Changing the subject, I ask, "Who chose that place anyway?" I pour the two girls wine and then make myself a J&B on the rocks with a little water. "The restaurant, I mean."

"Carson did. Or maybe Robert." Elizabeth shrugs and then after snapping the compact shut, staring intently at Christie, asks, "You look really familiar. Did you go to Dalton?"

Christie shakes her head no. It's almost three in the morning. I'm grinding up a tab of Ecstasy and watching it dissolve in the wineglass I plan to hand Elizabeth. This morning's topic on The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show was People Who Weigh Over Seven Hundred Pounds What Can We Do About Them? I switch on the kitchen lights, find two more tabs of the drug in the freezer, then shut the lights off. was People Who Weigh Over Seven Hundred Pounds What Can We Do About Them? I switch on the kitchen lights, find two more tabs of the drug in the freezer, then shut the lights off.

Elizabeth is a twentyyearold hardbody who sometimes models in Georges Marciano ads and who comes from an old Virginia banking family. We had dinner earlier tonight with two friends of hers, Robert Farrell, twentyseven, a guy who's had a rather sketchy career as a financier, and Carson Whitall, who was Robert's date. Robert wore a wool suit by Belvest, a cotton shirt with French cuffs by Charvet, an abstractpatterned silkcrepe tie by Hugo Boss and sunglasses by RayBan that he insisted on wearing during the meal. Carson wore a suit by Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche and a pearl necklace with matching pearl and diamond earrings by Harry Winston. We had dinner at Free Spin, the new Albert Lioman restaurant in the Flatiron district, then took the limousine to Nell's, where I excused myself, assuring an irate Elizabeth I'd be right back, and directed the chauffeur to the meatpacking district, where I picked up Christie. I made her wait in the back of the locked limousine while I reentered Nell's and had drinks with Elizabeth and Carson and Robert in one of the booths up front, empty since the place had no celebrities in it tonight a bad sign. Finally, at twothirty, while Carson bragged drunkenly about her monthly flower bill, Elizabeth and I split. She was so pissed off about something Carson told her was in the latest issue of W W that she didn't even question Christie's presence. that she didn't even question Christie's presence.

In the ride back toward Nell's Christie had admitted that she was still upset about the last time we shared together, and that she had major reservations about tonight, but the money I've offered is simply too good to pass up and I promised her that nothing like last time will be repeated. Though she was still scared, a few shots of vodka in the back of the limo along with the money I'd given her so far, over sixteen hundred dollars, relaxed her like a tranquilizer. Her moodiness turned me on and she acted like a total sex kitten when I first handed her the cash amount six bills attached to a Hughlans silver money clip but after I urged her into the limo she told me that she might need surgery after what happened last time, or a lawyer, so I wrote out a check to cash in the amount of one thousand dollars, but since I knew it would never be cashed I didn't have a panic attack about it or anything. Looking over at Elizabeth right now, in my apartment, I'm noticing how well endowed she is in the chest area and I'm hoping that after the Ecstasy hits her system I can convince the two girls to have sex in front of me.

Elizabeth is asking Christie if she's ever met some asshole named Spicey or been to Au Bar. Christie is shaking her head I hand Elizabeth the Ecstasyladen sauvignon blanc while she stares at Christie like she was from Neptune, and after recovering from Christie's admission she yawns. "Anyway, Au Bar sucks sucks now. It's terrible. I went to a birthday party there for Malcolm Forbes. Oh my god, now. It's terrible. I went to a birthday party there for Malcolm Forbes. Oh my god, please please." She downs the wine, facing. I take a seat in one of the chrome and oak Sottsass chairs and reach over to the ice bucket that sits on the glasstop coffee table, adjusting the bottle of wine in order to chill it better. Immediately Elizabeth makes a move for it, pouring herself another glass. I dissolve two more tabs of the Ecstasy in the bottle before bringing it into the living room. A sullen Christie sips her untainted wine cautiously and tries not to stare at the floor; she still seems scared, and finding the silence unbearable or incriminating she asks Elizabeth where she met me.

