Party Monster by James St. James

Author:James St. James [James, James St.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781416583264
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

And I never again felt comfortable at Mavis’s apartment, either. Her snippy manner, coupled with Freeze’s increasingly imperial attitude, were wearing thin. They seemed to have forgotten all about my piquant charm, and the beguiling physical presence that drew them to me in the first place. In short, I started to feel like I was on the way out.

I knew it to be true when, one night, quite unexpectedly, Michael showed up at one of our after-after hours. Something he NEVER DID.

This was when Michael was still just dabbling in drugs, and exaggerating their effects. Going to a party at nine o’clock in the morning was inconceivable, back then.

But there he was. The mighty King of Clubs. At lowly little Miss Mavis’s pad.

Both Mavis and Freeze were fluttering around him, fluffing his pillows, refreshing his drinks. You would have thought he was the freakin’ Queen Mother.

“No, no,” he mock protested, “just treat me like you treat everybody else. Like I’m one of the group.”

(Gag)

How dare he?

This was my territory and I bristled at the challenge his presence implied.

Now, usually Michael and I bounce off each other quite nicely—volleying back and forth at varying tempos, a few spikes here and there, the occasional slam.

There are certain stock stories we drag out on these occasions, stories that we believe enhance our images. Like the time I traded my car for a blowjob. Or the time Michael stole a city bus and had a party on it.

So it was in the beginning, but it soon became obvious that the stakes were much higher this time: it was an unspoken battle for the control of the room.

Back and forth it went, until all other conversations trailed off and everybody tuned in to this classic episode of The Michael & James Show.

We were neck and neck for hours, taking vicious potshots at each other, searing insults, blistering personal attacks . . .

He told everybody about my unruly shoulder hair. I countered with the story of how his butt fell inside out and he and Keoki had to push it back in with a pencil.

He talked about the time I chatted with DIANNE BRILL for twenty minutes with a giant snot bubble hanging from my nose.

“That’s nothing compared to your little poop problem at Club USA.”

“They have all sorts of wonderful acid peels now, James, that could get rid of that awful hamburger face of yours, honey, and then you wouldn’t have to be embarrassed to be seen in the daylight.”

And so on.

I could have held on. But just then, Bella, who still resented the fact that I wasn’t spending any time with her and Whitney anymore, walked in and linked arms with Michael. He had an ally. I was doomed. Humiliated. They brought out pictures of my old tube skirt–and–fez phase. They giggled over my floating eye and body odor. They speculated on my impending spinsterhood, and worried about my palsy. I don’t even remember the big finish, something to do with my wobbly eyeliner and lipstick on my teeth.

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