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"You’re the next Hispanic Markus Schenkenberg You’re the, uain "You’re a star, man Any day of the week"

"I just don’t want this to be like an afterthought-"

"Hey ht’ isn’t in this guy’s vocabulary," I say, pointing at o of the Door Open button and offering a shaky thumbs-up "I, like, trust you"

The elevator zips up to the top floor, where it opens into Alison’s penthouse I peer down the front hallway, don’t see or hear the dogs, then quietly wheel the Vespa inside and lean it against a wall in the foyer next to a Vivienne Tam sofa bed

I tiptoe silently toward the kitchen but stop when I hear the hoarse breathing of the two choho have been intently watching , audible only now I turn around and offer them a weak smile

I can barely say "Oh shit" before they both break out into et: me

The two chows-one chocolate, one cinna atfuriously

"Alison! Alison!" I call out, trying desperately to bat them away

Hearing her nalance down the hallway to see if she’s con of her-we’re frozen in position, red chow standing on back legs, its paws in roin, black chon on its front paith Gucci boot inand basically freaking out like they always do

"Alison!" I screa the distance from where I’m at to the kitchen door, I decide to make a run for it, and when I bolt, the chows sca at my ankles

I finally make it into the kitchen and sla across the e thumps, hear them fall over, then scamper up and attack the door Shaken, I open a Snapple, down half of it, then light a cigarette, check for bites I hear Alison clapping her hands, and then she walks into the kitchen, naked beneath an open Aerosmith tour robe, a cell phone cradled in her neck, an unlit joint in her oddas into the pantry, pulls a handful of colored biscuits fro the pantry door shut, the sounds of the dogs fighting over the biscuits cut ht, Malcolm McLaren Yeah, no, Frederic Fekkai Yeah Everybody’s hung over, babe" She scrunches up her face "Andrew Shue and Leonardo DiCaprio? What? Oh baby, no-o-o way" Alison winks at ht now Wake up! Oh boy Ciao, ciao" She clicks off the cellular and carefully places the joint on the counter and says, "That was a three-ith Dr Dre, Yasmine Bleeth and Jared Leto"

"Alison, those two little shits tried to kill s around my waist

"Mr and Mrs Chow aren’t little shits, baby" She clamps her mouth onto mine as I stumble with her toward the bedroom Once there she falls to her knees, rips openin an unfortunately practiced way, grabbing my ass so hard I have to pry one of her hands loose I take a last drag off the cigarette that I’, look around for a place to stub it out, find a half-empty Snapple bottle, drop in what’s left of the Marlboro, hear it hiss

"Slon, Alison, you’re

She pullsup at ency is ets up, drops the robe and lies back on the bed, spreading her legs, pushing me down onto a floor littered with randoe photo of Alison and Damien and Chloe andin a cra at a sh and the -once, twice, three ti where this will not end up, I jerk off a little until I’ and then I think, Oh screw it, I don’t really have ti loudly,the i soround is mid-period Duran Duran Our rendezvous spots have included the atrium at Remi, room 101 at the Paramount, the Cooper-Hewitt Museum