a haiku

the cameraman

asks my name but i don’t know

i drool; love fashion

Friday, September 5th | 2:38AM | Duh Fridays and MADE present Lil Kim & Uzi at Up & Down

I am 1.5 meters away from Lil’ Kim. I am 1.5 meters away from Lil’ Kim. Shimmering, painted, and cinched for the gods, she clutches a mic with one hand and holds the other out in benediction, blessing the crowd. “Where’s BROOKLYN at!” she screams. “Where’s HARLEM at! STATEN ISLAND in the building!” Airhorns rip through the air; a cute boy in a Hood by Air tee caresses my left butt cheek and kisses my neck. In high school, I spent hours listening to Hard Core trying to figure out how to be a sexual person, maybe even how to be a woman. Behind me stands my sexual future, his hand on my hip; before me stands my sexual past – my Bad Bitch mentor – mic in hand…oh my God! Are we both wearing Prabal Gurung?

Saturday, September 6th | 11:14PM | Prabal Gurung SS15 after party at Haus

Prabal Gurung is a notoriously sweet man. He dressed me for his directional runway show earlier in the day, and now again for the celebration bash at Haus in TriBeCa. Prabal rolls in with a crew of 20; we double-kiss. He pauses, looks me up and down; his eyes narrow. “You know,” he whispers in my ear, “you look better in this than ***** did.”

He disappears into the throng.

I stand alone: motionless, dumbstruck.

I’m not a Girl, not yet an It-Girl.

Sunday, September 7th | 5:46PM | Nicola Formichetti presents Nicopanda SS15 at Studio Formichetti

I’m celebrating! I just walked my first two runway shows ever for Hood by Air and Eckhaus Latta! I’m celebrating! I pop by Nicola's studio for some “champagne and cake,” as the invitation read. The new Nicopanda line – kawaii neoprene separates modeled by the likes of James Dazzle and Amy Cakes Dank Dank – is a lavish leap forward from the cutesy tee shorts of yore. I pose for a photo with Nicola; an Instagram alert lights up my cell. I’ve been credited beside my alleged “daddy”: @nicolaformichetti.

Sunday, September 7th | 1:36AM | Opening Ceremony after party at the Out Hotel

Diana Vreeland once said: “there’s no hour that kills except the hour you stayed after you wanted to go home.” Don’t get me wrong – the OC party is glam and headless…but the flesh is weak, and I’d been getting “killed,” in Vreelandian terms, for the past 300 minutes.

I see some friends in a roped off-VIP section. Friends is a strong word, but at least two of them follow on me Instagram, so I go for it. I teeter over, wink, wave, and Mel Ottenberg scoops me up past the security guard. “Supermodel!” he bellows. I’m way too faded to tell if he’s joking. I chat with Mel and his beau Adam Selman, fresh off a sensual smash-hit runway debut. “Sensual,” I drawl, when he asks me what I thought. My mind’s producing about one word per minute. I stick to my guns: ���sensual…sensual.” 

Suddenly, my VIP jitters are gone. I smirk to myself, fish a Camel Blue out of my bag, and light up. Inside. Because I can! I’m a supermodel.

Within seconds, a woman in a red dress and headset grabs my arm. “You can’t smoke in here,” she hisses, snatching the cig out of my hand like a steak knife from an 8-year-old. About 40 seconds later, she announces that “the VIPs are coming,” and that we’d all have to vacate the booth. On our way down the steps, Ian Bradley whispers in my ear: “congrats, honey: you just smoked us out of the VIP!” All I can say is “sensuous.”

“Anyway,” he sighs, “see you at the Calvin Klein party tomorrow?”