SEX LIVES OF THE TOP MODELS
____________________________________________________
by Harold von Kursk
special to guerillatraveler.com
PARIS - "Where have you been, darling? We've been
waiting for you...!" That was my surprise greeting
from one of two fabulously beautiful young women,
presumably models, waiting to get into an elite film
party in Paris. Perhaps I looked the part, perhaps
they thought I would be a soft touch. But their
strategy worked. I played along, showed my invitation
(for two) to a murderous-looking bodyguard who was
guarding the entrance, and he grimly waived "us" in.
That was the beginning of yet another adventure with
the women of the catwalk, models on the cusp of fame
seeking to advance themselves any way they could.
Tanya and Jodie were already partners in crime. Ever
since they arrived in Paris (the former from Warsaw,
the latter from Wisconsin, USA) and began sharing some
godawful run-down overpriced flat in the 6ieme, they
were determined to play the game for all its worth.
That meant building up not merely their fashion
"book," i.e. their collection of catalogue and
magazine appearances, but their standing amongst the
circles of actors, millionaires, playboys, designers,
stylists, pop stars and anyone who could usher them
into the corridors of celebrity. Models are typically
stunning creatures - but their beauty or "look" means
little to bookers unless they've started to make some
sort of name for themselves on and off the runway.
That means clubbing, drugging, or jetting to any place
an Italian count wants to take them - i.e. one who
happens to have a private plane waiting at Charles de
Gaulle airport ready to fly ito New York, South Beach,
or Punta del Este - whichever is the hot spot of the
moment. Fame translates to hundreds of thousands extra
dollars worth of bookings per year - which explains
why Kate Moss first dated Johnny Depp and now attaches
herself to the vaguely talented yet prominent heroin
addict - Pete Doherty.
Or why fading German top model Heidi Klum, having been
dumped by F1 Renault boss Flavio Briatore (who
previously dated Naomi Campbell), suddenly took up,
while pregnant, with the pop star Seal with whom she's
just had another child, having given up on serious
modeling.
Or why Helena Christensen, probably the most beautiful
model of the 90s, hooked up with INXS's Michael
Hutchence - whose heroin habit led to his suicide - or
why today the supremely vapid heiress/pseudo
model/singer Paris Hilton has made a fortune out of
simply being seen at every club in L.A. and New York
with every Greek billionaire she can find.
In an age where celebrity worship has mushroomed into
a pathological obsession, models are supernovas -
they tend to burn out as fast as they appear on the
scene - but they have their impact nonetheless.
They're not only critically aware and calculating
their every move up the fashion ladder, but they're
lying in wait to pounce on any man who can help them
advance in the artificial celebrity scene in which
they tend to circulate.
Only the top 30 or so models on the
designer/defile/magazine scene make serious money -
they occupy the upper tier of their profession - and
typically work all the major fashion shows or
"défilés" for designers like Lagerfeld, McQueen,
Stella McCartney, Donatella Versace, et al. These
elite models move from Milan to Paris to New York
according to the major fashion seasons and wherever
major photo shoots (often in exotic Caribbean or other
island paradises) are taking them. Many of them will
earn several hundred thousands of Euros per year,
while the very top models or supermodels like Kate
Moss and Adriana Lima and Giselle Buenchen will be
earning millions. Those are the stakes.
Tanya and Jodie occupied the second tier of fifty or
so models hovering at the margins of the big time,
landing the occasional catalogue, swimsuit, or runway
gig, fighting desperately to get bookings with the
hottest photographers.
They lived modestly, and being models, never had to
pay for a drink or meal (not that they ever ate much
more than the odd salad) and always had a man or two
ready to spirit them away for a weekend of partying in
St. Tropez, Monte Carlo, or some Greek island.
Now it was my turn to get caught up in their vapour
trail and allow myself to become part of their vague
but no less visible strategy. (The following journey
took place within a three-month period last Spring.
Don't try this unless you are prepared to max out your
credit cards and spend several months recovering your
sanity. Only the names have been changed for legal
purposes.)
PARIS - NUITS BLANCHES (Endless Nights)
Once inside the crowded hall, Tanya and Jodie did
their best to scope out the guests and take stock of
any celebs they knew. Jodie quickly attached herself
to some middling French actor while Tanya and I sat
down with some unknown group and drank vodka all
night. She told me how she had been spotted at a
nightclub in her native Warsaw at age 17 and within a
month she had been signed by a major modeling agency
in Milan.
Now 23, she was still on the verge of cracking the
so-called top 30 upper tier of modeling while at the
same time holding off the latest wave of young teen
models who were forever landing at the doorsteps of
all the top Paris and Milan agencies. She spoke fluent
French and English, albeit with an intensely seductive
Polish accent. Her father was a doctor in Warsaw and
her Russian-born mother, after whom she was named, had
died many years earlier, leaving her to look after two
younger brothers. Modeling was her way out of a very
tough life I was soon to learn, and the clear
impression was that she never wanted to go back home.
