David Beckham The Serial Cheater

Attending a Fashion Week party was not our intention that night. When I met up with model agent Derek, the vibe was meet these Swedish male models and chill. Ours was a social marriage, if one appeared without the other people demanded answers for the absence, as if conjoined twins suddenly separated. Derek always brought me as his plus one, because I’d encouraged his career pursuits. Sometime during our senior year, he was kidnapped in the middle of the night and taken to one of those rehabilitation facilities in the woods. A place for drug addicts, which he was once, but not anymore. He was there for not listening to me, or his mother. He’d stolen her card to go on $500 American Apparel shopping sprees, twice.
The first spree, she told him she was going to send him away next time. No one took her seriously, she wasn’t a disciplinarian. Intuitive, I told him I think she’s serious this time. While my mom was black, meaning if I did something of that nature I’d get my ass beat, his was white. He didn’t fear her. To be honest I watched my friends with white parents do bogus shit bro, incapable of comprehending that my mama don’t play like that.
Derek and I were the only two black people of our friends who lived on the Upper East Side. Not in Harlem. Not in the projects. Something I’ve continuously had to prove, between Gossip Girl’s distortion and systemic racism, we were rarities. Our upbringing inconceivable, with me going as far as throwing my state i.d down in a visiting college friends racist face, at a bar once. Embarrassing her in front of all of my friends and her one. She left shortly after, the atmosphere turned chilly towards her. What do you expect from someone who thought Asian slurs were appropriate, since Keene, New Hampshire wasn’t diverse. Before meeting me, she thought saying “ch*nky food” was acceptable. I was her first black friend. I taught her a lot.
Derek ran her card again and was gone. Coming back to the city some odd years later, finding his footing was hard, but with the help of his friends (housing him, feeding him, because he was taking up space for people with real problems) he made it through. I assured him college wasn’t for everyone, intern, because I was NOT going to let him be a porn star. He’s worth more and not everyone needs college to make it.

Besides that, male models loved me. We were just socialites, who knew how to have a good time and work the room. I was business and party suitable. He tells me I’m going to love Charlie Westerberg. I’m going to love Eric. So I meet up with him after adulting, in the backyard garden bar of some establishment. Everyone was having a good time, getting more and more wasted. From the looks of it, the brunette girl standing next to me had dibs on Charlie. Leaving me to connect with Eric, the brunette standing next to Derek. Unbeknownst to everyone Charlie had different plans for the night.
“You’re like really, really hot and I’m superficial, so that means a lot coming from me,” Charlie tells me before we cab it to Brooklyn.

Mimi the blond girl splayed out on the floor, decides we should go to her roof in Williamsburg. It has the best views of the city and tons of liquor in her apartment. Warning us that her roommates had work, they were sleeping. It was warm, the roof wasn’t a problem for any of us. We get out of our cabs like animals, just wasted beyond belief. Literally walking in the streets, the sidewalks, howling at the moon like wolves. Just a fucking mess. Mimi goes to get provisions, in addition to what we bought, while the rest of us make our way to the roof. I swear I will never tire of the New York skyline. It’s one of my greatest loves. The view was epic, as promised.
We’re hanging out, smoking up, Eric and I are enjoying each others company. Charlie pulls him aside. The two bffs are engaged in clandestine conversation. Next thing I knew Eric is with the brunette girl and Charlie is repeating that I’m super hot. He made Eric switch bitches, upsetting the undeterred brunette.
Throughout the night Charlie kept mentioning going to The Last Magazine party, Derek vetoed it. As did Mimi, who didn’t feel dressed for it. We all sided with Derek & Mimi, and didn’t think twice about it. At some point on the roof the group splits up. Derek, Mimi and myself go to the apartment to restock and use the restroom. Her apartment was a spacious, beautiful thing. Before heading back up we take shots with her Asian male roommate, who turned out to be a photographer at Teen Vogue Derek had spoken to on multiple occasions, including earlier that day. Portal. The turn up didn’t last long as Mimi’s second roommate, a stressed af white woman, came out begging us to be quiet. She had work tomorrow, interning for Martha Stewart. If she didn’t get enough sleep and messed up, it was her ass. I mean full blown breakdown. We all stared at her, gave our word, decided Martha must be a terrible person, continued the turn up, until she came out again. Close to tears. We finally decided to go back to the roof, after the photographer agreed The Last Magazine party wasn’t worth the trek.

