And where did my little heinie end up? At Men's Fashion Week--bulletin: Calvin Kleinjust hit Fire Island again for the first time in ages, and with a vengeance--and found that the schools that teach one how to heel-ball-toe down a runway don't necessarily teach charm too. Or so I think--none of the male models would actually talk to me. Anyway, after a mannequin-filled party at Lot 61 for Tom of Hilfiger, I took in the dripping-with-whatever macho stereotypes at the Tom of Finland show, where a parade of penises unencumbered by underwear passed before me (in pants and bathing suits) like disapprovingly wagging fingers. I tried to bite them off, but they were moving too fast, and Giuliani probably wouldn't allow it anyway. The swaggering show was spiced up with gimmicks--one model was on a skateboard, others rode in on a motorcycle, and then the boarder came back with a camera--but everyone just kept looking at those jauntily wagging daggers.
At the Outmagazine?hosted after-party at Jet 19, I made sure to wear underwear, but couldn't exactly sport anything else, since Out's "Elect/Eject" list says male fashion-mongers must avoid Capri pants, shoes with a tuxedo, yellow-lens sunglasses, alien imagery, skateboarding over 20, four-inch denim cuffs (though women--like in their spreads--can wear them), or anything orange. Fortunately, they decree that it's OK to curse.