"Oh god," Elizabeth starts, moaning as if she falsely remembered something embarrassing. "I met Patrick at, oh god, the Kentucky Derby in '86 no, '87, and..." She turns to me. "You were hanging out with that bimbo Alison something... Stoole?"

"Poole, honey," I reply calmly. "Alison Poole."

"Yeah, that was her name," she says, then with unmasked sarcasm, "Hot number."

"What do you mean by that?" I ask, offended. "She was was a hot number." a hot number."

Elizabeth turns to Christie and unfortunately says, "if you had an American Express card she'd give you a blow job," and I'm hoping to god that Christie doesn't look over at Elizabeth, confused, and say "But we don't take credit cards." To make sure this doesn't happen, I bellow "Oh, bullshit," but goodnaturedly.

"Listen," Elizabeth tells Christie, holding her hand out like a fag offering gossipy information. "This girl worked at a tanning salon, and" and in the same sentence, without changing tone "what do you do?"

After a long silence, Christie turning redder and even more scared, I say, "She's... my cousin."

Slowly, Elizabeth takes this in and says, "Uhhuh?"

After another long silence, I say, "She's... from France."

Elizabeth looks at me skeptically like I'm completely crazy but chooses not to pursue this line of questioning and asks instead, "Where's your phone? I've got got to call Harley." to call Harley."

I move over to the kitchen and bring the cordless phone to her, pulling up its antenna. She dials a number and, while waiting for someone to answer, stares at Christie. "Where do you summer?" she asks. "Southampton?"

Christie looks at me and then back at Elizabeth and quietly says, "No."

"Oh god god," Elizabeth wails, "it's his machine machine."

"Elizabeth." I point at my Rolex. "It's three three in the morning." in the morning."

"He's a goddamn drug drug dealer," she says, exasperated "These are his peak hours." dealer," she says, exasperated "These are his peak hours."

"Don't tell him you're here," I warn.

"Why would I?" she asks. Distracted, she reaches for her wine and downs another full glass and makes a face. "This tastes weird." She checks the label, then shrugs. "Harley? It's me. I need your services. Translate that any way you'd like. I'm at" She looks over at me.

"You're at Marcus Halberstam's," I whisper.

"Who?" Leaning in, she grins mischievously.

"Marcus Halberstam," I whisper again.

"I want the number number, idiot." She waves me away and continues, "Anyway, I'm at Mark Hammerstein's and I'll try you later and if I don't see you at Canal Bar tomorrow night I'm going to sic my hairdresser on you. Bon voyage. How do I hang this thing up?" she asks, even though she expertly pushes the antenna down and presses the Off button, tossing the phone onto the Schrager chair that I've moved next to the jukebox.

"See." I smile. "You did it."

Twenty minutes later Elizabeth is squirming on the couch and I'm trying to coerce her into having sex with Christie in front of me. What started out as a casual suggestion is now at the forefront of my brain and I'm insistent. Christie stares impassively at a stain I hadn't noticed on the whiteoak floor, her wine mostly untouched.

"But I'm not not a lesbian," Elizabeth protests again, giggling. "I'm a lesbian," Elizabeth protests again, giggling. "I'm not not into girls." into girls."

"Is this a firm firm no?" I ask, staring at her glass, then at the nearempty bottle of wine. no?" I ask, staring at her glass, then at the nearempty bottle of wine.

"Why'd you think I'd be into that that?" she asks. Because of the Ecstasy, the question is flirtatious and she seems genuinely interested. Her foot is rubbing against my thigh. I've moved over to the couch, sitting between the two girls, and I'm massaging one of her calves.

"Well, you went to Sarah Lawrence for one thing," I tell her. "You never know."

"Those are Sarah Lawrence guys guys, Patrick," she points out, giggling rubbing harder, causing friction, heat, everything.

"Well, I'm sorry: " I admit. "I don't usually deal with a lot of guys who wear panty hose on the Street."

