[Ed. note: this article was originally published in the December 23-30, 1996 edition of The New York Observer.]
The sculptor Dane Peen returned to his SoHo loft at noon. He stumbled into the kitchen where Sonya, the Brazilian nanny, was cooking his 2-year-old son, Sting, a hard-boiled egg.
“Oh, Mister Peen,” Sonya said, as Dane sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. “Everybody been looking for you. Mrs. Peen go to find you.”
“Where Mrs. Peen?” Dane asked.
“She went to some funeral.”
“Funeral. I’d like to go to funeral. My own.” He jumped up. “Oh, shit—get out of the way!” he said, rushing to bathroom. Sting started screaming.
Maria Kydd-Peen came in the door.
“Oh, Dane,” Maria said. Dane emerged, panting, no tie, his shirt soiled and unbuttoned. “Now are you going to tell me you weren’t doing coke?”
“None of your business,” Dane said.
“Fucking liar. I am so sick of this fucking lying. What else are you lying about, you fucking bastard?”
“Fuck-ing…” said little Sting.
“Forget it, Maria,” Dane said.
“You forget it,” Maria said. She slapped him across the face. “Get out. I want you out of my house.”
“Fine,” Dane said. “But just remember, it’s my fucking house, too.”
“And don’t come back,” Maria said. “You’re fucking up our kid.”
A Bloody Nose
In the king-size bed in the penthouse at the Morgans hotel, the actor Tyler Kydd rolled over, having just woken from a small nap. “Yoo-hooo….love cakes,” he called. “Where aaaare you?”
Evie came to the top of the stairs. She was wearing one of Tyler’s English custom-made shirts (which she planned to steal) and her high heels from the night before. “Yes, darling?” she said.
“Let’s have some fun.”
“We’ve just had lots of fun.”
“I want more fun. Bring me a bloody, will you?”
“A bloody nose?”
“No stupid chick wisecracks, O.K.? Get down here and make me happy.”
“Make yourself happy,” Evie said.
“Honey,” Tyler said, “just remember one thing: If you won’t rock me, somebody will.”
“I’m calling another girl. Toss me my book, will you?”
“Are you serious?” Evie said.
“On top of the TV.”
“You scumbag,” Evie said. But she handed the phone book to him.
Tyler yawned. “I’m horny, a horny old toad.” He grabbed Evie by the shirt and pulled her down on top of him.
“What kind of girl do you like?” Tyler asked. “Blonde, brunette, redhead, French, Spanish?”
“Stop kidding around,” Evie said. She tried to kiss him on the mouth.
“Why not? I want a threesome,” Tyler said. He began pawing through the book and then started dialing. Evie sat back on her haunches. “But what if I don’t want a threesome?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Tyler said. “All women want to sleep with other women. They just don’t admit it.”
“Excuse me,” Evie said.
Tyler put his hand over the receiver. “Where are you going?”
“Suit yourself. Hi sweetheart,” he said into the phone. “I’m baaaaaack.”
Ten minutes later, Evie was riding in a cab going home, flipping through the Post, when she saw an ad for Tyler’s new movie. It suddenly came back to her that Tyler really was a movie star, a movie star whom other women would kill to be with. She thought about returning to his hotel room and having the damn threesome, but she knew that he might not let her back in, and she couldn’t face the embarrassment. “I’ve lost him,” she thought. She began crying quietly, in spite of herself.
‘What If We Get Caught’
The Big Apple town car pulled up in front of a corrugated metal warehouse in Brooklyn, and TV journalist Nico Barone and magazine writer James Dieke got out of the car.
“What if we get caught?” James asked.
“So? They’ll arrest us. I’ve got a great lawyer. We’ll be out in 24,” Nico said.
“I don’t think my wife is going to like it if I end up in jail,” James said.
“Who gives a fuck about your wife?”