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

No Fake I.D For Me

Getting a fake i.d wasn’t necessary for me. There were a million places that let us in underage, because we brought a vibe, we were cool and fun as fuck. Shout out to Southern Hospitality, Justin Timberlake if it weren’t for you Sara and Chris would have never met! We actually stopped going when we were of age, we had options now. Also saw Justin and Leonardo DiCaprio there once hanging out in the back, as well as Kid Rock. Kid Rock was weird as fuck, my boyfriend and I were making out in a booth when we felt a presence. There he was, standing there, watching us. Never said a word, just made a bunch of faces. Mind you we were in a booth by ourselves, he had a beer in hand resting on our table. I think he was trying to pull a robbery, after an uncomfortable ten minutes he finally went away. We were like should we keep making out? Is he trying to have a threesome? Puzzled.

On top of those places my friends parents owned plenty of restaurants. Fuming when Peter Lam’s dad gave up his SoHo hotspot, to live out his dream as a hairstylist. I was spoiled, why should I get an i.d for Don Hill’s? Plus procuring one was sketchy, I gave up at the first attempt. The subway across the street from Staples on 86th and Lex use to have a medley of shops upon descending the stairs, one was a shoe repair store. To get a fake you had to go in, say a phrase that slipped my mind eons ago, so the guy selling them would know your intentions. Something like: how much for a boot buckle? Or, do you fix soles? He charged $75. When we went the block was hot and the heat was on. He told us to come back, he was being watched. When we did he was fired. Plus, if he felt you didn’t look old enough, he would give you a photo as close to you as possible. I kid you not niggas would have entirely different ethnicities…like this person is Indian and you’re black…apparently it still worked most places for my friend. Far too much work. I spent the money on drugs and alcohol instead. But let me tell you when Leigh Lezark came through with that a-line, blunt bob bitch, with Geordon and Greg bitchhhhhh, definition of cool. We were obsessed.

Did you have a fake or naw? Via: Cine Odyssey

Supermodel 101: Agyness Deyn

The British are coming, the British are coming! And we ain’t mad. It’s 2007 and I refuse to get a fake i.d to enter MisShapes, the hottest club in New York City. I hate scenes. That doesn’t stop my friends from going. Everyone is running up to Jackson Pollis in the hallways of ELRO (for me math class), asking if he’s deadass the boyfriend of supermodel Agyness Deyn. A gentleman he replies “only friends,” until profuse photo evidence made their dating status an indubitable fact. Oh, to be a teen in the late aughts, attending a specialized high school on the Upper East Side.

Agyness Deyn literally ruled the world, she was the IT girl; an androgynous, punk chic Edie Sedgwick, her style and music taste were deemed just as cool. Born in Manchester, she was a waitress until she got scouted by designer Henry Holland, signing with Select Model Management. This platinum blonde babe was a force in both commercial and high fashion (editorials, runway). Walking for YSL, Chanel, Stella McCartney, Dior, Versace, Karl Lagerfeld (to name a few), plastered on campaigns for Burberry, Doc Martens, Armani, Anna Sui, Vivienne Westwood…and covered Time, Vogue, I-D, Elle, everything, she was everywhere. A nightclub fixture, a tastemaker, the embodiment of a rock n’ roll, carefree, party scene that defined an amazing era. One where we stuck out our orange pigmented tongues from drinking the now obsolete Sparks, embracing debauchery in the pursuit of fun. I can hear The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, just looking at her.

After dominating the industry Deyn quit modeling in 2009, not before dating Albert Hammond Jr. and Alex Greenwald. Dipping her feet into acting she landed a big role in Clash Of The Titans as Aprohodite, married actor Giovanni Ribisi and has since found joy with Joel McAndrew, with whom she has two kids. A stellar career for such a short time. Is Agyness Deyn the most rock n’ roll model ever? Photographers: Alasdair McLellan, Terry Richardson, Steven Meisel, Jan Welters, Getty Images Versace Show, Steven Meisel, Katie Jane Hillier & Vogue Italia