We drank and danced all night. I introduced Tanya to
Patrick, my French film producer who was trying to
raise money for my new film project, "1000 Kisses
Deep." I left them alone to chat while I caught up
with Jodie.
She was getting seriously wasted but still managed to
keep dancing in her extremely short, extremely
revealing Dior dress that she confessed to having
stolen from a previous roommate. Jodie, 22, had
arrived in Paris two years earlier after being signed
in New York where she spent practically every cent
getting to from her native Madison, Wisconsin.
Instead of going to university, Jodie was anxious to
take a shot at modeling which is what all her friends
had been urging her to pursue for years.
Once in New York, she spent two months waiting tables
and crashing at a friend's house before getting signed
by a top agency. She was soon off to Europe and her
clean-cut, fresh-faced "midwestern" look turned her
into an instant star in Paris. But for various
reasons, her look went out of favour and she was
having a hard time getting bookings of late.
We chatted for a while until Tanya and my 50-ish
producer showed up asking us to join them for more
merriment at another bar. The party was dying, and
the crowd was making a mass exit.
The bar at Man Ray was still hopping at 3 am. Jodie
met another model friend who invited her to sit down
with a group of Italian friends who had just flown in
from Milan. Meanwhile, my producer had begun to run
out of steam and very gentlemanly left me alone with
Tanya. Her eyes blazed blue, her longish (natural)
blonde hair trailed raggedly down her back, and her
skin shone under the soft lighting. Suddenly, she
stood up, held out her hand, and, not saying a word,
dragged me out of the club and towards one of the many
waiting taxis. She didn't have to say anything and we
headed back to my suite at the Hotel Pont-Royal.
MODEL AXIOM #1: They have succeeding in weaponizing
their bodies.
Tanya fucked like a cheetah chasing down a gazelle.
She could rotate, fellatiate, and gyrate her body
until you trembled from her sexual vibrato.
Coked out and wired to the max, she could keep you in
a state of perpetual erection with her mouth and pussy
with equal finesse. Needless to say, this kind of
performance obliged me to do her bidding in and out of
bed. Whether it meant driving her from one go-see
(what models call when their agency tells them to
visit a fashion mag or designer) to another, helping
her pick out a new outfit, or getting her into a major
party or film premiere, you were fully expected to
help her achieve serious face-time with as many
celebrities as possible. It was our unspoken bargain.
Every photo of her in GALA or other chic magazines
meant money in her pocket and a better shot at bagging
the kind of big game - i.e. millionaire, actor, rock
musician - that every model chased with a vengeance.
For the time being, trying to finance my film project
and the possibility of getting her a part was
sufficient grounds for Tanya to attach herself to me.
I was preparing to meet some fairly prominent actors
at Cannes, and several European actors would prove to
be far more interested in getting to know Tanya than
committing themselves to my modestly-budgeted feature.
In the meantime, however, Tanya served as my personal
social secretary for the next several weeks in Paris,
finding out where the best parties were going on, and
spending a lot of time at elite celeb restos and bars
like Costes in the 7ieme. Costes attracts a lot of
top talent in the form of actors (Vincent Lindon,
Marion Cotillard), photographers, fashion designers
(Gaultier, Balenciega's Ghesquiere, Dries van Noten)
and football stars (Fabienne Barthes, France's
recently retired national team goalkeeper, and who
formerly dated 90's supermodel Linda Evangelista, is a
regular). It's the classic place to see and be seen,
and it's the kind of world where models mingle freely
and flit from table to table to either maintain their
standing or make new contacts.
On one particular night, Tanya learned from a
photographer friend that a wealthy Parisian real
estate developer was holding a party the following
evening and that he could get us in. Jacques de
Colbert owned one of the finest flats in Paris along
rue de Rennes in the heart of the 6ieme.
Monstrously large and sprawling (at least 300 sq.m,
with four m ceilings), and filled with abstract art,
his flat offered a taste of what the good life was
like. His socialite wife Estelle came from one of
France's wealthiest families, and her brother was a
deputy minister in Chirac's government.
Tanya, Jodie (she had tagged along) and I arrived
around ten p.m. and found ourselves among a heady mix
of Parisian aristos and society types. Everyone was
impeccably dressed, particularly a tall, late 30ish
Italian, Count Alessandro. He was close to the
Tedeschi family, whose daughter, Valerie
Bruni-Tedeschi, is one of France's finest actresses,
and whose sister, Carla Bruni, was France's top model
of the 90s and recently released a popular album.
