upper East Side, plus some European guy who has arguably the best body here but a face like a donkey. All the guys basically look the same: cute head (one exception), great body, high hair, chiseled lips, cutting edge, naughty or however you want us.
While waiting my turn for eyebrow tweezing I browse through the CD library and make time with this girl eating rice and broccoli while getting a pedicure and the only word she knows is "Blimey!" and all over the place I'm sensing a distinct laissez-faire attitude, no more so than when I'm handed a stick of Wrigley's Doublemint gum by Stanford Blatch. The Caesar haircut has made another comeback and cowlicks are in which infuriates Bingo and Velveteen and the photographer Didier, so a lot of PhytoPlage gel is brought out while opera plays and to endure all this some of the guys drink champagne, check their horoscopes in the Post, play cat's cradle with dental floss. Madonna's ex-party planner Ronnie Davis, someone from Dolce Gabbana, Garren (who did the hair at Marc Jacobs' and Anna Sui's last shows) and Sandy Gallin are hanging out, staring at us impassively, like we're for sale or something, and let's just face it-as if.
Three setups: Bermudas, Madras shorts and Speedos. The guys will be positioned in front of a huge blue drape and later a beach will be superimposed by Japanese technicians to make it look like we were actually on a beach, "maybe even one in Miami," Didier promises. Fake tattoos are applied on biceps, pectorals, on three thighs. It's freezing.
Bingo slaps gel on my scalp, wetting my hair, runs it through to the ends as Didier paces nearby, inspecting my abs, twenty-two and sucking on a pacifier. Dazed-looking Scooter-studying for his SATs-sits next to me on a high stool, both of us facing giant oval mirrors.
"I want sideburns," Bingo moans. "I need elongation."
"Forget about natural, Bingo," Didier says. "Just go for the edge."
"Doesn't anyone shampoo anymore?" Velveteen shudders. "My god."
"I want a rough style, Bingo. I want a bit of meanness. A hidden anger. There has to be a hidden anger. I want the aggressive side to this boy."
"Aggressive?" Bingo asks. "He's a pastry chef at Dean Deluca."
"I want the aggressive-pastry-chef look."
"Didier, this boy is about as aggressive as a baby manatee."
"Oh god, Bingo-you're such a fussbudget," Velveteen sighs.
"Am I being challenged?" Didier asks, pacing. "I think not, because I'm getting bored very quickly."
"Velveteen," Bingo shouts. "You're mushing Scooter's do."
"Bingo, you're being a wee bit off."
"I want extreme," Didier says. "I want Red Hot Chili Peppers. I want energy."
"I want a big fat spleef," Scooter mutters.
"I want garish and sexy," Didier says.
"Let's usher that combo in, baby."
"I'm fizzy with excitement," Didier murmurs thoughtfully. "But where are these boys' sideburns? I requested sideburns. Bingo? Bingo, where are you?"
"I have sideburns?" I offer, raising my hand. "Uh, dude, that's facial moisturizer," I have to point out to Bingo.
"Not too in-your-face. Right, Didier?" Velveteen asks sourly. "Not too much of that hot Mambo King look."
We're all in front of the big blue drape, some of us doing bicep curls with free weights, a couple of us on the floor crunching, and Didier wants cigars and passes them out and Didier wants glycerin because the guys in Bermuda shorts should be crying while smoking cigars because we are sad and smoking cigars in front of the big blue drape which will be the beach.
"Sad because we are smoking cigars?" I ask.
"Or sad because this is just too `Baywatch'?"
"Sad because you are all idiots and just now on this beach you have realized it," Didier says vaguely, ready to Polaroid.
