Bergdorf Boys

Prologue It was the day the weather lost its mind. Neal sighed, considered the sentence as an opener for his new Pop magazine column, then continued. Late May temperatures shot into the upper 90s as a troop of boys dressed as Greek messengers scattered about the city. They each unrolled a hand-painted paper, read it aloud, then pricked a finger and dripped blood into the center of the parchment. Reportedly, some guests winced at the blood, while others began phoning friends to see if they’d snared an invite to Andres Palamos’ Oracle Orgy. A few bold and drug-addled recipients asked the soft-skinned messengers what they would do for a wad of cash or a hit of coke. By the end of the day, the pulse of the city’s gay heart was aflutter with rumors, resentments and expectations. Competing parties were canceled, hair appointments were made, diamonds were dusted. The countdown began. Neal grimaced. It would never do. The whole thing felt stale, like the dusty ramblings of an old dowager socialite, not the razor sharp musings of a hip gay editor. He had to ‘say’ something, not just report. The column had to pop. He shut his eyes, rubbed his temples. At least he had a title. Bergdorf Boy.