He was interested in cinema, particularly Antonioni,
who happens to my idol, and so we got on famously
because of that. The Count also had an eye for Jodie,
whose pleasingly unsophisticated and down-to-earth
American manner caught his fancy. Sensing the good
vibe that was developing, Tanya materialised, having
tired of the Gucci-suited French art dealer who had
been monopolising her time up until that point.
The girls enjoyed listening to the Count and I talk
about movies as this was at least more palatable to
their tastes than the usual conversations about
clothes and money and star gossip that were the kinds
of subject they felt most comfortable discussing in
these kinds of settings. (This is often the most
stressful situation they face, since few of them ever
read books, read newspapers, or followed world events,
so they always have to make do with easy chit-chat to
get by.)
The subject turned to travel once I mentioned that I
was hoping to shoot a film one day in Italy along the
Amalfi coast. The Count mentioned that he had many
friends with fabulous villas whom he might be able to
persuade to offer as suitable locations.
Tanya, bold as ever, leapt into the conversation and
the two of them started talking about some of the
exotic travel spots she had already visited on various
photo shoots or with wealthy playmates.
MODEL AXIOM # 2 - They Can Get Any Man to Do Almost
Anything
Tanya suggested that we all go to Milan for the
weekend. Rising to the challenge, Alessandro upped
the ante by offering to fly us to Punta del Este, a
small resort town near Montevideo, Uruguay, where some
friends of his were celebrating "some obscene business
deal or such." It so happened that the Count had
commandeered the family corporate jet for the month,
and was using it to maximum advantage. He and Jodie
spent the rest of the evening dancing in close
quarters, while Tanya and I chatted with a
distinguished French actor who offered to set up a
meeting with his agent.
Though her accent still made her a liability for any
prospective producer or director, it was clear that
Tanya was too cool and too attractive not to try to
venture into acting at some point. She had already
made the rounds of the predators and players who would
offer to help her in exchange for some vague amount of
sex and socialising, so she was highly cynical about
the film world.
But these girls lived on hope and the promise of
leading a life of champagne and strawberries, driving
their Mercedes or Maserati up to their husband's
Chateau or palazzo according to whichever wealthy man
would finally marry them. (Andie MacDowell, the
Americana actress and former star model, once enjoyed
a magnificent Parisian affair with champagne heir
Olivier Chandon, before he died in a motorcycle
crash!)
Not surprisingly, the Count invited Jodie to his
Parisian townhouse and asked Tanya and I to join them
for a late-night cognac, or two. The house was
protected by large iron bars and security cameras,
given that the interior was far more ostentatious than
any movie set interior I'd ever seen.
He played loud opera music (some Caruso aria, I think
it was) to enhance the mood, while we further drank
ourselves to oblivion. I woke up the next morning
naked in a large, ornate guest room with Tanya already
sitting up, smoking a cigarette, fondling my cock, and
reading a fashion magazine. This was taking
multitasking to new lengths.
"Good," she said, noting that I was at last conscious
again,"I missed having sex last night but you fell
asleep, you bastard!" Ever insatiable, she helped
wake me up by blowing me and then getting on top until
she came and collapsed on top of me, exhausted and
wanting me to screw her doggie style. She sprayed her
arms and legs out as far as they would go, and kept
imploring me to make her "come hard" as she put it.
Soon we were aboard the Count's Gulfstream V and on
the way to Montevideo via New York and South Beach,
Miami. At least I got to check out of the
Pont-Royal, saving me 600 Euros a night. though my
producer would be wondering why I wasn't hard at work
making urgent script revisions that weekend instead of
partying with some opportunistic Italian aristo and
two models. It wasn't a hard decision as far as I was
concerned.
SEXUAL MAYHEM IN MANHATTAN
It was decided that since the plane needed to refuel
in New York anyway, it would be great to do some
shopping in Manhattan, not that my credit cards could
stand too much more strain.
Stuffed with bags of clothes, I suggested an evening
out at A Voce, my favourite New York resto that
attracts a film crowd (Woody Allen and Robert de Niro
are prime patrons) to its fabled pasta dishes. It was
precisely the kind of place that the girls were
desperate to be seen in, and as it happened they spent
a large chunk of the evening schmoozing with a
prominent fashion editor who liked she was straight
out of The Devil Wears Prada. We feasted on duck
polpetti and the best bellinis on the planet.
Around midnight, having long since given up on the
idea of flying to South Beach that evening, we checked
into the Presidential suite at the Four Seasons where
the Count and I insisted that the Tanya and Jodie put
on a private fashion show for us. They were happy to
oblige, with the added twist that each successive
"showing" saw them model fewer and fewer items of
clothing until they were basically parading in
different sets of panties.
We collapsed into the giant bed to watch a DVD -
Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut" - amid room service trays
of Beluga caviar, California sushi rolls, and some
unpronounceable brand of Polish vodka that Tanya
picked out for us.
