I just wanted to be Gawker Stalked

hey, ho!.

Look -- I am in all my whored-out finery. My friend Gary took me to a party at Soho House and I figured that I had to dress like a tramp. So I did. We were at a party celebrating Virgin's new bedthings on their airplanes. I believe I am sitting on one of their bedthings, but I'm at Soho House, not at an airplane. Did I mention I was at Soho House? Because I was.

Happily, my friend Cliff and I took off all our clothes and jumped into the pool atop Soho House. Yes, indeedy, I removed my cheap hooker costume and jumped into the rooftop pool in my altogether.

Why? Much like Everest. Because it was there. And because I was drunk and happy. And because I have a long history of taking my clothes off at swanky parties and jumping into rooftop pools.

My friend Josh, however, called me on it: oh, how I wanted to be Gawkerstalked. "VH1 talking head frolics naked in Soho House pool!" But, alas. I am so G-list that nobody cares. Not even when I expose my enormous aereolae to all of Manhattan. Sigh.