Glamourpuss Read online

  ENHANCED & EXPANDED

  25TH Anniversary Edition

  Plus a New Foreword by the Author

  Christian McLaughlin

  Foreword

  This digital edition of my 1994 debut novel Glamourpuss was a hideously long time coming, I realize. If you enjoyed it in hardcover or paperback, anywhere in the world — thank you; I’m confident this enhanced and (slightly) expanded 25th Anniversary Edition will not disappoint.

  When PenguinUSA was preparing to issue the first paperback edition under their Plume imprint, I’d hoped to incorporate a few fixes to the original Dutton hardcover text. Penguin politely declined. In November 2018 I still had the marked-up copy with my notes, which I dug out, and then, for the first time in a quarter-century, took a deep dive back into the (slightly) fictionalized tri-part universe of Austin/Hollywood/Harts Crossing and the uncensored confessions of my literary alter ego, actor Alexander Young. And…

  HFS… as the kids say nowadays. (Mom and Dad: it means Holy Fucking Shit.) So many chunks of real life were embedded throughout, sometimes recreated verbatim, reading the book again was a time-machine tour of my own psychology: the insane optimism, blazing passions and veiny throbbing obsessions that had so faded from my memory I barely recognized them in print. Two things immediately struck me — yes, I really had been that innocent once; and since then, I’d become a much better, funnier writer.

  My goal as I prepared this 2019 edition was to improve, clarify and (slightly) embellish the original text as invisibly as possible, while taking care not to second-guess or devalue the published version for which so many of you have kindly expressed your fondness and appreciation in person, letter or email. I’m hoping the typical reaction from previous Glamourpuss fans might be: “It’s even better/funnier/hotter/more compulsively readable than I remember!” I’m still quite proud of this novel, and feel strongly what you’re about to read represents it at its absolute best.

  The 25th Anniversary Edition owes its existence to my brilliant, talented dear friend Mariella Krause, who always has the best ideas; and to my clever-as-hell proofreader and consultant Michele Rosenblum, and my ever-reliable genius graphic designer Beth Hall of bhalldesigns.com. I’m likewise indebted to the friends and colleagues who were so supportive and inspirational before and during the creation of the book, all those years ago: Valerie Ahern, Alexis Arquette (RIP), Nina Arvesen, Jennifer Barger, Kyle Barnes, Blaire Baron, Paul Bartel (RIP), Tim Bauer, Jackie Beat, William J Bell, Sr. (RIP), Tracey Bregman, Conan Carroll, Daniele Cassandro, Tricia Cast, Juliana Coffey, Barbara Crampton, Andrew Criss, Darcy DeMoss, Scott Fifer, Doris Guerrero, Julie Halston, Dan Hunt, Sasha Lee, Richard M Lewis, Jon Lindstrom, Terry Maloney Haley, Michelle Martin Kirby, Stephanie Martini (RIP), Heather McLaughlin, Karen Moncrieff, Michael Musto, Angela Otey, Susan Ottaviano, Jennifer Richardson, Ruth Richardson (RIP), Robert Rodriguez, Chris Rooney, Shakespears Sister, Jaason Simmons, Arnetia Walker, John Waters and Christopher T Wilson. Special thanks to my former agent Robert Drake and ex-editor Christopher Schelling for representing and buying it (respectively) so damn quickly… and to Alan Russell Carter, whose surprise rave review in Entertainment Weekly upon its publication propelled Glamourpuss to instant success.

  My novels have enabled me to meet people destined to become important parts of my life. A few major players: Glenn Berenbeim, James Berg, Ken Bielenberg, Charles Busch, George Fletcher, Ben Golden (RIP), Doug Guinan, Barry Morse, Eric Mueller, Robert Rodi & Jeffrey Smith, Alonzo Ruvalcaba, Mink Stole, Drew Tappon, Jane Wiedlin, Stan Zimmerman… and especially Michael Morillo. Michael, not a day goes by with you out of my thoughts — missing you has been a deep, endless ache for nine years, and I have to believe you won't be gone forever.