The bedroom reeked of sex and caviar as the Count and
I took turns licking fish eggs off Tanya and Jodie's
by now highly charged nipples. We kept replaying the
Masonic "orgy" scene from the film while we swapped
partners freely and without jealousy. The girls had
zero inhibitions, and kept staring at each other in
the mirror behind the bed to admire their bodies in
motion. Yes, I would say I was having a pretty good
time "hanging out" with the girls.
SOUTH BEACH - THE COUNT, THE GIRLS, AND SURVIVING THE
POLO MATCH
We decided to spend the next two days in South Beach,
Miami because the Count had heard that one of his
friends was holding a polo match in Boca Raton and
needed some non-professionals to balance out the teams
for a charity match since several top players
cancelled out at the last minute. He had heard from
Tanya that I used to play as a teenager and was trying
to goad me into a few chukkas of fun. Polo is hardly
a barrel of laughs, however, when a top Argentine
gaucho is bearing down at you at 30 mph on his Arabian
thoroughbred with mallet and elbows flying!
South Beach is still one of the best places one earth
to live the good life. It's not by accident that the
late Gianni Versace chose this fashion and high
society mecca as his paradiso perduta. Many top
photographers own condos there, and use South Beach as
a base camp to prepare for high-paying photo shoots in
the neighboring Caribbean. Fashion editors love to
hang out there, and there's a thriving art and fashion
scene and plenty of nubile young women to keep
patrician heirs, wealthy South Americans, and
oil-rich Russians happy. Not to mention the major
players in the cocaine economy sub-culture that pours
millions into the local bar and club scene.
After checking into the Delano, the favourite hotel
amongst the fashion and movie industry crowd, we were
in a mood to party as the warm weather was a pleasant
change from the grey skies of Europe.
Tanya knew South Beach well, and she took our little
jet-setting group on a whirlwind tour of the top clubs
and bars. (Not that we had to go far, since the
poolside bar at the Delano attracts most of Miami's
hoi-polloi not to mention many of the leading New York
agencies' hottest models).
That night, however, belonged to Tanya, Jodie, and
Sandrine, a bewitching French model who was dating an
Italian photographer with whom Tanya had had a brief
fling a few years back. (Yes, it's that kind of
incestuous little world!)
Sandrine was dark, tantalizing, arrogant, vain, and
supremely sensuous - in short, everything you expect
from a top model accustomed to dating drug
traffickers, Hollywood A-list actors, and the odd
British rock star. Sandrine had flown in for the
weekend because she was doing a week-long shoot in the
British Virgin Islands immediately afterwards. Her
new beau, a multimillionaire software developer from
Silicon Valley, "est vraiment nul," she told Tanya,
"mais il m'achete des bijoux fabuleux!" (Translation:
He's a complete loser, but he buys me fabulous
jewelry!)
We ended up at Skybar atop the Shore Hotel where
Alessandro treated us to several bottles of 1990
Chateau Margaux and a magnum of Veuve Cliquot. The
action at the bar was hot and heavy, and Sandrine
found herself dancing with Justo, one of the
highly-paid Argentine six-goalers (i.e. a very good
player) who was playing in the charity match tomorrow.
We left around 2 am together with Sandrine and her
new friend and headed back to the Delano where we
commandeered the swimming pool and did some impromptu
skinny-dipping led by Tanya.
Still dripping wet Tanya and I went back to our suite
leaving the Count and Jodie guzzling champagne
poolside while Sandrine and Justo, clad only in beach
towels, booked a room for themselves at the Delano,
too.
That night, Tanya insisted on being tied up but
"fortunately" she fell asleep dead drunk out of her
mind shortly thereafter so I could rest up before
risking my life on the field.
I hadn't played polo in fifteen years. Having spent
many summers at my uncle Georg's ranch near Buenos
Aires, I had learned to ride and play a fairly
vigorous game of polo. But unless you want to turn
professional, or happen to have access to a private
fortune needed to keep you flush with your own stable
of elite polo ponies (highly-trained horses, actually,
the term "pony" is an anachronism), then you're better
off trying something cheaper, like speed boat racing
or vintage car collecting!
The polo match, held in Boca Raton, proved to be a
leisurely affair and I managed not to fall off my
horse during the match, which was a great achievement
considering my lack of saddle time over the last few
years. I was even able to strike the ball a few times
and not look like a fool in front of the hundred or so
club members who had gathered for the match. and send
one of my teammates down the field for a score. Tanya
also thought I looked studdish in my polo outfit.
Alessandro was a superb horseman, however, and our
team actually won the match not that anyone really
kept track of the score. But Tanya seemed to like the
fact that I had competed and I wasn't just some
strange "artist" type who lived in front of his laptop
and spent most of the day watching old "nouvelle
vague" films! Such conspicuous displays of macho
posturing - never did she imagine that my main
concern, aside from not falling off my horse, was to
avoid getting a mallet in the face - were like catnip
to top models. It raised the sexual stakes and
triggered a heightened state of tension in our
relationship - sort of like going to Defcon 2 - which
produced the best sex yet. And then we were off to
Uruguay.
