Bemelmans, positively giddy as my skirt swirled through the Carlye’s revolving doors. Actor Ian McKellen was swirling out as I entered elegant as a lynx. I sighed heavily wishing he worshiped at my temple, but alas, he had a strapping young man with him as chic as he is, just a younger version.
The place was jumping at 2 in the afternoon, but when it’s hot, so’s the bar. Any excuse for that martini, shaken not stirred. I fit right in wearing what I call my William Faulkner summer suit since everyone seemed swaddled in Ralph Lauren. I’ve had it forever bought when I was flush, and since, if you’re from Connecticut, it’s only worn three months out of the year staying in eternal, tip-top shape. I was told it was the color bisque not beige when I slid into the last empty seat at the far end of the bar. This handsome fella commented at once knowing it was vintage Ralph, as he called it. When I took off the jacket as if we were in woman’s separates, he rolled up the sleeves to my blue button-down.
It felt as if I was still working.
His name was Roy and when I mentioned seeing Ian McKellen I knew he didn’t worship at my temple either since he grew another inch in various places.
“He’s divIIIne, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he certainly is.”
“Did you see him as Sherlock Holmes? Oh my God. He’s a-maYYYzing.”
With my vodka and tonic soaking in lime, I relaxed taking in the sights. It could have been a commercial for the smug and snooty the way everyone posed and preened. The men with their hips cocked ready for action, while women resembled mannequins that move. It brought me back to when I was a bit modelly myself, even when I wasn’t modeling. Every movement was like a chess game, one’s body doing all the talking. Knees rubbing, shoulders shimmying, like a well choreographed horny ballet.
I made love to my long time man, Stolichnaya, who kept me chilled yet cozy while serenely watching the show.
See, at my age you want a sure thing, like a Russian you can trust.