"Patrick, you you went to Patrick, I mean, Harvard, oh god, I'm went to Patrick, I mean, Harvard, oh god, I'm so so drunk. Anyway, listen. I mean, wait" She pauses, taken a deep breath, mumbles an unintelligible remark about feeling bizarre, then, after closing her eyes, opens them and asks, "Do you have any coke?" drunk. Anyway, listen. I mean, wait" She pauses, taken a deep breath, mumbles an unintelligible remark about feeling bizarre, then, after closing her eyes, opens them and asks, "Do you have any coke?"

I'm staring at her glass, noticing that the dissolved Ecstasy has slightly changed the color of the wine. She follows my gaze and takes a gulp of it as if it were some kind of elixir that could soothe her increasing agitation. She leans her head back, woozily, on one of the pillows on the couch. "Or Halcion. I'd take a Halcion."

"Listen, I would just like to see... the two of you... get it on," I say innocently. "What's wrong with that? It's totally diseasefree."

"Patrick." She laughs. "You're a lunatic."

"Come on," I urge. "Don't you find Christie attractive?"

"Let's not get lewd," she says, but the drug is kicking in and I can sense that she's excited but doesn't want to be. "I'm in no mood to have lewd conversation."

"Come on," I say. "I think it would be a turnon."

"Does he do this all the time?" Elizabeth asks Christie.

I look over at Christie.

Christie shrugs, noncommittal, and studies the back of a compact disc before setting it on the table next to the stereo.

"Are you telling me you've never gotten it on with a girl?" I ask, touching a black stocking, then, beneath it, a leg.

"But I'm not not a lesbian," she stresses. "And no, I never have." a lesbian," she stresses. "And no, I never have."

"Never?" I ask, arching my eyebrows. "Well, there's always a first time..."

"You're making me feel weird," Elizabeth moans, losing control of her facial features.

"I'm not," I say, shocked. not," I say, shocked.

Elizabeth is making out with Christie, both of them naked on my bed, all the lights in the room burning, while I sit in the Louis Montoni chair by the side of the futon, watching them very closely, occasionally repositioning their bodies. Now I make Elizabeth lie on her back and hold both legs up, open, spreading them as wide as possible, and then I push Christie's head down and make her lap at her cunt not suck on it but lap at it, like a thirsty dog while fingering the clit, then, with her other hand, she sticks two fingers into the open, wet cunt, while her tongue replaces the fingers and then she takes the dripping fingers she's fucked Elizabeth's cunt with and forces them into Elizabeth's mouth, making her suck on them. Then I have Christie lie on top of Elizabeth and make her suck and bite at Elizabeth's full, swollen tits, which Elizabeth is also squeezing, and then I tell the two of them to kiss each other, hard, and Elizabeth takes the tongue that's been licking at her own small, pink cunt into her mouth hungrily, like an animal, and uncontrollably they start humping each other, pressing their cunts together, Elizabeth moaning loudly, wrapping her legs around Christie's hips, bucking up against her, Christie's legs spread in such a way that, from behind, I can see her cunt, wet and spread, and above it, her hairless pink asshole.

Christie sits up and turns herself around and while still on top of Elizabeth presses her cunt into Elizabeth's gasping face and soon, like in a movie, like animals, the two of them start feverishly licking and fingering each other's cunts. Elizabeth, totally redfaced, her neck muscles straining like a madwoman's, tries to bury her head in Christie's pussy and then spreads Christie's ass cheeks open and starts tonguing the hole there, making guttural sounds. "Yeah," I say in monotone. "Stick your tongue up that bitch's asshole."