Upon our return we were floored, floored by what we found. Absolutely no one was upstairs. Not a soul. Charlie in our absence rallied everyone and went to the fucking party. We were pissed. Determined, we got a cab and headed to Acme, practicing how we were gonna curse him out on arrival. Just like, he really pulled a fast one. The cab pulls up in the very front, we look at the line which is down the literal street and spot the backstabbers. Before we could even move we hear, “Derek,” all of us turn. Ian Bradley who Derek knew from The Misshapes days is working the door, ushering us in with kisses on the cheek. Skipping the line we all look at Charlie, he’s pissed, all the way at the end of it. Karma.
Had he gone with us, he wouldn’t have to wait the thirty minutes to get it.
At this point I’m on one. The drinks so strong I couldn’t finish my second vodka cranberry. During my first, David Fucking Beckham walks by me. Everyone is in awe.
“David, David, David,” I almost chant inebriated. He turns to look at me, blue jeans, plain white tee shirt, realizes he doesn’t know me and keeps going. At this point Derek spots Anja Rubik, beyond, he forces me to take a series of pictures of them. Charlie finally enters, furious at the turn of events, refusing to speak to us. We find David through the crowd and move closer, stopping when we realize he’s with a blonde woman, in a hot pink, extremely low cut, like down to the belly button, sleeveless dress. Hair to the middle of her back. He’s sitting on the arm of a chair, sipping, while she’s ecstatic at his arrival. Throwing her arms around him, bodies pressed together, in between talking to people, she always comes back to claim him. The affection was uncomfortable for everybody. It was clear to anyone with eyes they were an item. People were whispering about it. This girl felt like she was that bitch, with someone else’s husband.
“This is crazy,” I proclaim. Just completely shocked at the blatant indiscretion.
“OMG… wait is this real?” Derek responds.
“Where is Posh? It’s Fashion Week, if anyone should be here it’s her,” I continue.
“They were literally together earlier today for a show,” Derek states.
”There’s no reason for him to be out this late without her,” my final two cents.
Suddenly my mind reels back to when Baby Spice said she knew about David’s affair, I just forgot it was with Rebecca Loos. That everybody knew. How Victoria Beckham was angry Emma didn’t tell her. I agreed with Posh, Baby was a bad friend. Yet here we were, in the same predicament. Suddenly I understood her dilemma. It’s David fucking Beckham, what are you gonna say? We all mind our business, feeling betrayed by his betrayal of a beloved Spice Girl.

I was out of mind. Dancing on the couch above the crowd, I saw David Beckham smiling up at me. We exchanged glances throughout the night, causing me to question my integrity. Tatted up, not a hair out of place, gorgeous David Beckham was a once in a lifetime opportunity. His pull was magnetic. His swagger displaying he has black friends. Even in front of his mistress, he was eyeing other women. He was eyeing me, and while married men were off limits I started to question my values. My person. In ways that scared me. This man was Dracula. I’d always had a crush on him, but never imagined I’d meet him. Have my morals questioned. My thoughts vacillated between you only live once, and the karmic retribution not being worth it. Trust me I know. Surprisingly, for once, I was thankful for a side chick. I didn’t have to test my willpower. Being inebriated beyond belief also helped. He looked, but I wasn’t discreet enough to touch.

Before leaving I wanted to teach Charlie a lesson by making out with Eric. I stopped kissing him, scanning the crowd I found Charlie, we lock eyes. I proceed to tongue his bff. Mission accomplished. I go to say goodbye to Charlie, we start kissing, he stops, not into making out in public. I return to Eric, kissing him once more before exiting, proud of myself for knowing my limit, drink wise. Proud of myself for teaching Charlie humility, he needed it. Too attractive for his own good. He made the night epic though.
Derek was right, I did love the Swedes.
“That was so crazy when we started that dance party in that weird living room space,” I said in our recap the next day.
“That was just you; you jumped on that couch by yourself, twerking on the walls, pulling curtains, then you got on your back and started doing this bicycle leg thing and I was like, what is she doing?” Derek informed me.
“The thing is, they liked what they saw, because everyone went over and started dancing.”
It’s safe to say I browned out. Once I start doing bicycles, I’m on a different planet. Bottom line, David Beckham is a serial cheater, as Rebecca Loos confirmed (read Rebecca Loos With The Back Up). The party I saw him at was in 2014. Over a decade after his Rebecca Loos scandal. Everyone kept their mouths shut, because of who he is. He’s dangerous. Too major for his own good. They supported that family, knowing what they did to me, I don’t feel bad. Via: ItsJqBoo Insta