PUNTA DEL ESTE, URUGUAY (PLAYGROUND OF THE FABULOUSLY
SPOILED)
Arriving in Montevideo, we faced another 45-minute
drive to Punta before collapsing in our beds from
travel fatigue. This is one of the hottest party towns
in the world, though not many people may be familiar
with it since it generally caters to a very elite
clientele of millionaires, Russian mobsters, and the
usual collection of aristos, models, and pretenders.
Punta del Este is to Buenos Aires (a few hundred
kilometers, or a 45-minute flight away), Rio de
Janeiro, and Miami what St. Tropez is to Paris or what
the Hamptons are to New York's wealthy elite.
Alessandro showed up at his regular hotel, the
Casapueblo, and immediately booked us (dividing the
girls between us) into adjoining suites overlooking
the beach. I took my Platinum Amex out praying he
wouldn't let me pay for my villa and thankfully the
Count, still the perfect gentleman, politely declined,
knowing full well that such an adventure might be a
financial strain for anyone without a private family
fortune to rely on. We had already done enough
shopping in New York to last Tanya and Jodie several
months, but the girls were happy with some sensational
new outfits and bikinis (not that they ever seemed to
wear the tops) and, of course, shoes to die for.
Punta was gearing up to one final series of orgiastic
celebrations prior to the usual Easter weekend
festivities which bring the summer season to a climax.
(It starts getting cold in late April) The weather
was perfectly sunny as one might expect, except for
the 34 degree heat, which was unusually warm for late
March.
Tanya was thrilled to be here. She had heard of
fellow models like Natalia Vodianova, Kiera Chaplin
(granddaughter of Charlie) and Adriana Lima partying
hear with various rock stars, while Giselle and Leo
(DiCaprio, that is) would often spent several weeks at
time in Punta prior to their split.
This little jet-setting jaunt represented one more
step up for her in the glamorama rankings. "You
should make a movie here," she suggested. It actually
wasn't a bad idea. Punta isn't as spoiled as so many
other prime resorts, and the atmosphere has more of an
old world chic than nouveau riche spectacle.
I invited us all out to dinner that night at Marismo,
one of the better restaurants in the area. It was not
merely my way of thanking the Count for his
generosity, but also to slow the pace after too many
nights of heavy partying. The girls were finally
relaxing with us and stopped worrying about appearing
cool and sophisticated. It was also the first time I
started seeing more of Tanya's true character as
opposed to that stylized facade she used to attract
and repel according to circumstances.
Models like Tanya and Jodie are hit upon every hour,
every day, without fail. They turn heads wherever
they go, not just because they're 1.79 and 1.77 m
tall, respectively, but also because their faces are
so finely sculpted and their features so perfect. The
touch of freckles on Jodie's cheeks lent her an added
feminine mystique that made Tanya somewhat jealous,
given Tanya's harsher, Slavic look. But sitting with
them in the candlelit atmosphere of the trellised
restaurant terrace and feasting on their beauty served
as an aesthetic bond between the Count and I.
When the girls stepped away for a moment to check
their appearance and text message every living soul
they knew in Paris (this was definitely an occasion to
make their friends intensely jealous), Alessandro
and I agreed that there's nothing obscene about
worshipping such pure beauty.
"It's a great gift they have, and why shouldn't we pay
tribute to that," he mused.
Following dinner, the girls were anxious to go dancing
at one of the various disposable beach clubs which pop
up in Punta to soak up the celebrities. Tanya wore a
skimpy sarong that snaked across her breasts and an
ultra-short orange frilly skirt. Jodie wore her
bikini top and a pair of shorts that looked more like
underpants than anything else. By 4 in the morning,
they were both dancing on top of the bar with some
local polo champion who had more endurance than the
either me or the Count.
Finally, the Count had reached his toxicity level and
called it a night, and asked me to see to it that the
girls made it back to the hotel safely.
MODEL AXIOM # 3 - The Debauchery Never Stops
Once they had finished entertaining the mob that had
gathered around them barside, where the view was more
anatomical than aesthetic, Tanya and Jodie at last
seemed to have tired of dancing and were ready to
retire.
We walked along the beach in our bare feet when Jodie
decided she was too hot and smelly and decided to
throw off her clothes and wade slowly into the water.
Tanya followed suit, and then turned around and asked,
coyly, "Aren't you coming, darling?" The sea water
was warm and inviting, and we wound up sitting in the
surf. Jodie went to fetch some hash joints one of her
gaucho admirers had provided her with earlier. So we
puffed away and sat for the most part silent along the
deserted beach.
