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May 19, 2003
I Danced with a Supermodel!
 | Photo courtesy of the Sky News site |
I managed to blag my way into the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition launch afterparty where I danced with this year's covergirl, Petra Nemcova. Above is a picture of the young lady in question as she was dressed at the time. Fortunately, I was looking pretty fine myself. I wore a pair of jeans from Costco and one of my mother-in-law's old jumpers. So, despite being twice as old as some of the women there, I fit in almost perfectly.
When I was a young spotty-faced teenager I dreamed of being at a party surrounded by dozens of gorgeous models. I'm not a teenager any more and you might expect a married man of 39 would be somewhat disappointed when he finally gets a chance to live that dream. You might expect me to feel a bit awkward and see the whole thing as a bit shallow and silly.
WRONG!
Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! It was fantastic! Holy Frigging Dip-Doodle! They're absolutely delectably GORGEOUS!
Usually I feel a bit odd going to a party where I don't know that many people. However, I've discovered it's different when the place is awash with supermodels.
It was a decadent occasion. The drink of choice seemed to be a £165 bottle of vodka served in an ice bucket with a pitcher of mix on the side. The VIP area had a line of white four-poster beds along the back wall. As soon as you entered the club you found yourself standing on a transparent dance floor. Below, two models in bra and knickers lolled around on an enormous bed. They looked at snapshots and ate sushi and waved at the people dancing above them and just hung out being gorgeous. It was all rather pajama-partyish -- except without the pajamas. It was like the best Big Brother show ever.
There was another larger dance floor where most of the actual dancing took place. I spent most of my time there, dancing, as always, like a crazed ex-lumberjack at a trendy supermodel party. Supermodels are quite lithe and uninhibited on the dance floor. Petra, in particular, was a lovely dancer. I perhaps stretched the truth somewhat when I said I danced WITH her. I didn't actually go up to the woman and proposition her.
"Please, Madam, May I have this dance?"
But she was on the dance floor and I was on the dance floor and our eyes met and she smiled at me and focused her dancing attention on me for a good fifteen seconds or so. I believe we may have even grazed buttocks at one point. Yes, I was blessed. It was cool.
I went with a few friends, one of whom left early and left his camera with me. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to work the damn thing, so I only took two pictures the entire night. I was also somewhat worried about being kicked out as I suspected some of the drunken badly behaved people around me might be prime tabloid fodder, but I just didn't know who they were. I'm a bit crap at spotting British Soap Stars.
On the other hand, it was good the camera proved such a challenge as I did get to talk to a supermodel because of it. I was in one of the quiet rooms (which wasn't all that quiet) trying to figure out how to work the damn thing. I phoned my friend and held the phone to my ear with a large cushion pressed to the side of my head. I was desperate to get the camera to work at this stage because I wanted to take a picture of this woman's feet.
Yes, it sounds a bit kinky but it wasn't like that at all. The woman in question was a blonde, vaguely familiar model about of about 30 something. She was wearing a light cotton dress -- very farmer's daughter like and wispy and gorgeous. But she was also wearing these very tall, very long and pointy, very black high heels with pink and black striped socks. This made her look like an angel from mid-calf upwards and like the Wicked Witch of the East from mid-calf downwards.
So, there I was: sitting on this couch with a pillow pressed to my head and shrieking into the phone in panic while struggling one-handed with something in my lap. This attracted the attention of the Wicked Angel of the East. More precisely, it caused her to fall back on an adjacent couch laughing uproariously and pointing at me.
I was forced to explain. "It's this fucking camera," I shouted. "I can't get it to work and I really wanted to ask if I can take a picture of your socks."
"You don't want to take a picture of my face or my body?" she asked. "How novel! How original! How delightful!" she said.
And so she helped me figure out how to turn the flash on and let me snap a picture of her leg and then I put my head on her thigh to take a self-portrait of myself with the famous sock.
Just in case that sentence went by too fast for you... Yes, I had my head on a supermodel's thigh. Am I cool or what? I must be the coolest sock fetishist I know.
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And then my landlord returned with our drinks and the Wicked Angel of the East began making out with her ridiculously young, good-looking, and fashionably-dressed boyfriend.
Apparently, years ago, these types of parties were the norm for my (admittedly insane and possibly prone to delusions) landlord. He used to be part of the trendy party scene in New York and partied with Heidi Klum and Tyra Banks and co.
"It wasn't about the sex," he told me. "It was just about lying naked on a bed with a bunch of models and licking champagne off each other's skin."
Yeah! Baby! Yeah!
Posted by YandaMan at May 19, 2003 11:26 PM
Category:
London
