SWF iso Glass Slipper
One Sunday afternoon in June, Carrie Bradshaw returned from her supply run at the newsstand down the street. She put her keys and packet of Marlboro Lights on the small table by the door. She separated the New York Star from the other two newspapers she is carried and opened it up to the personal ads page. After examining it for some time, she closes the paper, opened her Mac laptop and began to writer her column.
New York is the city of a million urban fairy tales. For those who believe that their fairy godmother has gotten lost somewhere in the Holland Tunnel, there are the personal ads. The personals ads section of The New York Star is a veritable menu of love and sex. There's something for every one. There are "women seeking men," "men seeking women, " men seeking men". There are even sections for "Either/Or" and "No strings attached."
Carrie, after years of writing her column for the Star, had spent the past week facing down the twin demons of writers block and a dating slump. In her efforts to be the anthropologist of New York City's social scene, her course was clear – she would explore the city's dating scene by responding to some of the ads in the paper's personals section and writing about her experiences for her column.
Monday
In the world of modeling, there are models, there are supermodels, and, as you ascend into the rarified air, there is a third strain, the celebrity model. These are women who cut their teeth on their mother's haute couture, and for whom modeling is a pastime that they pursue after boarding school and before settling down and raising a whole new generation of trust fund babies. Some, like Ivanka Trump, would never be mistaken for a girl who became a model through by genetic largess. Then there is Annika Gyllstrom, a six-foot-tall Norse goddess whose father just happens to own half of Sweden. In the space of a few months, she has appeared on the covers of American Elle and French Vogue, and well as been photographed around town with publishing magnate Dominic DelMonaco.
As it turns out, Annika was not the only one spending time with Dominic. For a couple of months, he and Samantha Jones had been carrying on an affair outside of the public eye. They had met when Dominic had followed Samantha into the LaPerla lingerie shop. Dominic bought Samantha a 750-dollar bra and panty set. Less than half an-hour later, Samantha showed her gratitude by giving him a private modeling of that black lace demi-cup and pair of tap pants in his bedroom. They had spent every spare minute together ever since.
Today was Samantha's birthday, and Dominic was helping her celebrate with 600-dollar party for two and New York's finest steak house. That night they brought their torte de chocolat noir back to Samantha's bedroom to enjoy in bed. An hour later, they were spooning under the sheets and enjoying the post-coital afterglow.
" Baby, you are just about the hottest thing on the planet," Dominic murmured appreciatively.
"And you have firm grasp of the obvious." Samantha purred. "And that's not all that's firm."
"I mean it," he declared. "There's just something about you. I don't know what it is. Just the way you look at me sometimes just turns me on. You have more sex appeal in your little finger than any other woman I know has in her whole body."
"You see plenty of models every day," Samantha pointed out.
"I do, and they are gorgeous girls. But not one of them is in your league. They try to look sexy for the camera, but you are sexy. You're smart, ballsy, and that's sexy. You're the real thing, baby. I think about the two of us together all the time."
Samantha heard the emotion exposed in Dominic's voice. For the first time in a long time, her heart cracked open just a little.
When Samantha woke up the next morning, she was alone in her bed. A dent in the pillow next to her was all that testified to Dominic's presence the night before. When she got up a few minutes later, she saw that he had written, "Sexy," on the bedroom mirror with her red lipstick.
