While in Milano for Versacheemoschinogabbananotdolce, Nug had the great fortuna of meeting many, many male models but there was one special mannequin who’s story captured my heart. We’ll call this simpering simpleton by a pseudonym to protect the definitely guilty. Let’s refer to him as “Conchiglie”, because this bitch really came out of her shell this season! I encountered Conchiglie (fuck it, its already too long… Let’s truncate for cuteness, and make it Gilie for short) at a little cave-like trattoria where I supped. Anna Wintour would famously book, in this tiny spot, the darkest, dankest little room down in the seminterrato and slowly consume what amounted to an entire side of beef over the course of three to four hours (it’s Nug’s theory that this was her one and only biannual meal). Gilie had been commandeered by a group of buyers from Filene’s Basement, and he sat at their table bored out of his product-laden head until turning to me for conversation. After a volley of bon mots he left my company for his meal ticket’s car.
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As Gilie and the Basement queens fluttered out, it struck me that it was me that had done all the talking, and Gilie may not have actually uttered a word! I contemplated my gift for the gab, my thoughts congealing and turning to mascarpone when suddenly my phone lit up. It was Gilie. He had airdropped me a what were a series of notes. These scribbles turned out to be a diary of sorts, a glimpse into the shallow river that ran beneath the hollow of his private shell. What follows are excerpts of those air droppings: Gilie, uncut, in his own words.
Milan, Day 8: The most exciting thing happened! Ditching my Christian camp tour group at the Duomo, I got myself drunk on what may have been salad dressing. Spinning through the quiet streets, I stopped to piss in a doorway when suddenly I heard that voice. Like a foghorn through my grog. “Get up here and use my gold toilet, you fucking beautiful creature!” it said. I looked up and there she was. Our lady of peroxide. And she was beautiful!
Day 10: After what seemed like weeks of steaming and straightening, purifying-type rituals, and re-learning how to walk she turned me loose to slither on her catwalk. I was happier than a python-patterned smear of strawberry jam on buttered toast! Finally, a reason to be so…me.
Day 11: Doing my best to dance at the after party on too much elephant tranquilizer (“I’ve built up the tolerance of a whole herd” she told me while shoving a soup ladle under my nose), I looked down to see my two-piece literally crawling with flowers. They spread to the dance floor, and slowly crowded out everything in the bar. Then nothing. Blackness.
Day 12: What felt like days later I woke from a deep sleep. My vision blurred by white light on white on white. I could just make out what seemed to be a life-size cigarette butt with a smokey eye darting around the room. I stumbled to the bathroom, startled to catch my own reflection. I was luminescent! See-through actually. Both reflecting and refracting light. Bleached inside and out. I could hear her voice from the other room “Gilie, Bello” “You’re doing too much”.
Day 13: After having my hair freshly ironed she pulled a neon lime patent parka over my shoulders, smacked a flaming orange bucket hat on my head and growled, “Time to go.”
“When you play in traffic, stupid (her cute nickname for me) — and I know you will — my designs will give you a fighting chance.” And with a “ciao for now,” she slammed the heavy door and I was back out on the street.
Day 26: Having spent all my modelling money on sunglass implants, I now spend my time skulking around the Duomo selling DMT in a shiny beach cover-up that I found stuffed in my bag after another night sleeping in a fountain. I think of her sometimes, and wonder: does she think of me too?