A couple of weeks ago, I met a guy. Upon first glance, all the boxes appeared to check off: tall, cute, educated, gainfully self-employed, good family values, upper intermediate English (a coup in France). Our chemistry wasn’t suffering, and we worked in the same industry, always giving us something interesting to talk about. Considering my usual luck, or lack thereof, pas mal.
However, as we got to know each other, the issues began to emerge. Despite his conventional upbringing, he appeared to have a very low understanding of chivalry, was still mildly obsessed with his ex, and generally presented himself as a bit of a sloppy mess. On one night, my friend and I found him around the corner from the neighboring La Perle, looking distraught. It almost seemed like he had been crying! Blinking away the tears, he refused to divulge the source of his troubles. Ten minutes later, we saw him back at the bar, blissfully flirting with two blondes, his problems seemingly forgotten. He then proceeded to follow us to another bar, where he alternated between a pensive and a bored pout, speaking only when spoken to.
Preamble: Since this story evokes a consequence of the most embarrassing events of my adult life, I have found the best analogy for it to be the Circles of Hell, inspired by Dante’s Inferno. Hence, this the manner in which I shall be presenting it.
Circle I: The Fall from Grace
Three summers ago, my girlfriend started dating a Greek shipping heir. In typical Greek shipping heir fashion, he decided to throw himself a birthday weekend that most people would rightfully mistake for a bachelor party, inviting 20+ of his mates to fly across the ocean to spend three days dropping enough cash to boost the GDP of Somalia. On the first night of the festivities, I was sitting at the Lion, pretending to commiserate about typical overprivileged Euro kid problems (boarding schools, butlers, who knows), when I heard one of the young men make a particularly bigoted statement. While I cannot recall the exact nature of this offence, I distinctly remember opening my big mouth and making some smart-ass comment that briefly shut him up. The following day, the party team reconvened at a terrifying nightclub called Lavo, where I proceeded to tumbled down the stairs, cracking my head in a way that required five (anesthesia-free) staples to be inserted in my skull at the nearing Lenox Hill Hospital. Clearly, the proximity to this man was dangerous to my well-being. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning.
Editor’s Note: The idea for this post came to me the other day while standing in line for the Elie Saab show, watching a gaggle of people, mildly resembling insane asylum escapees, practically performing circus routines in an effort to catch the attention of street style photographers. Suddenly, a refreshingly straight male appeared à la Prince Charming, handing me my show invitation, passed along by a very generous friend. Looking around the normally serene Tuileries gardens, he turned to me and muttered something hilarious and British that was quickly left forgotten. However, the main message was clear: what was mind-bogglingly cool to the fashion set was simply mind-boggling to normal straight males.
While I did not recruit the Brit for this endeavor, I did manage to solicit the commentary of a very entertaining male French friend, who, despite knowing way too much about fashion, still remains sexually attracted to the opposite sex. Without further ado, here is his take on some of the more “unique” street style looks of the fashion month.
Two Septembers ago, when I first moved to Paris, I ended up at the Oberkampf apartment of a boy who deemed it romantic to feed me frozen carrots en lieu of dinner. As our makeout session progressed and he made the first attempt to remove my shirt, he suddenly paused, looked me straight in the eye, and whispered seductively: “Je te desire.”
At that moment, I had to do everything in my power to hold in the snort that was threatening to explode frozen carrots and cheap wine all over his pleather couch. For some reason, the sound of a French man trying to talk sexy to me was possibly one of the funniest bedroom encounters of my life (second only to the time I could not locate my skirt at some hipster’s house and had to go to the office in tights and a trench coat.)
I have no clue what kind of tricks God and Susan Miller are playing on us, but lately I feel as if the whole world has lost its mind. Since I live in a current event-free bubble that floats somewhere between Style.com and my Instagram feed, by “whole world” I mean my friends. Ever since last Sunday, I have been bearing witness to some sort of mass heartbreak limbo, which entails all my friends getting dumped and then blowing it WAY out of proportion by engaging in ridiculous behavior. At this point, I feel like I’m operating a boutique mental institute, checking in on their status at least 3 times a day and keeping them all under the same roof, with one administered chaperone present. Luckily, my patients make for some really interesting case studies, which will make for even more interesting content for you guys! And so, without further ado…