My Close-up in Patrick Demarchelier's Studio

Until I saw Billy's studio, I never guessed at his highfalutin' connections. But when I exited the service elevator to see a sweeping Chelsea loft, bedecked with blown-up _Zink_ covers and cardboard Cindy Crawfords striding off to some invisible tomorrow, I began to suspect that there was more to Billy than met the eye.

A short, dour Japanese man, Billy led me over to the minibar and opened his portfolio. I immediately lost my head around the folds and swirls of cooters—a veritable Sahara of black-and-white, three-foot-high cunts. I doubt my boyfriend could pick mine out from the pile.
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