My magazine debut and nobody is invited….

13 Dec


Imagine if you will, Brothel Babe’s secret magazine debut.
This isn’t so much a launch party for a magazine so much as it is a website.
However, at this party, there is a limited edition run of the magazine.

Please note that what started off as a fantasy has now become real life, as my fantasy editor has become the living, breathing, real object of my affections, as much as he is soon to become my REAL editor. I nonchalantly throw out terms of endearment to him on occasion…treating it like some posh girl would…..and he does things like….sends me music he thinks I will like and attaches a nice note with it, or will send a photo someone took of us at a party smiling together sitting all too close, even though he hates having his picture taken. We’ve been talking for months now and while it doesn’t seem so significant looking at any one particular day, I feel like I know his whole story, I feel like he knows a lot about mine…and more importantly, when he’s in the room…everything glows and nothing else matters.

At first I was wishy-washy on what to wear. I ultimately opted for this Velveteen burnout dress with black kitten heels, which in turn was somewhat coordinated with my Editor’s perfectly polished suit.

I wore my hair different than I normally did in a haircut that was edgier than my typical ho-self. I wore it this way because it’s less suspecting that a girl with such an edgy haircut would be a ho, right?

It was slightly off-putting that I was not on the guest list for this posh event – I guess because my editor doesn’t want any paper trail leading back to me. I see him sitting at a table with a well known record executive. I walk up to the table and we do this strange wave turned hand-holdey thing that’s become one of the trademarks of our awkward encounters. I know exactly who this record executive is but I say nothing, so as to err on the side of mysteriousness. I’ve been out of town so long that hardly anybody has been recognizing me lately anyway.

My friends trickle in, one by one. My virgin friend.
My virgin friend doesn’t like the stark contrast of arty people…
“It’s weird coming from an event where everybody says hi to you and knows you and then coming to this.”

Of course…going to the church events where everyone goes to love and to be loved, then going to a posh magazine “thing” where its more important to be….posh…and….low key….that would feel off kilter, wouldn’t it?

My editor comes by my table to check in on me and I tell him, “Your friend is here, I am a fan of her work!”
His friend Beth. Beth is a glorious local writer and she does some amazing short stories. She is a friend of The Babe on facebook and on twitter but in real life doesn’t know me at all.

“I really want to go say hi, but she doesn’t know I’m me!” I tell him.
Like he’s suddenly my manager talking, he says, “It’s probably best not to tell any more people. It’s probably best that as few people as possible know who you are.”

So….here I am, a fan, with one of the people I really respect right before me,
but I can’t say hi to her. Because the mystery is more important.

The editor also reminds me manager style how important the mystery is in regards to doing that in-person interview with that other (larger) magazine too. He tells me that the secret is safe here and that he thinks an in-person interview (with another female, with no cel phone and no cameras!?) is a really bad idea.

Weird how everyone starts to turn into your manager when its your identity on the line.

How people want my identity protected says more about their personal interests than my my career. Mom wants me to hide, the Rep wants me to be profitable…and the Editor wants to keep me as his secret. Which could be more personal than I think. Who knows.

I also did a terrible thing…
30 minutes after that my virgin friend says,
“The guy from the coffee shop is here!”

That’s right. His name was Michael.
I boldly invited a guy I had met at a coffeeshop to make up for the shortcomings I had with Genevieve a few days before.
I thought, “what harm can it do to write down the magazine release on a piece of paper, introduce myself, and hope this good looking guy shows up?”

The reason why I invited him was because I could see him staring at me like he wanted to talk to me, but since I was with my girlfriend at the time, and he was also with a friend, he didn’t want to intrude.
I made NO ATTEMPTS at being PC when I handed the guy my name and the party details written down.

Much to my surprise he showed up.
Also to my surprise, he did not offer to buy me a drink.
My same friend was also there.
Right after my virgin friend left,
Genevieve showed up.
I’m sure Michael saw me glancing at my editor repeatedly over the course of the 20 or 30 minutes he was talking.
While Michael is an attractive European man with an accent, I’m sure he couldn’t help but notice that out of the corner of my eye I was watching my editor flutter about the room every two minutes.

Oh. How he has my heart.
And how the editor’s heart glowed.
When you see a man doing something he loves…..
It’s glorious.

In fact, in a bold move, the editor even came up to my table
and whispered in my ear much longer than normal.
I tried to make like I didn’t know the editor that well to Michael at first,
just said he was this guy in the arts scene…..
But the way the editor so comfortably whispered in my ear at length while the loud music played in the background,
I’m sure Michael knew something else was up.

Once Genevieve left and it was Me and Michael sitting at our table in the corner, I got up to watch some of the live music going on.

Maybe a few minutes later Michael went home.

“Where did your friend go?”

The editor asked.

“Oh he was just stopping by.”
“Oh I thought he was your date for the evening.” said the editor.

YES…I thought, the specifically calculated good looking man I placed in my proximity to make you, the editor, jealous.
My bodyguard also showed up.

