Sublime

A brief meditation on Eve and sex—or, rather, on Eve and how Eve talked about sex: On the one hand, freely. She got around and said so. I remember asking her—this was in 2016, at the beginning of the #MeToo movement—if she ever felt she’d been taken advantage of by men. She looked at me, widening her eyes behind her glasses à la Marilyn in How to M

Bungalow Mornings The parties would last till 2 or 3 a.m. The girls would tempt Etienne and he’d choose one, perhaps a pretty little laughing blonde he had besieged with dozens of roses, color TVs, and even diamond stud earrings—anything her little heart desired.

She drank Southern Comfort with adorable rich young men who were often smart, and spent more and more nights up in those mansions above Hollywood and Beverly Hills where ambulances often lost their way and where handsome devils sat around on their amps trying to outdo each other in songs, blondes, and downers.

They talked about the newest places to eat and the newest places to become slender. They talked about the very newest people, and then talked about the very most fabulous oldest people.

they’d walk along the dewy lawns (she never knew whether he owned or rented this paradise) toward the view and watch L.A. turn blush pink, then yellow, then smog.