She wanted to take the pictures and glue them to a piece of construction paper and write “Portrait of Mr. Big with His Cigar,” across the top and then, “I miss you,” with lots of kisses at the bottom.
She stared at the pictures for a long time. And then she did nothing.
12
Skipper and Mr. Marvelous Seek Hot Sex in Southampton Hedges
Maybe it’s just the indisputable fact that most people really do look better with a tan. Or maybe it’s proof that the sex drive is stronger than ambition, even for New Yorkers. In any case, there is something about the Hamptons that lends itself to meaningless sexual encounters, the kind of embarrassingly brief couplings that most people don’t necessarily want to acknowledge in the morning.
Call it a combination of skin (the topless women on Media Beach), geography (it takes sooooo long to drive from Southampton to East Hampton, especially if it’s four in the morning), and topography (all those high hedges where couples can hide).
But figuring out how to work all those elements to one’s advantage, especially if you’re a man, can take some finesse. And youth is not necessarily an advantage. You have to know the ropes and how to get out of them gracefully afterward. Otherwise, you’ll end up with something, but it might not be what you expected.
Here’s a cautionary tale about three hopeful bachelors in the Hamptons during Fourth of July weekend.
But first, meet our contestants.
Bachelor No. 1: Skipper Johnson, twenty-five. Preppy. Entertainment law. Boy wonder. Plans to run one of the big studios someday, which he says will be in New York. Beach toys: small Mercedes, Brooks Brothers clothing (“I have a Brooks Brothers body”), and cellular phone, of which he makes constant use. Recently, friends complained that Skipper spent two hours in the parking lot at the beach, on the phone, doing a deal. “It’s such a waste of time going to the beach,” Skipper says. “Besides, I don’t like getting sandy.” Is worried about his recent lack of sexual success. “Do women think I’m gay?” he asks, earnestly.
Bachelor No. 2: Mr. Marvelous, sixty-five, says he’s sixty. Square jaw, silver hair, bright blue eyes, athletic—all parts work on demand. Married (and divorced) five times. Twelve kids—wives number two, three, and four all good friends. Buddies wonder what his secret is. Beach toys: none. But can talk about penthouse apartment on Park Avenue, house in Bedford, apartment in Palm Beach. Staying with friends for the weekend on Further Lane in East Hampton. Considering buying a place.
Bachelor No. 3: Stanford Blatch, thirty-seven. Screenwriter. The next Joe Eszterhas. Gay but prefers straight guys. Long, dark, curly hair; refuses to cut it or put it in a ponytail. Will probably get married and have kids someday. Stays in Grandmother’s house on Halsey Neck Lane in Southampton; Grandma lives in Palm Beach. Beach toys: doesn’t drive, so convinces family chauffeur to come out on weekends to drive him around. Best beach toy: has known everybody worth knowing since he was a child, so he doesn’t have to prove it.
SKIPPER’S COLD SHOWER
Friday night. Skipper Johnson drives out to Southampton, where he has arranged to meet friends at Basilico: four women, all in their late twenties, who work at Ralph Lauren, and who, to the naked eye, are indistinguishable from one another. Skipper finds their bland prettiness comforting, as well as the fact that there’s a small herd of them. It means that he doesn’t have the burden of trying to keep one of them entertained for the evening.
They drink Pine Hamptons at the bar. Skipper pays. At eleven o’clock, they go to M-80. There’s a crowd outside, but Skipper knows the doorman. They drink cocktails out of plastic cups. Skipper runs into some friends—the modelizers George and Charlie. “I’ve got twelve girls staying at my place this weekend,” George boasts to Skipper. George knows that Skipper is dying to come over, so he purposely doesn’t invite him. Two of the models begin throwing cocktails at each other, laughing.
At two A.M., one of the girls gets sick in the bushes. Skipper offers to drive them home: a ranch house just before you get to the good part of Southampton. They have a case of beer in the refrigerator, nothing else. Skipper goes into a bedroom and sits on the bed with one of the girls and sips a beer. He lies down and closes his eyes, slipping his arm around the girl’s waist. “I’m too drunk to drive home,” he says in a puppy dog voice.
“I’m going to sleep,” the girl says.
“Oh, please let me stay. We’ll just sleep. I promise,” Skipper says.
“Okay. But you have to sleep on top of the bed. With your clothes on.”
Skipper complies. He falls asleep and begins snoring. Sometime in the middle of the night, the girl kicks him out to the couch.
Saturday morning. Skipper drives toward his house in East Hampton and decides to stop off to visit his friends Carrie and Mr. Big in Bridgehampton. Mr. Big is shirtless in the backyard, smoking a cigar and watering the plants around the pool. “I’m on vacation,” he says.
“What are you doing? Don’t you have a gardener?” Skipper asks. Carrie is smoking cigarettes and reading the New York Post. “He is the gardener. He washes cars, too.”
Skipper strips down to his boxer shorts and dives in the water like a cartoon character, with his knees bent at right angles sticking out to the sides. When he comes up for air, Mr. Big says, “Now I know why you can’t get laid.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Skipper asks.
“Have a cigar,” says Mr. Big.
MR. BLATCH IN LOVE
Saturday, Halsey Neck Lane. Stanford Blatch is sitting by the pool, talking on the phone and watching his brother’s girlfriend, whom he hates, trying to read his New York Observer. He’s talking in an especially loud voice in the hope that she might go away. “But you have to come out,” he says into the phone. “It’s ridiculous. What are you going to do? Sit in the city all weekend and work? Get on the seaplane. I’ll pay.
“Well, bring the manuscripts. You agents, you work too damn hard. Of course there’s plenty of room. I have the whole upstairs.”
Stanford hangs up. He walks over to his brother’s girlfriend. “Do you know Robert Morriskin?” When the girl looks at him blankly, he says, “I didn’t think so. He’s the hottest up-and-coming literary agent. He’s adorable.”
“Is he a writer?” she asks.