Jodie and Tanya started kissing playfully, hugging
each other, and giggling. Tanya pulled me closer, and
we began caressing each other. Jodie began kissing me
and soon we all started sharing each other's body heat
amid the sand and surf. It reminded me of some movie
scene I never saw, but it would be impossible to
reproduce that kind of pure sensuality without the
erotic clichés.
The Count was in fine form the next morning and
presumably was none the wiser for Jodie's late arrival
in his bed while he was dead to the world.
Tanya and I took time to drive along the coast and do
some sunbathing. We got back around 6 pm just in time
to join Alessandro and Jodie on the hotel terrace for
some much-need aperitifs and shrimp cocktails.
The girls soon began to fade and went back to the
rooms to nap before another evening out on the town.
The Count smiled and turned to me, "So tell me, I hope
you fucked them both last night. I'm very sorry, but
I really couldn't bear the thought of getting it on
last night. I was just dead."
I admitted I was happy to have taken up some of the
slack and substituted for him. We both shared a big
laugh.
COMFORT SEX (CRIMES OF PASSION)
Paris was looking less grey and grim in April,
although Tanya and I saw rather less of each other
while I worked on my script (under threat of death
from my producer) and she was busy on various photo
shoots in Spain and Greece. The Count had disappeared
back to Milan to take care of family business (and,
presumably, his Italian wife whom he had admitted to
me that he hated). Jodie was apparently still dating
some obscure, sickly-looking British photographer and
I hadn't heard a word from her, perhaps out of
embarrassment from our fleeting beach interlude, I
speculated.
I was overjoyed, however, at having managed to
recuperate my Rue du Tournon flat in the meantime. The
Swedish software designer who had been renting it for
the past year left in the middle of his lease when he
discovered that his wife was having an affair back in
Stockholm and decided his presence was required back
at the home front. This meant that I could at least
hope to continue my affair with Tanya, whereas I had
been planning on returning to my main home in Berlin
My film lawyer there had failed to come up with any
financing, however, and so I was better off staying in
Paris where at least the French know how to make a
good movie.
(My apologies to Hans-Christian Schmid ("23") and
Christian Petzold ("Die Innere Sicherheit"), Germany's
top filmmakers.)
One morning, while I was munching away on a classic
sandwich jambon-fromage at La Palette, my beloved
Parisian breakfast spot on Rue du Bac, I spotted
Jodie, arms folded across her chest, walking with her
head down just beyond the corner. I ran over and
called out to her, and Jodie came running towards me
sobbing. It took about 15 minutes before she could
calm down and tell me what had happened. Her weaselly
photographer chum had run off back to London with
another model, and still owed her the 1000 Euros she
had lent him the previous month.
Jodie's tears glistened over her few freckles, and she
explained that she was starting to hate Paris and all
the poseurs and prima donnas in the fashion world.
She was booked for a défilé for a hot young designer
the next day, and invited me to come. That evening I
took her to La Lagonde, a small but cozy restaurant on
Rue du Dragon which was famous for its Sicilian fish
plates and outstanding wine list and catered to a
largely film and art scene clientele. That night
there were even a few French actors celebrating the
end of a film shoot sitting at the table next to us,
and we ended up drinking with them until closing.
It was a serenely slow walk back to my flat. Jodie
hadn't wanted to spend the night alone, and predatory
as it might seem though I resist all such imputation,
I was enraptured by her gentle sadness and
irresistible Romy Schneider eyes. I don't think
either of us planned on having sex that night, but it
seemed the obvious and natural thing no matter whether
Tanya and I were "on" together or not.
Jodie's breasts were firm and fuller than most models,
and hadn't needed any implants that many of her
competitors opt for. Unlike Tanya, She treated sex
more like love than sport, and appreciated the sensual
aspects of lovemaking as much as the purely refractory
impulse. It was slow and searching and had none of
the cocaine-fuelled urgency that warped Tanya's sex
drive.
It was our last night "together," however, as Jodie
was suddenly booked for a month of fashion shoots in
Thailand and some other post-Tsunami island in the
Maldives. I suppose it was the best thing, especially
since Tanya was coming back in a few days and it
wouldn't have taken her long to figure out that
something odd had been going on.
But I missed Jodie badly and certainly wanted to see
her again, somewhere.
CANNES A GO-GO (YACHTING WITH YEVGENY THE RUSSIAN
OLIGARCH)
With the screenplay for "1000 Kisses Deep" now
complete, my producer and I booked ourselves into the
Hotel du Cap for the approaching Cannes Film Festival.
Tanya kept begging me to take her even though I tried
to tell her I was really going there for work and we
wouldn't get to spend any time together. Not being
stupid, she knew this was a total fabrication on my
part and put up such a relentless nagging fuss for
three days running that I gave up. It was also nice
to have her back in bed again after three nights of
"greve generale," which was how she impishly described
her protest.
