Sissy Girl Slap Party

Daddy Robe
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

So you return to the uber-swank hotel room that you and Coco have agreed was designed for a rich Daddy and his posse of Toms of Finland.

The glass shower is just begging to be filled with half-naked boys dancing around, slapping each other, and letting out shrill girly “ouches” (you imagine the sweet slappy boys of Guy Maddin’s short film Sissy Boy Slap Party as your entertainment.

You dawn the white robes provided by W Hotel. They have weights in the hem, the rich fabric swooshing around you making you feel like an international man of intrigue, power and sex (the pockets just begging for crisp 20 bills, lubricant and candy). You flop your bellies on the 350 thread-count duvet bed, replete with a faux fur blanket, to stare and ponder the pristine white bathroom calling out: dirtier, dirtier.

You and Coco take turns pulling swigs from a bottle of white wine and casually discuss calling the front desk and ordering up three 5-star men. Hey, they look so bored standing around the lobby; you’re just positive that they’d love to be your entertainment (what man doesn’t secretly want to strip down and dance for a lady making luxuriously naughty demands of his mind, body and soul?)

You discuss the male posture, in particular, the rich Daddy posture. Coco decides to walk like a man, so she eases herself off the rim of the hootch juice and saunters through the room, her imaginary cahonas making her swagger like Clint Eastwood chomping a wet stoagie and heaving a satchel full of contraband gold like its fairy dust. You both agree that it is satisfying to pretend to colonize and own such decadent space.

Coco Shoes
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

You make the mistake of looking out the window. One of the Boys Who Stand ‘Round (aka “Google Eyes”) sees you… you think... but then you’re not too sure. Maybe it always seems like he’s looking at you: he has google eyes after all. Coco and you agree that google eyes make him the best Bouncer ever… you always thinks he’s got his eye on you.

I decide to obsess on Google Eyes for a spell. Not only does he have google eyes, but he also has an amazingly small pinhead. It looks like he has this “big man” suit on and there’s this skinny man’s head sticking out… and the head is bobbing around like its on a spring.

Suddenly the Coco/Daddy espies a high heel in the corner of the room. She pounces on it: it’s beautiful; it’s rich; it’s beautiful being a woman. You ponder lines for a time.

Fluffy Cloud
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

You fall on the floor laughing at the Daddy décor, and you, two bitches, sullying it.

You agree that the Velvet Design mafia has done up the whole hotel: one design fag calling up his buddy to say, “listen Mary, I’ve got this fabulous gig designing the drapes for Montreal’s Hotel W. You just have to jet down from Ibiza to work with us. We need your experience with beds, floors, and showers. Cause you know, girl, you've been face down on more surfaces than Mr. Clean himself.”

God—you are so done with the weight of the robes. It's Ms. Dress-Up time.

Coco, belly down on the floor, flips over and straight-serious, gestures to the corner of the room, and says in her best WASP-voice: “Oh, did your friend design this?”

You take time out for bouncing on the bed. You decide that going down the hall for ice is an adventure-trek. You come back to fill the sink with ice. You use all the shower products to make a foot bubble bath. You fall asleep in a fluffy duvet cloud.

Hootch Juice in Montreal

violet_window
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Toxed in Montreal
You know when you’re rampaging through Old Montreal totally toxed on organic substances and corked on a bottle of hootch juice, and you suddenly realize that this is the best time you have ever had, and that you are so glad that Quebec is a part of Canada?

And you rage around yelling “what is that?” at every piece of architecture that you cannot believe actually exists in Canada—Safdie’s cube-living space Habitat, some Thunderdome made of spun sugar. And then you rest, taking time-outs in a park right behind a glowing white Russian Communist Castle?

Coco Channel and Sugar Water
And then your friend starts getting low blood sugar and begins to whine incredibly hootch statements like, “I want to go back to the hotel. I need Perrier. I want my Prada shrug”.

And you realize that life is great and you have an amazing byatch-of-a-friend...because when she turns into a bitch she is fabulous: she is a Coco Channel upstart and you’re right into just loving her performance, her arms waving around in an amazing Issey Miyake-like pattern of delight.

And then, you suddenly know that there is no way you are going back to the hipster hotel you’re staying in (for one glorious night) in this state... Actually, to qualify it for yourself, you rephrase that thought: there is no way you are going through any hotel lobby, especially the beautiful lobby at Montreal’s Hotel W, in this state.

coco_floor
Originally uploaded by Violet Chrome.

