Two Hot to Handle

I talked to Dancy, but Christian bailed. Paris Hilton got out, too.

At the indoor/outdoor Beige night at B Bar last Tuesday, the zany Mickey Boardman and Erich Conrad hosted a dinner for various male porn stars to celebrate's photo feature, "JD Ferguson Presents," and we were all shitting glitter. In came the pornos, like Tiger Tyson, the blatino star/producer who does absolutely everything but fuck himself. ("I can't do that yet," he generously conceded.) Like every other porn actor I've ever met, Tyson told me he's bi. (Hey, maybe Hugh Dancy should play him in an all-star regret-fest.) He also swore he has a daughter, has never had syphilis or crabs, and has never bottomed—and he was so charming about it, I didn't even bring up the whispers that one of his early works had him bottoming until editing took over. Meanwhile, Tyson was most emphatic that he never needs any fluffing or dick injections. "Put the ass in my face and we're good to go," he remarked, stating pretty much how we all feel.

Before leaving to go home and fuck myself, I asked socialite Luigi Tadini who his favorite adult-film star is, and he said, "I'm bad with names. Anyone who's adventurous and sloppy and narcissistic." Gosh, he'd love me—except for the adventurous part.

If you want someone who looks like publicist Peggy Siegal, there are easy ways to achieve that. In the booklet handed out at Siegal's recent birthday dinner (complete with dessert symphony), she nicely included the names of the medical team you can call "to look like me at 60." First was her gynecologist ("glamorous, attentive, and thorough"), then her breast doctor ("has a great touch"), her plastic surgeon ("gave me a new neck"), a schnozz doctor ("still trying to stop my runny nose"), a radiologist ("You can never have too many pelvic ultrasounds"), a gastroenterologist ("cleanest colonoscopy on Park Avenue"), and, most importantly, a hair stylist ("gray is not a color"). Voilà—Peggy Siegal!

Dancy: Around the subject
Rafael Fuchs
Dancy: Around the subject


But back to the porn stars, like Paris Hilton, who started her real punishment last week by greeting the cryptkeeper Larry King, who's glamorous, attentive, and thorough, but needs a new neck. This was fresh after Larry's interview with Al Pacino, which was the longest 60 minutes of my life since walking one block in Times Square. Larry's big question was "Where did you get hoo-ha?" and when Al's answer proved diffuse, they just stared at each other's hair plugs for the next 50 minutes.

This time Larry was fine, and I even thought Paris came off well, though I distrust anyone who uses words like journey and gift; I was surprised to learn she considers herself a scribe, considering she had a ghostwriter for her last book; and I'm stunned she found the strip search in jail so humiliating when, to paraphrase Kathy Griffin, "Please! We've seen things go in there." Still, she was delightful. She's the new David Niven.


It's time for my OWN apologia on Larry King. You see, all week long I've been getting emails from people furious that I didn't show up at a scheduled reading at the East Village's Rapture Cafe. But I did! Let me explain: Weeks ago, when the organizer asked me to be part of the reading, I told him I could only make it at 915 PM because of other arrangements. He said fine, he'd simply put me on at that time. But when I got there (admittedly three whole minutes late), the event was well over and the crowd was still dispersing, the organizer having totally forgotten my timing issue. Cleverly enough, I coerced many of the exiters back into the cafe and did my little reading to a smattering of applause. So please don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

Meanwhile, some upcoming George Bernard Shaw reading at Players Club put my name on press materials as the evening's host without having asked me if I'd host (long story), so don't go THERE and be mad I didn't show up at all. God, it's rough being a C-minus celeb in the fast lane.

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