MODEL AXIOM #4: You're Only as Good as Your Last
Yacht
We dined that night at the Carlton with Dinner with
Karl, an obnoxious German financier responsible for
raising money for major German productions over the
last decade, Patrick, my anxiety-ridden French
producer who was trying to interest Karl in the
project, and Rick, my London-based agent. Tanya was
at my side as was Jodie, who had dropped back into
circulation a few nights before much to my delight.
She had asked Tanya if she could stay at our hotel
with us, and, pig that I am, I reluctantly agreed!)
The table chat never rose above the level of
intellectual posing, however, and Karl knew even less
about wine than he did about film. I hated him from
the first time he opened his pretentious big-shot L.A.
producer mouth - the kind of man who thinks only about
box-office and attaching stars like a mathematical
formula with no apparent interest in the medium
itself. The kind of man the recently departed Robert
Altman (may he rest in peace) detested with passion.
Jodie was seated between a prominent young German
actor who had just started up his own film company and
his producer partner. But the most interesting guest
at the table was a stunning Russian woman - Alexandra
- early thirtyish - whose two preposterously large
bodyguards were seated at the adjoining table. She
was mistress to a Russian oligarch named Yevgeny who,
according to Patrick, had made his fortune off oil and
gas contracts. He had parked his yacht just off the
coast of Monaco like he does at every Cannes festival.
He couldn't or wouldn't come on shore this year,
perhaps fearing an EU-wide arrest warrant might be
served on him (Patrick's theory) or that some Russian
agents would be waiting to spirit him back to Moscow
to stand trial (my theory).
Tanya and Jodie were thoroughly bored by all the film
business talk, but at least I managed to show up Karl
when he chose a vintage I knew was bad and I
substituted another. Alexandra saved the dull soirée,
however, when she invited us to join her and Yevgeny
aboard their yacht. We were taken in two speedboats
about five miles offshore to the "Topaz," which was
the name of Yevgeny's forty metre yacht.
Yacht parties were always the talk of Cannes, chiefly
because they were absolutely impossible to get to
unless you had a boat waiting to bring you to one, not
to mention an invitation!
Yevgeny was a brilliant host. He was one of those
incredibly wealthy men who clearly luxuriated in his
opulence and ability to do virtually anything (except
come on shore). His yacht featured a spacious dining
room, several master bedrooms below deck, and a fairly
large jacuzzi on the top deck. He also had several
half-naked women strolling on board for seemingly no
reason at all.
Over drinks that night, I kept trying to tell him that
my film project, "1000 Kisses Deep," was most
certainly NOT a porno film, despite his suggestive
reading of the title (a mild confusion which provoked
Tanya, Jodie and my agent, who was now completely
drunk, to break out in hysterical laughter!) The
oligarch even declared to my French producer that he
was more than willing to fund a porn shoot aboard his
yacht, provided Tanya and Jodie were active
participants.
We kept drinking vodka shots which were complimented
by a generous supply of cocaine and ecstasy which the
girls would ingest by launching themselves on the
large glass table, their limbs spread panther-like
across the table, and cutting lines with geometric
precision. Jodie resembled a praying mantis in the
way she slowly lowered her nose to the glass, leaving
her pussy amply exposed, much to the delight of the
oligarch.
The festivities gradually wore down the obnoxious Karl
and Patrick, my producer, and they were taken by speed
boat back to their hotels in Cannes.
That left the rest of us to pile stark naked into the
hot tub atop the upper deck. At some point (my brain
was too fried to recall with any precision when), the
oligarch had "retired" with Alexandra and one of his
nubile playmates leaving my agent Rick alone with me,
Tanya, and Jodie. While Tanya and I found an
appropiately stimulating position directly atop
several powerful water jets inside the jacuzzi, Jodie
had taken an instant liking to Rick (the bastard) and
began blowing him under the water for what seemed like
an eternity, surfacing for air much less frequently
than one might have expected.
Sex under the stars aboard a yacht with bottles of
champagne and naked models in your hottub is about as
good as it gets. Tanya was again happy to be
continuing her torrid pace through European "society,"
and for the time being was happy to hang out with me.
Neither of us were under any illusions, however, that
it could or would last much longer.
The morning after Yevgeny was nowhere to be found.
The two unidentified playmates were still naked as
ever, sunning themselves on the main deck. I was on
the phone checking with Patrick when our next meeting
was happening in Cannes, while Rick was dead to the
world with Jodie cuddled up beside him him in a deck
chair.
Tanya had hardly slept the night, however, the result
of her fondness for cocaine. Since I hated the stuff,
it was hard for me to keep up with her, and both my
dick and head ached with equal force. Yet she still
wanted me to "service" her immediately when we woke
up, insisting that she needed an orgasm so she could
fall asleep. At least our below-deck state room had a
fabulous view of the sea and Cannes in the background.