There were a bunch of mutual friends of ours at the party (one of my ex ex boyfriends, that whole art crew I used to run with!) so I tried to avoid that whole corner of the festivities in general, in favor of not getting the “you’re the whore!” stare-downs.

I don’t even know that in the dark lighting of the evening and amidst the alcohol if anybody would have even read that the magazine was filled with sex writings from me….and I’m not sure they would have made the connection that I was the one who wrote them.

I got there about an hour late to avoid being noticed and my Editor did tell me that a few people who had read the articles were very much pleased with Brothel Babe’s writings.

There were some features that the editor’s intern put together….and you know those people from that art collective? Yeah a few of them were there, along with the wife of one of them.

As she left she said, “Oh I like to hold onto any of the writing that our friend Rose does. So I’m taking two since she’s the intern on this.”

I wanted so much to speak up and to say, “The SEX ARTICLES ARE ONES I WROTE!” but I don’t think she knows I’m a whore. So I said nothing.

Somehow during the course of the evening, a bunch of my punk friends ended up outside of the party with my drunk bodyguard babysitting them. What you don’t know about my bodyguard is that he is also a limo driver. So sometimes between shifts he will drive around our drunk friends. I walked around a corner to where I heard laughter and found my favorite drunk girl sitting. Wearing her typical boys clothes and black beanie, sitting down along the wall and smoking a cigarette. I hunkered up along the wall and held my drunk girlfriends hand while we smoked cigarettes together. I love her, and she loves me, and its some kinda straight or vaguely gay platonic love, but its love none the less….I’d never held a girls hand before…and my friends hand felt so comfortable there.

It was weird to be sitting with my dirty jobless friends on one corner and then look down the other direction to see the posh smoking area of the rest of the party with all the intelligent socialites who have no idea that I actually took part in their stupid magazine. But with my bodyguard and our dirty punker friends, it felt safe there. Things got a little less classy when my drunk girlfriend pretended to be homeless and asked the posh partygoers “HEY, do you have ANY MONEY!” and I had to apologize for her…and disappear in the party, before I got embarrassed.

I felt sorta….unsatisfied about the whole nite. It was anti climactic. That is until I saw an old art scenester named Devon perched in the corner of the bar. He was dressed up above his regular attire…wearing a suit and nice tie. He asked me about Michael, who I explained was somebody I’d just met. I met Devon back when I had my fake ID and was too shy to talk to anyone – so we’d always wave hello in passing but never converse much. Devon is normally the sweet shy melancholy type…he married a lesbian once and the lesbian gave birth to his child…and she killed herself and the baby. So that explains a lot of Devon’s Eeyore-like lilt. He asked me about love…and I said, “Oh I have my sites on somebody.” as I look back at my editor, who is standing a few feet away in a flurry of people.

Devon knows who I’m talking about.
“That guy, you can get him, easily.”

“Not so much. It’s more difficult than it looks.”
I say.

Devon has always been so quiet to me over the years and in his drunkenness mumbles that he’s always been quiet to me because he had this big crush on me at one time. We note at how mild the evening is….and I see a magazine perched on the bar.

“hey I wrote some of this stuff in here, want me to show you?”

“No you didn’t.” he says.
“No I did, really. Read this here.”

So he tries to read the articles in his drunken blur.

“You mean to tell me you’ve been working as a prostitute?”
I smile and nod and we laugh.
“I don’t believe you.” he says.
“Neither do most people. Maybe it’s fiction.”
“Would you like me to read some of it to you?”
I ask.

So right there as the party is emptying out, I read him my essay about fucking a china man.
It was cathartic, to say the least.

Devin is one of those fellows who’s always drunk so the likelihood of him remembering that I even read anything to him is slim to none…it was still fun though.

Before the night it is over, My editor is behind the DJ booth discussing business matters with somebody but some glorious track is playing…the dance floor is nearly empty…and I grab the hand of a guy I don’t know to dance and get spun around. I’m wishing it was my editor. My editor gives me the “I wish I could but I am tending to business” face.

Either way, I hope he liked watching me dance- its as close as it will get without a pole involved!

I have to wait until the end of the night and its a collection of me and some socialite people, including that writer girl who I am a fan of, who I pretend not to know, because my editor doesn’t want me to talk to her.
Fortunately she’s smooth and she goes off on her own, which leaves me, the editor, his best friend…and a couple others all standing around….

and the editor walks me to my car.
And we kiss like we always do….
He tells me that I’m sexy beyond belief
and I make some offhand comment, giving him permission…to do the unthinkable…
“you can say, oh I’m just not that into you.” I tell him.
to which he replies,
“No, I AM that into you.
but I want you to work for me.
Can you just respect what I am trying to do here?”

In my drunkenness I remember I have free movie passes and invite him to a movie.
Don’t ask me how a guy can say no to romance but yes to a movie.

As he walked away I said,
“I’m going to have blue balls on the way home thanks to you!”

He said, “I’m not the only one!”

I got home that night to open the magazine and realize that there were three features that I had written in the magazine. More than any other author. All I could think was, “Maybe my editor likes me more than I thought.”

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