One evening back in 1984 at the Privilege in Paris I was talking to a Vogue cover girl the bar. Nordine the barman was giving us free drinks. We belonged to the same crew and I said to Brigitte, "My friend really likes you."
"Vonelli?"
"Yes." The bearded art dealer made me laugh and I like that in anyone. He was balding and older than us, but like Cyrano he possessed panache and I decided to act as Cupid.
"Not a chance." Brigitte was nicknamed Cruella. The brunette South African had broken many hearts across Europe, but I was immune to her allure. We lived together on the Ile St. Louis. If I succumbed to her succubi, I would be living under a bridge by the Seine.
"That's too bad." My girlfriend was a eighteen year-old Puerto Rican/French model. She had left me again for a younger man. I was crashing here, until she took me back again. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Why?"
"Because Alan has the biggest penis I've ever seen on a white man." I had never seen his penis and I had never ever said these words to anyone before about anyone else's penis and certainly not mine. I'm half-Irish, thankfully Black Irish from the Aran Isles.
"Really?"
"A real long prong."
Five minutes later the two of them left the disco as a testament to the power of words quenching desire. I heard them at it that night and many more. Them in the upstairs bedroom. Me on the living room couch. Neither of them ever mentioned my claim about the Vonelli organ, but they seemed happy. As I said I was a good wingman. Both for women and men. Me, I went back to Candia. My happy was another story with other endings. Some of them good and some is better than none.
