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FICTION: CBLB The King of Pussy in Boots

May 7, 2010

Photo by Guy Bourdin

The following story, which will be serialized once a week on this blog, is FICTION. Though set within actual cultural set points of time and place, as one would find in historical fiction, no one character is based on anyone living or dead, but imaginary.

This is satire. I hope it’s a fun ride, which is my sole intention as the author.

This work is registered with the Writers’ Guild of America and is additionally protected.  Law will prosecute any use of the following work without explicit permission by the author.

“The King of Pussy In Boots”

The denim rubbed against  his thumb and forefinger. He figured a centimeter less on each side of his hips. Reggie pushed the coiled measuring tape back into his leather sack, this worn Pierre Cardin bag that reminded him of the soft shell of a saddle. He had found it at the Paris flea market. The more he beat up the bag, the more he enjoyed it, adding to his history.

The small pocket in the top flap zipped up to hide his tape measure, his secret. Each day, he measured his waist and hips. Each day, he hesitated, almost surprised for a moment that flesh did not bulge over his thick belt,  relief that he had stayed the same, or even diminished.

First, he’d pack himself into tight briefs, examining himself in a full length mirror, but only taking out the tape measure once he had slid into a pair of jeans. Then, he’d discard the pants and briefs, set them on the john, immerse his body in the shower, and return dripping, to the sink. He’d splash his face with ice-cold water, brush his teeth, then ultimately grab a small jar from the medicine cabinet. He’d measure out two lines of powder with a silver razor, snort one into each nostril with a rolled hundred-dollar bill he kept on the shelf, rinse the razor, then shave with it. This was his ritual.

“You know they call you the king of Pussy in Boots.” That’s what the Kat woman told him on the telephone.

He laughed at himself in the mirror now. He found this Kat lady to be completely asexual, although she always dropped names of the famous people she shagged.  Now on this talk show, where he was scheduled to appear that afternoon, she’d probably inquire about his.

“You realize I shoot for Yves St. Laurent.” Reggie had told the Kat woman. He was directing and photographing all the shoe campaigns.

But Reggie’s photos hit the mark closer to “Pussy in Boots.” He had garnered a certain level of notoriety and then even mainstream fame, for convincing girls with symmetrical features or even creatures with a certain irresistible vulgarity to strip butt naked except for one pair of boots. They could be stiletto boots. Cowboy boots, the more worn the better.  Boots with absurd nine-inch ramp like wedges. Even wellies.

Muff shots. But nobody called them muff shots.  His internet photos were  regarded as a form of art, even when he began inserting himself into the pix.

High end fashion found him in no time, maybe only six months, Reggie—born Reginald Hodgekiss – was shooting ads for big designers.

“The truth is, everyone wants to see pussy.” He was talking to himself now as he tucked his white shirt into his jeans. ‘Just nobody admits it except me.”

CLICK MORE LINE BELOW TO CONTINUE READING….

Theologie  could not be moved by him, which is why he loved her. He utterly adored her. He could lavish her with meals at Le Bernadin or suites at the Carlyle filled with fat pink peonies. He bought her those Chanel thigh high leather boots and decorative high clogs for spring. She’d change for him into whatever shoe he required, stand there naked before a white quilt on the bed, as was his latest fixation, with her eyes drilling into him, never smiling.

He was spending more money on her than any of the others, yet he just about paid the bills. He managed rent on  his flat in Kensington in London, a small pied a terre in the sixteenth in Paris, and his hotel tabs in New York: a revolving door among the Mercer in Soho, the new Standard in the meatpacking district, and the place he preferred for Theologie, the Carlyle. He had first spotted her at the club at the Standard with her scrappy art roommate.

Something about this girl from Tennessee, reared in biblical school by a high Christian working class mamma after “dead beat outta work dad up and left’ — these were her words– (he was chuckling now), hooked him.

He enjoyed plucking her from her Essex Street rat trap  and shuttling her  to a palatial room uptown. The doormen at the Carlyle extended such courtesy to  this downtown nymph, thinking she was some kind of erupting star, and she was becoming, through him.   Theologie and Reggie would sit on the burgundy love seats, order tea and scones before he’d take her upstairs, play with her body, fuck her again, hoping this time for a gasp, a tear, a smile.

When she deejayed for parties at Lit in the East Village or even a downtown gig at the restaurant at the Standard that he had hooked up, Theologie did not utter a word to anyone.

She just played her sets from her MAC book, a lot  of Smiths tunes, Jesus and Mary Chain, Souxsie Sue, all groups who existed a good twenty years before her birth. She told Reg that her mother had them on cassette tapes  bound together with rubber bands in a secured box. “This was before.” She said. “Mamma had gone full blown Jesus,  when pa left a month before I arrived in the world.” Theologie used hillbilly affectations when it suited her and she also wrote odd poetry.

By the time Reggie arrived at the Carlyle, she had already taken her reserved seat on the burgundy love seat. This was the second time he found her  writing, with  a pristine white tea service to her left, her platinum pony mane grazing over an efficient notebook.

Placing his right hand on her head, with the other folding over her open notebook, Reg bent over and kissed her mouth. This was his time now.

“Hey. Welcome.” She said with a soft twang.

He could never tell if she mocked him. And when he prodded to find out, she’d flash him a momentary grin that she’d take back a moment later.

“Have you eaten?” He asked seeing only a half filled tea-cup on the table.

“Ummn, not really hungry.” She said.

He could not explain what came over him when he saw her like that, like a morning apparition, although for him, morning often happened well beyond noon when did not have to shoot.  The giant rectangle clock in the hall of the hotel ticked to 2:15 pm and he was due at the Cable King Studios in an hour and fifteen minutes.

Reggie brought Theologie up to the usual all white suite, when they set lunch tea dates. He snorted a couple of lines of powder while she disrobed in the bathroom and  walked to edge of the bed naked, save her rhinestone studded Louboutin stilettos. She then folded her hands in prayer.  He opened her hands and opened her limbs and worked on her more ways than usual. They both came three times, or so he hoped, and when he glanced at his IPhone, he realized he had forgotten all about the Kat woman.

While Theologie took a shower, he sent a text. “Sorry, I got tied up in a meeting. We’ll have to reschedule.”

Reggie glanced to one side of the bed and found Theologie’s efficient notebook. He picked it up to see what she had scrawled.

Make a home inside my flesh

But my time limits me

As my mind flies to the skies and beyond the hills

On the prairie, he sits alone

“Can’t you see the stars?”

He asks to no one in particular

” I am right here!’ I say, as he turns to dust,

The ground just dirt for miles and miles,

save the coyotes howling in the distance

Not a star in sight.

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