While this is going on I'm greasing with Vaseline a large white dildo that's connected to a belt. I stand up and hoist Christie off Elizabeth, who is writhing mindlessly on the futon, and I attach the belt around Christie's waist, and then I turn Elizabeth around and position her on all fours and I make Christie fuck her with it doggy style, while I finger Christie's cunt, then her clit, then her asshole, which is so wet and loose from Elizabeth's saliva I'm able to force my index finger into it effortlessly and her sphincter tightens, relaxes, then contracts around it. I make Christie pull the dildo out of Elizabeth's cunt and have Elizabeth lie on her back while Christie fucks her in the missionary position. Elizabeth is fingering her clit while madly Frenchkissing Christie until, involuntarily, she brings her head back, legs wrapped around Christie's pumping hips, her face tense, her mouth open, her lipstick smeared by Christie's cunt juice, and she yells "oh god I'm coming I'm coming fuck me I'm coming" because I told both of them to let me know when they had orgasms and to be very vocal about it.

Soon it's Christie's turn and Elizabeth eagerly straps on the dildo and fucks Christie's cunt with it while I spread Elizabeth's asshole and tongue it and soon she pushes me away and starts fingering herself desperately. Then Christie puts the dildo on again and she fucks Elizabeth in the ass with it while Elizabeth fingers her clit, bucking her ass up against the dildo, grunting, until she has another orgasm. After pulling the dildo from her ass I make Elizabeth suck on it before she straps it on again and while Christie lies on her back Elizabeth pushes it easily into her cunt. During this I lick Christie's tits and suck hard on each nipple until both of them are red and stiff. I keep fingering them to make sure they stay that way. During this Christie has kept on a pair of thighhigh suede boots from Henri Bendel that I've made her wear.

Elizabeth, naked, running from the bedroom, blood already on her, is moving with difficulty and she screams out something garbled. My organ had been prolonged and its release was intense and my knees are weak. I'm naked too, shouting "You bitch, you piece of bitch trash" at her and since most of the blood is coming from her feet, she slips, manages to get up, and I strike out at her with the already wet butcher knife that I'm gripping in my right hand, clumsily, slashing her neck from behind, severing something, some veins. When I strike out a second time while she's trying to escape, heading for the door, blood shoots even into the living room, across the apartment, splattering against the tempered glass and the laminated oak panels in the kitchen. She tries to run forward but I've cut her jugular and it's spraying everywhere, blinding both of us momentarily, and I'm leaping at her in a final attempt to finish her off. She turns to face me, her features twisted in anguish, and her legs give out after I punch her in the stomach and she hits the floor and I slide in next to her. After I've stabbed her five or six times the blood's spurting out in jets; I'm leaning over to inhale its perfume her muscles stiffen, become rigid, and she goes into her death throes; her throat becomes flooded with darkred blood and she thrashes around as if tied up, but she isn't and I have to hold her down. Her mouth fills with blood that cascades over the sides of her cheeks, over her chin. Her body, shaking spasmodically, resembles what I imagine an epileptic goes through in a fit and I hold down her head, rubbing my dick, stiff, covered with blood, across her choking face, until she's motionless.

Back in my bedroom, Christie lies on the futon, tied to the legs of the bed, bound up with rope, her arms above her head, ripped pages from last month's Vanity Fair Vanity Fair stuffed into her mouth. Jumper cables hooked up to a battery are clipped to both breasts, turning them brown. I had been dropping lit matches from Le Relais onto her belly and Elizabeth, delirious and probably overdosing on the Ecstasy, had been helping before I turned on her and chewed at one of her nipples until I couldn't control myself and bit it off, swallowing. For the first time I notice just how small and delicately structured Christie is, was. I start kneading her breasts with a pair of pliers, then I'm mashing them up, things are moving fast, I'm making hissing noises, she spits out the pages from the magazine, tries to bite my hand, I laugh when she dies, before she does she starts crying, then her eyes roll back in some kind of horrible dream state. stuffed into her mouth. Jumper cables hooked up to a battery are clipped to both breasts, turning them brown. I had been dropping lit matches from Le Relais onto her belly and Elizabeth, delirious and probably overdosing on the Ecstasy, had been helping before I turned on her and chewed at one of her nipples until I couldn't control myself and bit it off, swallowing. For the first time I notice just how small and delicately structured Christie is, was. I start kneading her breasts with a pair of pliers, then I'm mashing them up, things are moving fast, I'm making hissing noises, she spits out the pages from the magazine, tries to bite my hand, I laugh when she dies, before she does she starts crying, then her eyes roll back in some kind of horrible dream state.

