Everybody’s hung over, babe.” She scrunches up her face. “Andrew Shue and Leonardo DiCaprio? … What? … Oh baby, no-o-o way.” Alison winks at me. “You’re not at a window table at Mortimer’s right now. Wake up! Oh boy … Ciao, ciao.” She clicks off the cellular and carefully places the joint on the counter and says, “That was a three-way with Dr. Dre, Yasmine Bleeth and Jared Leto.”
“Alison, those two little shits tried to kill me,” I point out as she jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist.
“Mr. and Mrs. Chow
aren’t
little shits, baby.” She clamps her mouth onto mine as I stumble with her toward the bedroom. Once there she falls to her knees, rips open my jeans and proceeds to expertly give me head, deep-throating in an unfortunately practiced way, grabbing my ass so hard I have to pry one of her hands loose. I take a last drag off the cigarette that I’m still holding, look around for a place to stub it out, find a half-empty Snapple bottle, drop in what’s left of the Marlboro, hear it hiss.
“Slow down, Alison, you’re moving too fast,” I’m mumbling.
She pulls my dick out of her mouth and, looking up at me, says in a low, “sexy” voice, “Urgency is my specialty, baby.”
She suddenly gets up, drops the robe and lies back on the bed, spreading her legs, pushing me down onto a floor littered with random issues of WWDs, my right knee crumpling a back-page photo of Alison and Damien and Chloe and me at Naomi Campbell’s birthday party, sitting in a cramped booth at Doppelganger’s, and then I’m nibbling at a small tattoo on the inside of a muscular thigh and the moment my tongue touches her she starts coming—once, twice, three times. Knowing where this will not end up, I jerk off a little until I’m almost coming and then I think, Oh screw it, I don’t really have time for this, so I just fake it, moaning loudly, my head between her legs, movement from my right arm giving the impression from where she lies that I’m actually doing something. The music in the background is mid-period Duran Duran. Our rendezvous spots have included the atrium at Remi, room 101 at the Paramount, the Cooper-Hewitt Museum.
I climb onto the bed and lie there, pretending to pant. “Baby, where did you learn to give head like that? Sotheby’s? Oh man.” I reach over for a cigarette.
“So wait. That’s it?” She lights a joint, sucks in on it so deeply that half of it turns to ash. “What about you?”
“I’m happy.” I yawn. “Just as long as you don’t bring out that, um, leather harness and Sparky the giant butt plug.”
I get off the bed and pull my jeans and Calvins up and move over to the window, where I lift a venetian blind. Down on Park, between 79th and 80th, is a black Jeep with two of Damien’s goons sitting in it, reading the new issue of what looks like
Interview
with Drew Barrymore on the cover, and one looks like a black Woody Harrelson and the other like a white Damon Wayans.
Alison knows what I’m seeing and from the bed says, “Don’t worry, I have to meet Grant Hill for a drink at Mad.61. They’ll follow and then
you
can escape.”
I flop onto the bed, flip on Nintendo, reach for the controls and start to play Super Mario Bros.
“Damien says that Julia Roberts
is
coming and so is Sandra Bullock,” Alison says vacantly. “Laura Leighton and Halle Berry and Dalton James.” She takes another hit off the joint and hands it to me. “I saw Elle Macpherson at the Anna Sui show and she says she’ll be there for the dinner.” She’s flipping through a copy of
Detour
with Robert Downey, Jr., on the cover, legs spread, major crotch shot. “Oh, and so is Scott Wolf.”
“Shhh, I’m playing,” I tell her. “Yoshi’s eaten four gold coins and he’s trying to find the fifth. I need to concentrate.”
“Oh my god, who gives a shit,” Alison sighs. “We’re dealing with a fat midget who rides a dinosaur and saves his girlfriend from a
“Alison, those two little shits tried to kill me,” I point out as she jumps up and wraps her legs around my waist.
“Mr. and Mrs. Chow
aren’t
little shits, baby.” She clamps her mouth onto mine as I stumble with her toward the bedroom. Once there she falls to her knees, rips open my jeans and proceeds to expertly give me head, deep-throating in an unfortunately practiced way, grabbing my ass so hard I have to pry one of her hands loose. I take a last drag off the cigarette that I’m still holding, look around for a place to stub it out, find a half-empty Snapple bottle, drop in what’s left of the Marlboro, hear it hiss.
“Slow down, Alison, you’re moving too fast,” I’m mumbling.
She pulls my dick out of her mouth and, looking up at me, says in a low, “sexy” voice, “Urgency is my specialty, baby.”
She suddenly gets up, drops the robe and lies back on the bed, spreading her legs, pushing me down onto a floor littered with random issues of WWDs, my right knee crumpling a back-page photo of Alison and Damien and Chloe and me at Naomi Campbell’s birthday party, sitting in a cramped booth at Doppelganger’s, and then I’m nibbling at a small tattoo on the inside of a muscular thigh and the moment my tongue touches her she starts coming—once, twice, three times. Knowing where this will not end up, I jerk off a little until I’m almost coming and then I think, Oh screw it, I don’t really have time for this, so I just fake it, moaning loudly, my head between her legs, movement from my right arm giving the impression from where she lies that I’m actually doing something. The music in the background is mid-period Duran Duran. Our rendezvous spots have included the atrium at Remi, room 101 at the Paramount, the Cooper-Hewitt Museum.
I climb onto the bed and lie there, pretending to pant. “Baby, where did you learn to give head like that? Sotheby’s? Oh man.” I reach over for a cigarette.
“So wait. That’s it?” She lights a joint, sucks in on it so deeply that half of it turns to ash. “What about you?”
“I’m happy.” I yawn. “Just as long as you don’t bring out that, um, leather harness and Sparky the giant butt plug.”
I get off the bed and pull my jeans and Calvins up and move over to the window, where I lift a venetian blind. Down on Park, between 79th and 80th, is a black Jeep with two of Damien’s goons sitting in it, reading the new issue of what looks like
Interview
with Drew Barrymore on the cover, and one looks like a black Woody Harrelson and the other like a white Damon Wayans.
Alison knows what I’m seeing and from the bed says, “Don’t worry, I have to meet Grant Hill for a drink at Mad.61. They’ll follow and then
you
can escape.”
I flop onto the bed, flip on Nintendo, reach for the controls and start to play Super Mario Bros.
“Damien says that Julia Roberts
is
coming and so is Sandra Bullock,” Alison says vacantly. “Laura Leighton and Halle Berry and Dalton James.” She takes another hit off the joint and hands it to me. “I saw Elle Macpherson at the Anna Sui show and she says she’ll be there for the dinner.” She’s flipping through a copy of
Detour
with Robert Downey, Jr., on the cover, legs spread, major crotch shot. “Oh, and so is Scott Wolf.”
“Shhh, I’m playing,” I tell her. “Yoshi’s eaten four gold coins and he’s trying to find the fifth. I need to concentrate.”
“Oh my god, who gives a shit,” Alison sighs. “We’re dealing with a fat midget who rides a dinosaur and saves his girlfriend from a
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