Marilyn

Paris, December 2010

I am blonde. Tonight, I am 'the blonde'. Tight mini-dress. Sky-scraping skinny heels. My best friend has been ordering bottles of Champagne for me for the past four hours. I feel no more pain in my feet, I don't feel the cold wind itching the skin of my bare legs. I vapidly laugh without any reason. Which actually makes me laugh even more.

My friend grades the room. Too old for me, too skinny and straight for him. An old sleazy one is heading our way. He's trying to offer me a drink. I'm speechless. I laugh again. Should I feel insulted or flattered? I'm happy somebody is showing interest in me. But, frankly, I am offended at the idea of being mistaken for a nurse from a retirement house. I grab the arm of the first passer by. Tall, dark, clean shaved, made to measure suit. He checks out my cleavage and my hips molded in those few bands of elastic lurex. He smirks and says:

"Darling, does the gentleman wish to join us?"
"I have no idea, but, he's kinda cute, isn't he?" I say lasciviously.
"Right at the moment, we were going for a tour in my Porsche! Maybe next time, sport..."

I smile, not getting anything out of what is happening. The elderly man still wants to mix up with us but the Tall man grabs a magnum of Champagne in one hand and my waist in the other. I am completely under his control.

His Carrera is waiting for us in front of the club. I forgot my friend inside. I forgot the simple existence of anything else right now. I'm sitting in a sports car with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot in my lap and a manly hand on my knee. I forgot my fur coat. I forgot my pouch.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye with satisfaction as he turns on the powerful engine. I wet the dress directly as I must wear it without any underwear. The spike heels push into the soft carpet as he suddenly accelerates. I hate this virile need to show his power by driving 60mph on a 10 meter segment in a jammed Parisian traffic.

I pop the cork out the window and I just drink and laugh. He puts on some romantic music.

His apartment is huge and overviews the Eiffel Tower. He comes to me impatiently.

Just this morning I was crying in my bed looking at my grayish blond hair and my skinny body after three months of unplanned fasting. My best friend came over to pick me up, he turned my hair platinum blonde, put me into a golden Herve Leger by Max Azria dress, stuck a pair of Sergio Rossi heels on my feet, covered my back with a Pucci fur and slipped a Margiela pouch in my hand. I could have never been able to afford those clothes with my editor's assistant job. Fortunately my friend is a press agent at a big agency.There are some perks to his job.

I'm standing naked even before he starts to kiss me. I can smell his entire day coming up from his sweat. The skin on his body is much less attractive than his face. He takes his own clothes off. I mechanically caress his back as he attempts to passionately embrace me. I'm asking myself what am I doing here, what is it going to end up like.

He's clumsy and only pretends to be patient. I follow him to his bed. He strokes my skin a bit, kisses me... My body gives in to him without asking me for a consent. My body wants him. He puts on a condom and puts me over the top of it. He lasts five minutes, breaks included. He has a nice Bang&Olufsen alarm clock. He throbs his jaw forward and rolls his eyes over as he cums. I feel like rolling to the side in case he feels like hitting me. He falls down to his elbows. Smiling with self satisfaction. He kisses me with his wet mouth on my front, I close down like a shell. My excitation is all gone.

Once he falls asleep I put on my dress, take his phone to call my friend. He comes to pick me up by cab with the fur and the pouch.

Tomorrow, as I will wake up, I will cry. Because in three moths of self deprivation I didn't loose anything, I didn't miss anything. My dreams vanished in one night, all my hopes are shattered. I have no others. Prince Charming is just a premature egoistical Shrek ogre..and I just got my period..on the seat of the cab, as I didn't realize it was coming. I just destroyed a dress worth over 2000 Euros.

Clément

Paris, October 2010

Some people are born rich. Some people work hard to become rich. Some people are lucky. And then, there's me. A modern day Cinderella. I used to work very hard. Now, I give what I have been given without ever asking for it, my body, to the one who pays the most. I dream of power. I get vanity as a consolation prize. Often covered up as a business meeting or a training session abroad. Often substituting real feelings, I get my dreams of future substitued by an appearance of the present.

A suite at George V, personal drivers in all directions. Travelling the World around only to see the bathroom of a hotel, prestigious or less... Only wearing Italian designs, only paying by cash... Secret but ostentatious, sometimes I steal some love from someone who is not afraid to show up with me. A little ugly duckling fearless enough to show me off. That carries me around like a trophy wife. I am his social success. Poor slut of me. 

If my body and my soul could be split in two, we would be two very different people. If my soul had a face, it would be without any interest, just a bitter and plain face of an empty man. But if my body had a soul at level of it's beauty, everybody would come drink my words of joy and sweetness. My soul survives on my body. My body covers up for my soul. Six feet one inch, hundred and fifty four pounds, jacket size 48, shoe size 44. Strawberry blond hair, blue grey eyes, spotless skin. A contract with L'Oréal , Prada and Gucci. My boyfriend is a fashion photographer. My parents are former proletarians. My parents in law are extremely 'bourgeois'. Every Sunday we go for a family lunch. Monday through Friday I work with my boyfriend. I read three books in my life: 'The Little Prince' by Saint Exupéry and two books by Loïc Prigent edited by Vogue. People have me for an intellectual when I wear my fake Tom Ford glasses to stop my sleepless party nights from showing in my eyes. Empty headed, feelingless in my heart and the absence of ambition play savagely with the remainder of my brain softened by the use of powders and pills, regular alcohol cleaning and hailing to rhythmic electronic music stupidity between catwalks and clubs.  Sitting on an Armani Casa sofa in a grey Dolce&Gabbana T-shirt and Audigier sweatpants watching 'Secret Story' on my LCD screen (without understanding what the abbreviation means) asking myself if I'm in anyway happier or more fulfilled than those on the other side of the screen in this twisted version of Big Brother. Intelligence, fame, beauty? I don' think so. A suicide would be so easy. Around a hundred grieving people would go listening to my favorite songs. Well, actually, they would just meet, get drunk, listen to their own music, get closer to the final destination and pretend it makes them feel closer to me...too easy. I'm going to kickstart again tomorrow. A sharp look prepared by my stylist at my last shooting for a typical fashion journalist day: Croissant, cab, fashion show, photos in the street, cab, fashion show, cab, a salad between two shows, I need to fit into my skinny leather jeans, even if I they're stretch by Jitrois, but we all prefer Owens, don't we? A party with everybody. Kiss on a cheek, kiss on a cheek, kiss on a mouth, hysterical screaming, 'Absolutely Fabulous' sweetie darling, Champagne, vodka, mojito, rhum, splash the toilet after emptying your stomach, oh, a dick in my mouth, Maxime's, Club Sandwich, BLT...Kiss, kiss, French Kiss..cab, coma, home, coma, wake up, amnesia.