Fashion Club Part Two.
by Thomas Greene.
Some of these characters/situations/other stuff may be the copyright of MTV. This isn't as needed as a warning, but the writer doesn't want to get sued by The Man.
If you have any criticism on this work, send it to ReLect0@aol.com. If you enjoy this work, please search on the name at the title screen and look for more of my work. If you feel the need to flame this work, I got two words for you, SUCK IT!
Anything else? Oh, yeah. Don't do drugs. Unless it is for good reasons.Ah, screw that, Smoke crack and worship Satan.
We went back to Quinn's car. She quickly sped off into the bad neighborhood.
"You expect me to live *there*?" I asked. "It's all, all, *second class!*"
"Quiet. That's just the outside." Quinn opened the door, revealing a pretty sweet place. She proceeded to take me on a form of guided tour of the place.
"That's the bathroom, that's one of my clothes closets, that's another one of mine, that was the guest room, but I changed it to hold all the pretty things I get guys to buy me..." I quickly grew anxious.
"Well, where am I supposed to stay?"
"Well, I don't have a room per se, but my bed's big enough for both of us." I would have said something, but hey, beggars can't be choosers! :)
"I just need to freshen up a bit. Something about a long plane ride followed by your house exploding..."
I went to the bathroom, stripped my clothing off, and just relaxed in the shower. Damn, I needed this. Suddenly, I hear Quinn come in here.
"Um, courtesy! I'm in here!" I shouted.
"Don't be such a prude. I just came to talk a little bit,"Quinn replied.
"Well, okay. What about?"
"I was wondering what you thought about those two...parents."
"Not much, actually. Both of them were *so* boring! Always focusing about their own problems and not focusing enough on whatever *I* did! Actually, it kicks ass that they're gone so we can hang out more." I replied. Quinn tried to hug me from the outside of the shower curtain to absolutely no success.
"I know what you're talking about. Now come on, there's not enough hot water for both of us." I left the shower. I was a little surprised to see Quinn in her birthday suit, but I just chalked it up to laziness to re-turn the whole thing on again. I went over to where her bedroom was and just fell asleep. I'm usually not a good sleeper, and this was a pleasant exception. The only thing I remember in that dream was another of my "Meet Teen Idol of the Day and have him start going down on me" dreams, but for some reason the guy had much softer lips than the pillow that usually substituted for it and actually brought me over the edge for once. I still can't find out why that happened.
Me and Quinn started hanging out more often. I found out a few of her ways to get more money. According to what I've seen, she had more jobs than moisturizers. Most of them were just normal. She'd apply for focus groups to makeup brands she didn't like to get the free food and token money. Once in there, she'd make ludicrous claims to get them into really horrific colors. I was wondering why "Puce" was made the "Official Spring Color." Quinn had apparently taken a job at some movie theater in concessions. She said they didn't trust people our age as projectionists and didn't want to clean up anything. In this manner, she would frequently put some "homemade objects" in the popcorn butter and watch as they ate it. (Apparently, it slowly became the most popular theater in the state since then. Well, win some, lose some.)
We started to keep the Fashion Club going. More and more girls started coming to the meetings. Within a month, we rented a store after hours for these "meetings." It got so big that we decided to take a day out, head over to the mall, and do some Van Damage to my parents' credit rating. (What, you actually thought I'd cancel their credit cards when they died?) Since we had some more time in food court, we just went to work on some rules. It was with these things that we headed in that Saturday night. I hid somewhere in the queue as Quinn started speaking.
"Afternoon, ladies. Most of you know why you're here. You know what secret longings draw you, week after week, to this trendy place, far from the prying eyes of a society that will not allow us to show ourselves off freely. Many of you are hardcore veterans of Fashion Club, old-school regulars of our little group that meets weekly here in this Gap after hours. You are loyal and trusted members of the sisterhood. Your furrowed brows are intent upon showing what God gave you, and the lust for bare-midriffed modeling action pumps through your veins. You know full well what long-repressed urges find their release in the fashionable way. You know what you want.
