Under False Pretensesby Montle Moorosi, images by Justin McGee / 02.02.2010
I’m handsome, dashing, daring, bold, regal, debonair, suave, big dick yielding, charming and if you drink enough methylated spirits you might even say I’m fuckable, but the last thing I am, dear boy, is fashionable. I am a soiled pair of Jockey Tanga briefs, a reference I doubt any of you cool kids even know about. It’s a 90’s bum thing.
I have had many realizations these past few months of my weathering limestone wannabe life, I have discovered that making Labrador guide dogs get into pit fights with bull-terriers isn’t that funny anymore. I have discovered that a cold sore is a form of herpes, but most importantly I have found out that fashion is not only about clothes, it’s a lifestyle. Like the magazine. OH MY GOD DARLING! Yes, I found this out! Fashion is a mentality, you little darling poopy particles!
All cyber sarcasm aside, After seeing Tony Yengeni taking pictures with Iko Mash and hob-knobbing with the likes of Abiya from Cream Cartel, I didn’t know whether to think that the ANC is really liberal or that Tony must have had a real tough time in that nice hotel prison he did a stint in. I can see it now, all those bell boys dressed in black crocodile leather Dolce and Gabbana thongs, tossing old Tony’s salad bowl of salmonella and shrimp. And that’s what prison does to you, not only do you have a fear of shut doors, you also have the insane desire to be seen out and about, so no one thinks you’re hiding because your manhood has been gaped. It also fucks up your fashion sense as evidenced by Tony’s chequered hat which just did not go with his chubby face.
Fashion is not just about the finest blood diamond and innovative styles godamnit! It’s about being invited to places and shit, like dinners in Hyde Park and talking about Tamara Dey’s new look and the, “uncanny similarities between Marc Jacobs and Craig Jacobs’ moustaches”, according to some pimply faced tall lanky white boy model who looks like Pete Doherty on stilts and HIV. By this point I’m generally lost, talking to myself and seriously, like very indignant about not being able to wank in public (according to certain “laws” we have). There are beautiful people everywhere, ugly ones too, but it doesn’t matter, it’s all about the free wine and the baby sausages.
“Did that sound gay?” Asked a screeching nasal toned voice. Justin had picked up a stray again and this time it came in the form of a black jock in a Daniel Hechter golf shirt, boot cut jeans and square toe shoes, who wouldn’t stop talking about how rich his grandfather is and how much he hates gay people.
“Bra, are any of those gay guys looking at us? Don’t gay people scare you? Jeez bra, check those gay dudes checking us out! My grandfather owns 30% of Alexander Forbes.”
A large banner near the bathroom reads “AUDI FASHION WEEK, THE PLACE FOR MODELS”. What happened to fashion? Who cares, I saw the shows on the runway and I opted to walk out into the media VIP lounge and pig out on the free cheese pastries instead. I had a conversation with Justin about whether homeless homosexuals were picky about where they scrounge for food. Like myself, Justin is not fashionable, but at least, unlike him, I use deodorant. Our attention turns to, “social auditing” or rather, “obscure economical perving”. I was once asked if I would fuck Oprah for a retirement check, I said yes. I flipped the question on Justin.
“Hey, would you fuck Mika Stefanis for R5000?”
“If I was gay yeah…but don’t quote me on that.”
“So you rate him then?”
Before Justin could answer his black stray jock mate said. “Jeez you guys are gay”.
I’m with my lovely, lovely girlfriend who is a stylist, she’s pretty famous I guess, you might know her, she styled Lucky Dube’s first videos back when he was still underground, and on that crunk shit she just recently styled some amputee children from Darfur for a Sprite advert. God I love that woman. As for me, I work for Mahala which means I’m homeless.
My Girlfriend is knee deep socialising at this point in time and I’m hoping she gets drunk so that we can finally have sex in the parking lot. I don’t know if she’s socialising or job hunting under “false pretences” but she is in heaven and I’m in purgatory. I duck into the bathrooms under the “false pretence” of taking a shit but instead I look into the mirror and worry whether I look alright despite my invisibility. I then leave thinking to myself, “what the fuck am I doing here?” for the umpteenth time. On my way out the bathroom I thought of turning back and going for a quick wank but my mind was distracted by the sight of a Jen Sue red dinner dress and a matching red furry Kangol hat, ha, ha, ha… She probably thought she was going to get eaten out by Samuel Jackson.
Patrice Motsepe looks like a skinny turtle without its shell, his wife has put on too much make up and is a sweet reminder that tenders do not equate to tender skin, tender tits and ass maybe, but there’s only so much Amby cream can do. How’s about you share some of that money with a nigga? Justin approaches Patrice and Tony to take a picture with me, they decline and instead opt to take a picture with what Patrice calls, “the family”. Fuck you dude, I just wanna be down.
The stray has returned, this time he has brought along a Lebanese jock runt without a press pass; Justin turns to me.
“God I hate him”. I concur.
“Jeez bra the one time in Durban Somizi grabbed my hand and called me cute!” Continues the nasal diatribe. He wouldn’t stop. The rhetoric ringing in my ears like a demented earwig that had been to community college. “Ya, I’m studying graphic design at triple A, hey… hey bru, would you rather have a good girl or a dirty girl?”
Now that’s gay… what does gay mean anyway? Isn’t it that dead black guy from the 70’s who sang about saving the world and shit? Cassisus Clay? Charles Ray? Man Ray? Ray–J? Not Ray-J… Marvin Gaye, that’s who!
A week later I met the black stray jock at Club Moloko (don’t even ask) and he was hanging out, dancing and grinding with the Northern Suburbs own Perez Hilton, Mika Stefanis. So who is the fag? Do you need to become gay to be fashionable? Because if that’s the case I’m pulling out my Daisy Dukes and the box set of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy so Patrice and Tony can give me some paper and that get out of jail free card.
The human mind is fickle, feeble and dim witted. Bundles of sticks or a cigarette – destined to burn up and fade away into the air like the fart that came out of Versace’s ass when he got capped on his doorstep. Heh, heh, he should have been wearing some eyes at the back of his head with that nice shirt.
All images © and courtesy Justin McGee.