Celebrate Your Personal Milestones

Originally I planned how my life would be, to a tee. A fraction of it happened the way I wanted, at some point I felt so behind missing the milestones I’d set. Maybe I should have stayed in marketing, or chosen law, not the arts, and entrepreneurship. Cut to now after cleansing myself of whatever my stepdad did amongst other things, life is going better than expected. I’m a goddess, queen of witches, at 33 I’m going to be a multi-millionaire suing my ex, all the hundreds of millions I walked away from in Mick Jagger’s will came back to me in a lawsuit I’ll be launching against a multi-billionaire (who facilitated two years of abuse amongst many other things I documented), I solved a black magic murder, I K.O-ed several satanist covens, I’m influential, I dated my idol etc…
Mind you this is after multiple colleges, extreme domestic violence, being bullied, being lied on, being attacked, being hexed, being homeless and couch surfing due to said hex, “friends” and family kicking me when I’m down, praying I stay down, wrongly arrested twice, a failed business due to a racist investor, being stalked for half a decade by Genc Jakupi, sexism etc…

My point being let life surprise you, have faith and be open to miracles, co-create, be a good person. Karma is real, the almighty GOD is real and many, many times the only support I had. An ex friend model agent use to run his mouth, like the lying narcissist he is. Saying I’m just a restaurant girl, going couch to couch, telling tall tales about me. No wonder he’s never been in a relationship in the entirety of his life. Funny thing is he did the same to LaQuan Smith, who invited him to his first show. I told him to go. He refused calling LaQuan a loser who isn’t even in the main area for Fashion Week. An artist myself I said, you never know he could be successful. Getting this far is a big deal. URGED him to go. He laughed it off. Sure enough I was right. He became HUGE off that show.

A user, he hit LaQuan up to try to be his boyfriend after rejecting him, using him only to hook up and calling him ugly. Now he looks idiotic again, since I’m amassing wealth and affluence he can only dream of. Also working at restaurants I met everyone he wishes he could, most artists and entrepreneurs do, due to the pay and flexible schedule. Karma.
Shout out to Trecey Cunningham a mutual friend and agent for always telling me I’m major, always believing in me and spotting me in times I had nothing, or just cause. Provincial bitches never understand visionaries, don’t let them deter you, or instill doubt. Go your own way and be grateful for your personal milestones big, or small. What are they? List ten things. Via: By Maria Andrew

Model Agent Insights

Going to the beach with a bunch of gays, who make a living on ranking women is not for the weak of heart. Thank the lord I was snatched to the gods and could handle it. These were model agents after all, women are merited based on aesthetics, which can sometimes spill over into real life. More than a time, or two I had to get them together. You aren’t in front of the camera for a reason, lest you forget.

Elite’s Manhattan office after hours, it was a special occasion. We drank remnants of an opened bottle of champagne from clear plastic cups, against a jaw dropping view of the skyline. Givenchy was debuting at New York Fashion Week, Riccardo Tisci at the helm. Three agents (DNA, Ford, Elite) and I sat encased in a glass box staring at the big screen. I’ve had an affinity for models since elementary school. Being the tallest girl in class most of my life, it was a relief to see people as gigantic as me. I was casted as a young girl, but my mom would never take me. Glory be, the industry is brutal, kudos to those who traverse it successfully, self-esteem still in tact. While I watched the show for the theatrics and artistry, they watched to see how the girls performed, the clothes completely escaping their minds.

Pat McGrath make-up and masks couldn’t conceal whose who. They recognized a model based on legit her ears! EARS for christ sake! In light of fashion week coming to a close, here are some things I’ve learned based on the insights of agents:

  • Agencies Are Ranked: If you don’t work for a top ten agency, you’re considered a joke. They will cackle and drag you to the catacombs, especially if you’re not in the top three. Forget about it.
  • Rankings Change: All the time, depending on who is traded where, earnings and how many supermodels are on the roster. One month it’s IMG, the next it’s The Society.
  • Weekend Of Tears: Is a thing, girls cry when they don’t make the cut for the big shows. You can find models in and out of various offices, faces stained, because they didn’t book Alexander Wang or Chanel.
  • Broke Until You’re Not: A lot of girls come as, well girls, teenagers who are placed in a model house. If you aren’t booked and making money, you’re going home broke and in debt (rent, transportation, food…). That’s why getting the big shows and campaigns matter, it means visibility and big bucks. Especially if you’re supporting a family overseas. No one wants to be dropped and owing the agency what they didn’t make back.
  • Male Models: Struggle more than anyone. Unless you’re a top male model, you’re nobody.

To be a success in this industry takes skill, tenacity and a thick skin. They make it look easy, because that’s their job. Whose your favorite mannequin? Photo: Riccardo Tisci Instagram