In the morning, for some reason, Christie's battered hands are swollen to the size of footballs, the fingers are indistinguishable from the rest of her hand and the smell coming from her burnt corpse is jolting and I have to open the venetian blinds, which are spattered with burnt fat from when Christie's breasts burst apart, electrocuting her, and then the windows, to air out the room. Her eyes are wide open and glazed over and her mouth is lipless and black and there's also a black pit where her vagina should be (though I don't remember doing anything to it) and her lungs are visible beneath the charred ribs. What is left of Elizabeth's body lies crumpled in the corner of the living room. She's missing her right arm and chunks of her right leg. Her left hand, chopped off at the wrist, lies clenched on top of the stand in the kitchen, in its own small pool of blood. Her head sits on the kitchen table and its bloodsoaked face even with both eyes scooped out and a pair of Alain Mikli sunglasses over the holes looks like it's frowning. I get very tired looking at it and though I didn't get any sleep last night and I'm utterly spent, I still have a lunch appointment at Odeon with Jem Davies and Alana Burton at one. That's very important to me and I have to debate whether I should cancel it or not.

Confronted by Faggot

Autumn: a Sunday around four o'clock in the afternoon. I'm at Barney's, buying cuff links. I had walked into the store at twothirty, after a cold, tense brunch with Christie's corpse; rushed up to the front counter, told a salesclerk, "I need a whip. Really." In addition to the cuff links, I've bought an ostrich travel case with doublezippered openings and vinyl lining, an antique silver, crocodile and glass pill jar, an antique toothbrush container, a badgerbristle toothbrush and a fauxtortoiseshell nailbrush. Dinner last night? At Splash. Not much to remember: a watery Bellini, soggy arugula salad, a sullen waitress. Afterwards I watched a repeat of an old Patty Winters Show Patty Winters Show that I found on what I originally thought was a videotape of the torture and subsequent murder of two escort girls from last spring (the topic was Tips on How Your Pet Can Become a Movie Star). Right now I'm in the middle of purchasing a belt not for myself as well as three ninetydollar ties, ten handkerchiefs, a fourhundreddollar robe and two pairs of Ralph Lauren pajamas, and I'm having it all mailed to my apartment except for the handkerchiefs, which I'm having monogrammed then sent to P & P. I've already made somewhat of a scene in the ladies' shoe department and, embarrassingly, was chased out by a distressed salesperson. At first it's only a sense of vague uneasiness and I'm unsure of its cause, but then it feels, though I can't be positive, as if I'm being followed, as if someone has been tracking me throughout Barney's. that I found on what I originally thought was a videotape of the torture and subsequent murder of two escort girls from last spring (the topic was Tips on How Your Pet Can Become a Movie Star). Right now I'm in the middle of purchasing a belt not for myself as well as three ninetydollar ties, ten handkerchiefs, a fourhundreddollar robe and two pairs of Ralph Lauren pajamas, and I'm having it all mailed to my apartment except for the handkerchiefs, which I'm having monogrammed then sent to P & P. I've already made somewhat of a scene in the ladies' shoe department and, embarrassingly, was chased out by a distressed salesperson. At first it's only a sense of vague uneasiness and I'm unsure of its cause, but then it feels, though I can't be positive, as if I'm being followed, as if someone has been tracking me throughout Barney's.

Luis Carruthers is, I suppose, incognito. He's wearing some kind of jaguarprint silk evening jacket, deerskin gloves, a felt hat, aviator sunglasses, and he's hiding behind a column, pretending to inspect a row of ties, and, gracelessly, he gives me a sidelong glance. Leaning down, I sign something, a bill I think, and fleetingly Luis's presence forces me to consider that maybe a life connected to this city, to Manhattan, to my job, is not a good idea, and suddenly I imagine Luis at some horrible party, drinking a nice dry rose, fags clustered around a baby grand, show tunes, now he's holding a flower, now he has a feather boa draped around his neck, now the pianist bangs out something from Les Miz Les Miz, darling.