She treated my dick like her private property, and
happy as I was to satisfy her cravings, I doubted
whether it made any difference who was actually
fucking her, just that she was getting off and not
sensing even the slightest instant of boredom in her
non-stop pursuit of pleasure and constant fear of
living in the real world.
The remainder of Cannes saw her very much in her
element. She struck it big when she attracted
considerable attention together with Jodie at one
important Hollywood studio party, and they were both
photographed for French GALA and several other
European newspapers. Rick was smitten with Jodie, and
kept pursuing her, but she had to fly back to Paris
and then to New York for another shoot. She had never
really spoken to me for any length of time since our
time in bed together, but still gave me a big hug
before she left the festival, telling me to say
good-bye to Rick.
Tanya spent the last few days at Cannes sunning
herself and hobnobbing with several Hollywood stars
poolside at the Hotel du Cap. Though the hotel itself
is rather worn-down and the rooms definitely not
5-star despite the prices and its reputation as the
coolest place to stay during the festival, the pool
and the bar remain the best places in the world to
meet major actors and actresses, not to mention big
league producers like Harvey Weinstein (formerly of
Miramax fame).
Late Thursday night, Tanya got a call from her booker
telling her that she was wanted as a last-minute
replacement for a défilé the following week in Paris
and that she needed to get back immediately for a
fitting. It wasn't the usual time for a runway show,
but a hot new French designer was looking to make an
impression outside the normal couture or pret-a-porter
collection seasons.
MODEL AXIOM #5: Beware: They are a Cold-Blooded
Species
On the catwalk, Tanya was all legs and cheekbones. She
strutted the runway as well or better than any model
on the planet. She looked fierce, feral, and oozed
attitude. Her stride was precise and persistent,
planting and stamping her feet with the authority of a
sheriff walking down main street in Dodge City.
She was deliriously happy to be wearing some of best
outfits the designer had to offer, and whenever she
strode down the ramp, with several hundred spectators
positioned on each side, I half expected her to
complete her torrid walks by snarling at the
spectators, that's how intense she appeared.
On the downside, my producer still hadn't closed a
deal for financing my film, although a major Italian
film mogul had read the script and wanted to meet me
in Rome the following month. My agent, now back in
London, kept calling me and asked what had happened to
Jodie.
She had apparently changed her cellphone number (she
actually used three cellphones, all with different
rankings and all for different categories of friends
and work-related contacts) and she hadn't returned any
of his calls. I didn't have the heart to tell him
that she was now dating one of the A-list and
devastatingly handsome Hollywood stars she had met in
Cannes and that that was the real reason she had left
Cannes in a hurry.
Sadly, but not unexpectedly, my time with Tanya was
petering out. She hadn't been as feverish in bed
lately, and she seemed detached and restless when we
took our usual walks and shopping trips.
It turned out that exit visas were imminent. After
meeting Alessandro and his latest conquest, an
up-and-coming French actress, for dinner and drinks
back at his house, we spent our last night together in
his guest bedroom. The decor was regal and plush, the
giant bed a four-poster marvel with oversized pillows
and matching striped blue sheets.
This was to be Tanya's finest performance, an evening
of sexual gymnastics that left nothing to the
imagination. It was her good-bye gift to me. The
next morning she told me that Yevgeny had asked her to
accompany him to some remote Caribbean island where he
had a sprawling estate. Obviously I was shocked and
vaguely crushed, but hardly surprised. I didn't have
the obscene wealth to be able to buy her the pearl
necklaces and couture outfits she was accustomed to
receiving from her suitors on a regular basis. I
couldn't compete for the attentions of a supreme
object of beauty which many men were willing to pay
almost any amount to capture.
I had been amusing up to some point, I suppose, but
now I had outlasted my usefulness. Cannes was over,
the film project was nowhere near ready to go, and she
had already met enough actors and agents and producers
through me to fend for herself. She also didn't want
to get close to anyone lest it slow down her
relentless, feverish flightplan.
Tanya stroked my cheek and ran her fingers through my
tousled hair that final morning, collected her
revoltingly tiny purse, a shopping bag with her
clothes from the previous night, and a copy of Vogue,
and planted a last kiss on my lips. A limousine was
already waiting for her outside the front gates,
presumably to take her to yet another private plane on
her way to meet her oligarch. She was shaking in her
Chanel jacket and jeans. The jacket was open at the
top and revealed just enough of her breasts to make
her all the more tantalizing. Her face was sculpted
perfection, yet despite her best efforts not to show
any sadness, her eyes were oddly small and crinkled. .
She gave me one last look: "We don't really believe in
love, do we?" And then she was gone.