But some of you may still be wondering what drove you to this place, this mutually supportive environment where our raw, primal passion for vogueing, 'coming out', taunting, and modeling has found a home, an oasis where our pent-up natural instinct to show it all explodes in a frenzy of furious, estrogen-fueled bonding. I see an awful lot of new faces in the crowd tonight, and that means one thing: Some of you little cockteases haven't been observing the first two rules of Fashion Club. So, for the benefit of you rookies in the room:
The first rule of Fashion Club is: You don't talk about Fashion Club..
You don't talk about the fact that a well-made body can be a lethal weapon in many instances. You don't say anything about batting your eyes or virtually basting your skin with lotions. You don't mention that the meetings will be filled with anyone who's anyone in your local schools.
My name is Miss Quinn Morgendorffer, Quinn to my friends. But you don't say my name. When you encounter me or a fellow member of Fashion Club on the street, at a one-day-only sale you ditched to go to, or at a concert by some TRL darling of the moment, you will say nothing. You will exchange one wordless glance, recognizing each other by the attractive appearance, the eyes made beautiful from makeup and contacts, and the palms softened from constant touching by the boys. You will know each other by the stitches your clothes bear and the passion you both feel surging through your quasi-fascist, fashion-based elitist consciousness.
You will learn about even placement of makeup. You will learn to pretend to be delicate to get boys to do whatever you want them to. You will learn all this and more, but you will not talk about Fashion Club.
The second rule of Fashion Club is: YOU DON'T TALK ABOUT FASHION CLUB. Got it, ladies? You don't say that the best metal to use for your tounge piercing is one that tastes vaguely good. You don't talk about using hairspray to give limp hair the depth to make the boys put you in their spank bank. You don't talk about marking your man's body with hickeys in some telltale symbol, which shows other girls that they're yours and you'll fight for them until you get bored with them.
You will spot each other in food courts and hallways, at cookie huts and pizza parlors. You will spread like wildfire across the nation in an ever-expanding network, a vast, subversive structure of untraceable underground cliques, each one a den of feminine cooperation and unbridled, no-holds-barred emotional support. You will stealthily advance our fashion agenda from the shadows, protected by a shroud of silence and secrecy.
You don't wear more than four layers of fabric at the same time. You keep an eye out for clothing containing polyester fibers, as this is a sign of being second-rate. You keep your charge card covered when not in use and out of the reach of others' hands at all times, because having only your own bills on it is paramount. And you don't talk about Fashion Club.
The third rule of Fashion Club is: If this is your first visit to Fashion Club, YOU WILL WALK TONIGHT. You will show your stuff, strike your pose, and utilize every tool you have to be pretty. You will see who is more attractive, you or some other girl. You will, should time be limited, be advised to use something off of the racks here.
You are here because, deep down, you want to show off. You think you have what it takes to be one of us, but fashion takes discipline. And it demands perseverance. You have to possess, from the gut, the willingness to commit to a long-term appointment that you cannot take off your schedule, one that may well cut into your hot date. You will need all of these things, as well as large amounts of quality clothing, if you expect to survive here.
We in this room have gathered together in glorious praise of the dehumanizing corporate consumer culture that lets us show our solidarity with womanhood. We are here to fight for a society that tells us we must purchase our clothing from the designers that make them. A society that forces us with the "right" to make our parents pay money so that we might be popular.
Soon, sisters, we will move on to the next phase: Project Cocktease. And the first rule of Project Cocktease is: Don't ask questions. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Right now, it's time to initiate some new sisters into Fashion Club. All right, ladies, enough useless talk. Now, which one of you thinks she's ready? Who wants to show off first?" She stepped aside and let the fun begin.
"What's this about phases?" I asked.
"Like I said, Don't ask Questions." Quinn replied. Why do I get a bad feeling suddenly?
Stay tuned for part three.