"Patrick? Is that you?" I hear a tentative voice inquire.

Like a smash cut from a horror movie a jump zoom Luis Carruthers appears, suddenly, without warning, from behind his column, slinking and jumping at the same time, if that's' possible. I smile at the salesgirl, then awkwardly move away from him and over to a display case of suspenders, in dire need of a Xanax, a Valium, a Halcion, a Frozfruit, anything. anything.

I don't, can't can't, look at him, but I sense he's moved closer to me. His voice confirms it.

"Patrick?... Hello?"

Closing my eyes, I move a hand up to my face and mutter, under my breath, "Don't make me say it, Luis."

"Patrick?" he says, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"

A hideous pause, then, "Patrick... Why aren't you looking at me?"

"I'm ignoring you, Luis." I breathe in, calming myself by checking the price tag on an Armani buttonup sweater. "Can't you tell? I'm ignoring you."

"Patrick, can't we just talk?" he asks, almost whining. "Patrick look at me." look at me."

After another sharp intake of breath, sighing, I admit, "There is nothing, not-hing nothing, not-hing to talk" to talk"

"We can't go on like this,' he impatiently cuts me off. "I can' go on can' go on like like this." this."

I mutter. I start walking away from him. He follows, insistent.

"Anyway," he says, once we've reached the other side of the store, where I pretend to look through a row of silk ties but everything's blurry, "you'll be glad to know that I'm transferring... out of state."

Something rises off me and I'm able to ask, but still without looking at him, "Where?"

"Oh, a different branch," he says, sounding remarkably relaxed, probably due to the fact that I actually inquired about the move. "In Arizona."

"Terriffic," I murmur.

"Don't you want to know why?" he asks.

"No, not really."

"Because of you you," he says.

"Don't say that," I plead.

"Because of you you," he says again.

"You are are sick sick," I tell him.

"If I'm sick it's because of you you," he says too casually, checking his nails. "Because of you I am sick and I will not get better."

"You have distorted this obsession of yours way out of proportion. Way, way way out of proportion," I say, then move over to another aisle. out of proportion," I say, then move over to another aisle.

"But I know you have the same feelings I do," Luis says, trailing me. "And I know that just because..." He lowers his voice and shrugs. "Just because you won't admit... certain feelings you have doesn't mean you don't have them."

"What are you trying to say?" I hiss.

'That I know you feel the same way I do." Dramatically, he whips off his sunglasses, as if to prove a point.

"You have reached... an inaccurate conclusion," I choke. "You are... obviously unsound."

"Why?" he asks. "Is it so wrong to love you, Patrick?"

"Oh... my... god."

"To want want you? To want to be with you?" he asks. "Is that so wrong?" you? To want to be with you?" he asks. "Is that so wrong?"

I can feel him staring helplessly into me, that he's near total emotional collapse. After he finishes, except for a long silence I have no answer. Finally I counter this by hissing, "What is this continuing inability you have to evaluate this situation rationally?" I pause. "Huh?"

I lift my head up from the sweaters, the ties, whatever, and glance at Luis. In that instant he smiles, relieved that I'm acknowledging his presence, but the smile soon becomes fractured and in the dark inner recesses of his fag mind he realizes something and starts crying. When I calmly walk over to a column so I can hide behind it, he follows and roughly grabs my shoulder, spinning me around so I'm facing him: Luis blotting out reality.

At the same time I ask Luis to "Go away" he sobs, "Oh god, Patrick, why don't you like like me?" and then, unfortunately, he falls to the floor at my feet. me?" and then, unfortunately, he falls to the floor at my feet.

"Get up," I mutter, standing there. "Get up."

"Why can't we be together?" he sobs, pounding his fist on the floor.