Best Face Forward

I have had a lot of facials lately but you can get your mind out of the gutter. Enrique, the handsome and charming owner of the Face To Face Spa offered me the once over after his first appearance on the show and it ended up sandwiched between two other “corporately-mandated facials” that Romaine and I got as part of the launch of a new advertiser on the show. Three facials in three weeks and the ensuing overly intense scrubbing since then on my skin at home has left me noticeably younger in at least one regard: I have broken out like a teenager. Even worse, it is in a conspicuous arc under and around my eyes giving me the look of a bandit who is deeply allergic to his mask.

Despite the baleful condition of my skin and my impending pool party tomorrow at Clayton’s house, I agreed to join Hottie Zach out for a short drink at Therapy after the show. I orchestrated original Jonathan’s appearance there as well, which wasn’t difficult since he lives around the corner and is always as game for a cocktail as a scuba diver is for more air. Walking into Therapy the first person I saw was adorable Ronnie Kroell. He and Zach both share a feckless cream cheese complexion that even under my best circumstances I envy with the bloodlust of Snow White’s wicked queen. But his warm giddiness at seeing me melted my self-doubt and I threw myself wholeheartedly into the experience.

Ronnie is actively trying to make his way in the big city, a modern gay version of Mary Tyler Moore, but substituting a modeling contract for the beret. Perhaps I am the gruff and wise Lou Grant type here to guide him along, coaxing him relentlessly but unsuccessfully into my web of cynicism. Ronnie was there with Hottie Zach and original Jonathan and a fashion designer named Sergio (“Serge!” he implored me in a beautiful yet booze tainted accent while insisting on joining in on the round of hugs that accompanied my arrival).

Moments later, upstairs with drinks in hand, Serge explained that he was a fashion designer for whom Ronnie’s body was the perfect hanger. Earlier in the day, they had gone to Bergdorf’s so Ronnie could try on a selection of his Italy-made designer duds, the tale of which invoked instant flashes of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. The way Ronnie described his fantasy of walking through Central Park in Serge’s jeans and gorgeous cashmere sweater, latte in hand, made me realize that despite having a masters degree in political science, his dream of being a paper doll has been a long time coming.

“Ronnie has told me wonderful things about you!” Serge purred in my ear. I demurred. “Lies,” I smiled, both deflecting the flattery and knowing full well that I had no chance of living up to Ronnie’s earnestly Midwest rendition of me. “I will get you a pair of my jeans. What size are you?” Petite is always my stock answer but the language barrier made my joke even more incomprehensible than usual. “I have a 32 inch waist.” I told him. Serge nodded, “I am going to get you a 33. My sizes…” his voice trailed off into a sea of fashion jargon I will never comprehend as I fixated on his insistence at sizing me up against my will.

As I headed off to the train, original Jonathan offered to take the jeans off my hands. When it comes to pants we can practically wear the same size, but when it comes to style, he leaves me in the dust. This is for the best. When I wear something fashionable, instead of looking sexy, I end up looking like Edina from Absolutely Fabulous. I can carry off a suit or a tuxedo, just like every gay man can, as evidenced by the preponderance of three year old brother of the bride photos that spread through gay dating sites like Syphilis. But high fashion is lost of me. Head to toe, I am a lost cause. I am sure Ronnie’s complexion can handle a hundred face scrubbings a week and still look flawless, and original Jonathan can fill out a pair of designer jeans like an application, but my lack of style is a style all its own. And even such as it is, unfashionable and unkempt, I should probably stick with what I know. As the saying goes, better to be thought a fashion victim than try something new and remove all doubt.