Cute Drones in Hipster Purgatory
Because you remember that when you left the grandeur of your hotel room three hours ago the cute boys standing around the lobby supposedly “working” (more like just standing around lookin’ good) were setting up velvet ropes around the staircase leading up to the two, sliding-glass, entranceway doors.

And then you have a horrible throught: W’s club entrance is just outside the hall by the elevator that leads up to the safe haven that is your amazing hotel room. And you'll be returning to that hall just as everyone is arriving at the club. And then you know: there is no way this byatch here is going to deal with that hipster purgatory.

Lobby Issues and Camel Guilt
And so you reel around, take a swig of the hootch juice roadie, and smoothly say, “Look Coco, I have no problem going back to our hotel room, but I’m currently having issues with hotel lobbies”…

And then she looks at you, her sea foam-rimmed eyes narrowing just slightly. And purring like a famished cheetah, she hustles these words: “I do everything for you. Everything. Who organized this trip? Who can go without water like a camel, so that you can drink whenever you’re thirsty? I do everything for you.”

You then think to yourself: this is the most enjoyable argument you have ever had. And you jump in on this cougar action like a rich bitch at an H&M sale.

“Fine Coco… but if we go back to the hotel, we’re not leaving again. I’m having ‘issues with hotel lobbies’. I will only go through lobby hell once. I’m having issues with hotel lobbies.”

But her Roman jaw is set.

And so you happily give in to her desire to return because you remember that the Miu Miu purse that she is currently sporting—the purse that she had, earlier on in the evening, confidently set on the check-in desk like she owned the W—had got you the upgrade to the super-deluxe room you were currently returning to. So you contentedly give in to her need for Perrier and a foot bath in the Jacuzzi-sized tub.

Paris is a Buring Hotel Lobby Purgatory
And so you head back. But as you approach the W hotel, and its much-feared and Wallpaper-esque hotel lobby, you see, off in the distance, a line-up of French hipsters blocking your easy, smooth and classy re-entry to your hotel room. And you decide: “Fuck it. I’m a byatch, and I can do this lobby entrance like Paris Hilton on her best sleazy night”.

But as you approach the hell that is your hotel entrance, Coco Channel starts having second thoughts and veers away from the velvet ropes.

And you think to yourself: “there is no fucking way that you are not going through these ropes with me. I got over my issues with hotel lobbies. Deal byatch.” And so you grab the collar of her draped, off-the-shoulder shirt, and yank her through the shiny, silk-clad throngs. And you tell yourself to repeat this Hilton-esqe mantra: “I am staying in this hotel. They are merely drinking in it. I am the fabulous bitch here. They are merely low brow hipsters”.

Velvet Skip Rope
Fortunately the cute-boys-just-standing-around-who-are-supposedly-working part the velvet ropes (as cute boys have been trained to do, act or non). And as you elegantly glide—make that careen—through the first sliding glass doors, you are suddenly scrunched in their automatic-ness. But, you grit your teeth. You will not fail on this hootch mission. And again, a cute work boy comes to your rescue and “escorts” you and Coco through the second doors. And you think, “So this is what it feels to be Paris… ghetto”.

Stay tuned for Part II: Violet and Coco’s Night In…

Stag boys

Boys wrestling: hottie hot hot!

Yum!



[Editor's note: Please note that Ghetto Bitch Violet Chrome is off becoming an ever finer Web diva, and may not be posting much in the next while. Will try to kick her sorry ass, so we are all treated to her intellectual musings. Meanwhile, you'll have to be content with my sucky-sex-etc. shit.]

Champagne and karaoke

Last week was beyond busy. The Ninja disappeared for five days, literally and figuratively, to deal with a heartbreaking crisis. I, meanwhile, was trapped for two of those days in an utterly fucking useless company seminar, frustrated by my inability to help him. Saturday I had a freelance corporate shoot that went off fine, but it involved a load of prep, lots of client handholding, and I had a killer hangover.

Thank god for the bright spots: hanging with the girls Friday night for a stagette of Chambar, champagne, and (for the chicks who didn't have to get up the next morning for a shoot, anyway) karaoke.



Best of all was having the Ninja crawl through my bedroom window at 8 am Sunday morning, post-stag, stinking like a brewery, alive, beautiful, back again.

Getting Gay with Che

An instant message conversation with Bacovegetarian:

You look like a gay che supporter
I'd get gay with Che.
if he wasn't dead.
Would you have let me watch?
All that attention might make me anxious.
Ah yes, forgot you men have trouble "faking it"
That's why god invented viagara.