1994 - Summer
I have received a letter written on pink paper. Never open a letter written on pink paper. Furthermore it was from a woman called Francesca. Another bad sign. . . She claimed to have been an art student when I was a model and hankered to be remembered. . .She cited various touching incidents that would jog my memory - for example, she bought me cups of coffee in the mid-morning breaks - in return for which, she now wanted me to meet her at La Guardia airport. There are no free coffee breaks.
I positively refused to flaunt a card besmirched with the word FRANCESCA, but I have other means of making myself conspicuous, . . She recognised me instantly. We went to the Days Hotel on Eighth Avenue, and up to her room. There, though she was so small as to be hardly visible to the naked eye, she seized me in an iron grip and demanded that I kiss her. . . I layed my cheekbone against hers in the manner adopted by touring actresses when greeting people they do not know, and left hastily.
The next day, though she is at least seventy and I am at least eighty-five, undaunted by my coldness, she demanded that I cuddle her. 'Don't press your luck,' I warned her.
When, like Mr Alexander (the Great), you run out of worlds to conquer, you invent a perfume. . . Now Mr Klein has concocted 'CK1' and a lot of men and women foregathered on Mr Roosevelt's Island, in a studio so large it would have been possible to film the Charge of the Light Brigade, to advertise this mysterious scent. . . We huddled together, talking airily of this and that, while a half-naked young man crawled between our feet. It is a politically correct perfume: it is for everybody, but more than that I cannot say.
Some time ago, I posed in a white suit provided for me by a photographer who wished to take a picture of me thus clad . . . He gave me the suit and at the time I wondered when I could possibly wear it but, as the hottest June broke over us like a bowl of warm molasses, I thought, 'This could be the time.' . . . I sat in a restaurant on Second Avenue and was complimented by a middle-aged lady. 'You remind me of Quentin Crisp,' she said. I simpered, lowered my eyelids, and sighed, 'We all try to dress like him. He was such a wonderful role model.'
I positively refused to flaunt a card besmirched with the word FRANCESCA, but I have other means of making myself conspicuous, . . She recognised me instantly. We went to the Days Hotel on Eighth Avenue, and up to her room. There, though she was so small as to be hardly visible to the naked eye, she seized me in an iron grip and demanded that I kiss her. . . I layed my cheekbone against hers in the manner adopted by touring actresses when greeting people they do not know, and left hastily.
The next day, though she is at least seventy and I am at least eighty-five, undaunted by my coldness, she demanded that I cuddle her. 'Don't press your luck,' I warned her.
When, like Mr Alexander (the Great), you run out of worlds to conquer, you invent a perfume. . . Now Mr Klein has concocted 'CK1' and a lot of men and women foregathered on Mr Roosevelt's Island, in a studio so large it would have been possible to film the Charge of the Light Brigade, to advertise this mysterious scent. . . We huddled together, talking airily of this and that, while a half-naked young man crawled between our feet. It is a politically correct perfume: it is for everybody, but more than that I cannot say.
Some time ago, I posed in a white suit provided for me by a photographer who wished to take a picture of me thus clad . . . He gave me the suit and at the time I wondered when I could possibly wear it but, as the hottest June broke over us like a bowl of warm molasses, I thought, 'This could be the time.' . . . I sat in a restaurant on Second Avenue and was complimented by a middle-aged lady. 'You remind me of Quentin Crisp,' she said. I simpered, lowered my eyelids, and sighed, 'We all try to dress like him. He was such a wonderful role model.'