The Evil Genie grants three wishes a week. Leave a wish in the comments!
Clive wishes: Dear Evil Genie, please, I wish you to help me ensnare/become the dressup doll of a intractable/insane major fashion designer, like you know, Nick Gruber/Jean-Baptiste Giabiconi??
The Evil Genie replies: Dearest Clive, your wish is my command. You are the lover/muse/Ken doll of a major fashion designer. His designs are seen the world over: at fashion week, in magazines, on television. He showers you with expensive gifts and toys and furs and personally-designed denims. The two of you appear entwined on the cover of Interview magazine wearing Kabuki masks. He makes a mold of your body with one hundred dollar bills and then you set the mold on fire because you can, and both of you laugh and laugh. You’re rich, you’re famous to a certain set of people, and you have all the gym time you could ever dream of. You have it all.
Except good taste, I guess? Your mans is none other than Christian Audigier: Ed Hardy entrepreneur, kazillionaire, and President and CEO of Gross Human Train Wrecks. And, as in so many artist/subject relations, your partnership is not one of equality. From the very beginning, things are weird and always on his terms. Christian makes you call him Ed Hardy, but he calls you Ed Hardy, too, which is confusing and icky. He forces you to wear a Von Dutch hat during sex. He smells like flavored vodka and steroid perspiration and Axe body spray, which he sometimes serves as an after-dinner drink. He pushes you into orgies with dangerously guido-ish gentlemen where you’re not sure if you’re going to be fellated or gay-bashed.
At first you find this degradation exciting and sexy, but eventually you tire of picking sequins out of your teeth and pooping tanning lotion. You start to realize that this relationship is a waste of your youth and energy and potential. You’re letting an older, supposedly creative man suck you dry (heh) and take everything he can from you. And when he’s finished he’ll throw away the husk.
But it’s too late. You’re too far in. You’ll never be able to get a regular job after Christian scored you the cover of DickPics Monthly, paid for your quadruple calf-implants and tattooed a tiger on your face. To the vast majority of society, the part that has never smoked meth on a yacht or let a man with 24-pack abs give him a sex-beating, you’re effectively deformed. In a few short years of partying and musing, you begin to age and decay. You’re not Dorian anymore, you’re the portrait. Wrapped up in your tight-fitting bedazzled tees and studded formal sweatpants, with your saggy man-breasts and withering tattoos, you find that you’ve become a joke, a grotesque, an American cautionary tale. On your 28th birthday, Christian takes out out on the Concwhored, his private airplane, and drops you into the ocean.