Skip to main content

SHE DROVE A CITROËN SM (2 of 2)


The large underground garage where B had parked the Citroën was dimly lit. As we walked over to the elevator, B pointed at a black Porsche 928 and said: “See that car? That car was in Risky Business. Did you see that movie?”

Before I could answer, she hit the elevator button. I hadn't seen the movie, but the elevator we entered seemed very risky. It was a small antique, mahogany cubicle. B closed its door and slid a copper screen across. The elevator went up slowly as we saw numerous doors slide down below us until we reached the top one. The thought of kissing her then and there had never occurred to me.

Outside the elevator, immediately to the right, was apartment 704, and the moment B opened the door a four-footer approached me with a smile. I had never seen one of those before. It was a Russian wolfhound also known as a borzoi. The dog was very tall, skinny and furry with an arched back and blended well with the art-deco black leather couches, sleek lamps, vases and statues. It was as if Erte’ had decorated the apartment himself.

In the corner was a bar built from glass bricks and was lit-up with different colored lights. The shelves behind it displayed a collection of liqueurs, and above that was a large black sign that read in pink neon light: Who is John Galt? I didn't know who that was but pink was not my favorite color.

I was relaxing in a black leather couch just letting the evening unfold as it kept getting better. B had brought me a glass of wine and I continued to sip it as our eyes remained locked, but I couldn't help notice the ABC Lexicon of Love album which was my favorite New Romantics band from the eighties.


Next thing I know we were watching the James Bond movie Octopussy. Bond was in bed with Magda, drinking Don Perignon champagne and notices the little tattoo on her lower back and asks: “Forgive my curiosity, but what is that?” Magda answers: “That’s my little octopussy,” and then they kiss, and then we kiss. It was a beautiful thing. I remember thinking: The eagle has landed. But that was a different movie.


When we woke up the next morning together I was looking for my PPK but then remembered I wasn't James Bond. I just felt like him. It was a good feeling. B opened-up the refrigerator and introduced me to a fruit I had never seen in Holland: mango. I thought it had a strange looking shape and a very large pit, but like octopussy, I did like its aftertaste.  

"My goal is to marry this man," B told me, pointing at a leaflet on the refrigerator. I looked at his picture and didn't find him particularly handsome. He also looked much older than her. The name under the picture read: "Dr. Leonard Peikoff, Capitalism versus Socialism Debate."

I asked B why she wanted to marry him, and she said that he was the greatest man in the world. We then went out for breakfast.

Popular posts from this blog

THE STARCK CLUB -- BEING THERE

Inside The Starck Club DALLAS, TEXAS -- 1985-89: My favorite place that I would frequently visit in Dallas was the Starck Club.  It was located in the old part of town, where the once life-sustaining warehouses were abandoned and crumbling, right past the forgotten railroad tracks of the forgotten Industrial Revolution.  But this one particular warehouse was adopted and remodeled by the French architect and designer, Philippe Starck. The Starck Club was owned by numerous people, and one of them was rumored to be Grace Jones. Getting into the Starck Club wasn’t easy.  There was always a long line and the club’s doormen were very selective about who they allowed to enter. Since I was in my early twenties with bleached blond hair, I was hip enough to pass.  I also wore black parachute pants while standing in white leather shoes -- all very Duran Duran like. The first time I entered the Starck Club I was in a state of shock and awe.  It wasn’t just the unique design of the

SHE DROVE A CITROËN SM (1 of 2)

SAN FRANCISCO 1983-85: One of my favorite places to go was a place called Dancers located on Harrison and Second Street. Dancers was a large, dark place with many colored lights flashing around as an industrial-beat of music kept breeding an inescapable aura of sexuality. At least this is what it felt like after several beers. At Dancers the libido was liberated and celebrated, and girls were dancing everywhere, including on top of the bar. And it was there that I would meet my first girlfriend, Brionna. Or something like that. Or was it Brion or Brishon? I don't remember exactly, but it began with the letter B. Earlier I had awkwardly asked some of these girls to dance but was rejected every time. And just as I was about to become discouraged, I saw an attractive female standing near the dance floor, leaning against a pillar with her arms folded. She appeared relaxed, confident and very attractive. She looked Mediterranean with her long, curly hair that fell over her bare shoulde