By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
That wack-ass band is finally gone, and the show's ready to roll. Jett and I cluster with the designers and the models next to the entrance to the stage, where the lissome-limbed lovelies vogue it up for our cameras before strutting their stuff in front of the howling crowd. As they should be, those fabric triangles are skimpy and there's plenty of butt cheek being flashed. The models are black, white, Asian, all with flat stomachs and come-hither eyes. My fave is this futuristic tangerine get-up by Chague, and a white bikini with brown horsies on it worn by one of the Asian goddesses. Giddyup!
Afterward, Jett and I hang with the booful ones as they attempt to deflect the attentions of the bologna-boppers (those guys who can barely keep their hands off their jimmys), and from the lez Casanova Jett, who's got her eye on the prize as always this evening. I see her off in the corner talking to two dimes who've had their top halves body-painted over, while I have a seat and conversate with Tara Berry, a pale babe with long raven tresses. I soon discover that Berry, 21, is studying aromatherapy, Chinese herbalism and about a dozen other disciplines besides. She's done modeling for some time, and she seems to want a career in fashion. Says she's starting her own skin-care line called Pearl Skin.
"You could say I'm a bon vivant and a jack-of-all-trades," she tells me.
"Aromatherapy, huh? What's good for stimulating the brain?" I ask.
"Patchouli and peppermint," she tells me. "Patchouli also makes a good aphrodisiac. Bergamot, too."
"When I think of patchouli, I always think of chicks with hair on their legs who're taking women's studies classes or getting their Ph.D. in semiotics," I crack. "Hey, anyone ever tell you that you have a sort of Bettie Page thing going on with that hourglass figure and the black hair?"
"You know, I'm going to be in this Bettie Page calendar for Playboy coming up. It's going to be for Bettie Page's birthday, and it'll be out in October."
I bid farewell to the Scottsdale native, as she has a boyfriend awaiting her. Lucky sod! So I stroll over to where Jett's hanging with the nearly nude gals. One is a thin lass of Indian descent named Sumita Tamerlin, and the other's a girl with brown hair and an alabaster complexion. I studiously avoid staring at their painted breasts. I strive to be a gentleman, you see. Jett, luckily, doesn't have that problem.
"They asked to paint my breasts," I smirk. "But they didn't have enough paint."
"There's not enough paint in Scottsdale to paint your boobs, Kreme," Jett snarks. "Meet Sumita."
"Is Jett behaving herself, Sumita? Or is she trying to pick you up?"
"Kreme!" cries Jett, smacking my side.
"Well, I don't know, maybe she doesn't even like girls," I whimper.
"Oh, I'm heterosexual," says Sumita. "But I tend to pick up girls faster than I pick up guys. I appreciate beauty of all kinds. So you could say I'm open-minded. Sometimes, it's like, 'I'm hot, you're hot, let's . . .'"
"Whoa, good attitude!" I say. "We should hire you out."
"Yeah, like Heidi Fleiss did with her girls," she replies.
"Jett wants to be Heidi Fleiss," I say, smiling.
"Who wouldn't?" asks Jett. "Heidi Fleiss was the shit!"
"Except for that whole getting caught part of it," I remind.
It's getting to be about that time, so we begin to perambulate toward the door. There are plenty of knuckleheads still about, pawing the few chicks remaining. Meanwhile, I'm walking out with a passel of fine fillies. All the time, the jocks holding their cocks are looking at me with menacing eyes, wondering, I'm sure, how the fuck this fat boy is making his way past them with all these hot chickies in tow. Heh, it's driving those dillweeds crazy! Gotta love it.
Outside, we say goodbye to Sumita and her model friends, as they await a limo in the cool evening. I escort Jett to her vehicle, like the good Baptist boy my mama raised.
"So what were you talking to that girl Tara about?" she asks as she opens her car door.
"Oh, nothing . . . aromatherapy."
"You really want to know?"
"Okay, then." I stick my hand out. "Just pull my finger."