Camille called all a flutter about what she heard happened at the Givenchy show in Paris this past Friday.
“Omigod Susannah….this male model….as he’s strutting down the runway in what looked like a rayon running suit, he whips it right out….opens the front, and well…there it is.”
“There what is?” I’m a little slow on the take…I’m thinking more Yorkie under his jacket.
“His you know what….and it was HUGE from what I hear.”
There went my Yorkie theory. Now, maybe because I’ve seen just one too many schlongs in my time I wasn’t as excited as Camille, especially when she moaned, “Why weren’t we there shopping.”
“Why? I don’t know Camille, but I can’t afford to go to the Whitman Mall let alone France.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“No, I’m so broke.”
The writer in me decided to research her story, so this is what really happened.
Riccardo Tisci, Givenchy’s head designer, commissioned a Dutch artist named Paul Veroude to suspend then explode a HUGE 1964 French plane in the midst of his lavish Parisian fashion show. Apparently this is what hung from steel cables across the circular catwalk…not a plump, powdered penis for the whole audience to awe and admire.
Personally, considering all the crashes lately, I feel it was in poor taste, but alas, Riccardo never called to ask my opinion.
When I told this to Camille, she didn’t believe me hanging up to Google the story herself.
Later when we met her mood was sullen.
“What’s the matter…why the long face?”
“I was happy thinking about Paris and front row seats…dresses and a big…
“Yes. Why did you ruin it for me Susannah?”
“Oh I don’t know Camille. Not sure what came over me, but let me make it up to you. I’ll buy lunch.”
That didn’t quite do it, but short of hiring another Dick to make a personal appearance, it was the very best I could do, at least on such short notice.