Thursday, February 22, 2007
Does anyone remember Rupert Everett?
He had an A-list moment about 10 years back when he played fag to Julia Robert’s hag in “My Best Friend’s Wedding.” He committed career suicide a year later when he appeared with Madonna in the disastrous “The Next Best Thing”, which is arguably the worst film of all time. I mean, the movie is even worse than Madge’s beach epic “Swept Away” – and that’s bad!
Well, now that the big parts have evaporated, Mr. Everett has written a saucy little memoir about his 15 minutes of fame. Titled “Red Carpets And Other Banana Skins”, Mr. Everett’s prose, although not exactly Proust, is witty. His tales of life on the A-list with J-lo, Gwyneth, Donatella, and Miss Madge are quite insightful as well as interesting. But he left one person out: Me.
I met Rupert a few years back. Well, I wouldn’t exactly say met, but we kinda rubbed… shoulders. Yeah, shoulders.
Let me explain:
It was one of those mischievous nights at Manhattan’s sleaziest gay bar the Cock. After one too many black bitches (that’s a vodka/coke - the drink of choice for me and Debbie Harry) I wandered into the “anything goes with anyone” backroom. I saw Mr. Everett standing in a dark corner. I mean, at 6’4” with a head of thick black hair, he wasn’t exactly hard to miss. Star fuck that I am, I batted my Max Factored lashes his way and soon we were groping and kissing like two wild schoolgirls After several minutes, he backed away and dropped to his knees in front of a thuggish looking black man. I took a swig of my cocktail and watched his lips imitate a Hoover vacuum.
Ok, maybe he left me out of the book for good reason, but it’s still one of those amazing moments that can only happen in Manhattan.
Posted by THE ORAL REPORTER at 2:37 PM