  Loving thanks to my incredibly supportive parents, my brother Dr Harlan McLaughlin, amazing orthopedic surgeon/dentist/physical therapist and veterinary GP (apparently it also means General Practitioner) at Norwalk Animal Hospital and norwalkanimalhospital.com. — if you’re in Connecticut and have pets, check him out! — Barry and Melanie at Barry Krost Management, Jose Chavez and, of course, Katy Haber.

  So now, dear digital downloader, journey back decades with me, to a world with no internet, no smartphones, and no free porn; an era when print media and daytime soaps were ubiquitous, shitty-looking VHS was our only option, you lived and died by your answering machine…. and the twisted, overheated brain of a mere child spewed out something called Glamourpuss.

  Christian McLaughlin

  Hollywood, CA

  May 2019

  P.S. Since I may still have your attention, I’d like to mention that several years ago, I converted my alarmingly massive original film poster collection into a webstore, westgategallery.com. Named after my childhood porno theater, Bangor, Maine’s Westgate Cinema, it has since grown to even more massive but less shameful proportions, what with all the clients from around the globe, some extremely famous, and features international movie-art, including posters for most of Alex and friends’ favorite films — Lair of the White Worm, Hairspray, Making Mr Right, Basic Instinct, Room With A View, Brimstone & Treacle, Flesh Gordon. Sadly, despite an unhealthy assortment of Nunsploitation, there's nothing from Teenage Brides of Christ. And the 1980’s XXX output of Glamourpuss Special Guest Star Jeff Stryker remains notoriously difficult to acquire in original poster form. But we’re always on the lookout. “Yeah, you’d like a big fuckin’ Catalina Video Powertool 1-sheet, wouldn’tcha?!?” Yes, Jeff, we certainly would. And for reading this right to the end, please take 25% off any order, any size, by entering discount code GLAMOURPUSSXXV at check-out. We Tweet salacious and macabre posters, with accompanying vicious quips, almost daily @westgateposters. Thanks!

  For Chris

  Originally published in hardcover in 1994 by Dutton, a division of Penguin Books USA, Inc., and in paperback in 1995 by Plume, an imprint of Dutton Signet.

  25th Anniversary Edition & New Author Foreword © 2019 by Christian McLaughlin. All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of Christian McLaughlin or his designee.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living over dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Part One

  October 1992

  I’d put a lethal dose of poison into Cyrinda’s milkshake two weeks before, but the bitch had lived through it. Still, she was a hell of a lot more likely to segue from coma patient to corpse than she was to write any more prize-winning investigative journalism for the Crossing Herald. That meddling blonde know-it-all… how I wanted to be in that hospital room when her fat parents decided to pull the plug and she sank into the dark eternal slumber she deserved for daring to get in my way –-

  ​“Simon?” I turned my reflective gaze from the window to my half-sister Natalie, framed in the doorway, looking ever so upset. Hard day at the dental office? Someone write a bad check for a root canal? I just looked at her. “Simon – they’ve arrested Sean Nortonsen. For trying to murder Cyrinda.” What a surprise. Poor, tearful Natalie.

  ​“How interesting,” I remarked. “Your little playmate Sean tries to knock off his ex-girlfriend, who just happens to be the one woman in Harts Crossing you can’t stand. Aren’t you flattered?”

  ​“How can you talk to me like that? My life is falling apart,” she complained through very clenched, very white teeth. />
  ​I crossed over to an armchair and picked up a magazine. “Just be glad you and Nortonsen never got to take that romantic getaway to Hawaii. If you’d started dating him like you wanted to, you could be trading the monogram on your scrubs for a big black County Jail stencil.”

  ​“You’re so damn smug. Don’t think for one second I believe that he did this!” Of course he didn’t do it, you hysterical bleeding-gums maven. I framed him. So beautifully he’s going to fry like a funnel-cake. Well, do life, anyway. Goddamn that Cyrinda.

  ​“He did it, Natalie. It makes perfect sense. And I’d keep any other theories to myself or the police might want to sit you down for a little chat.”

  ​“You are despicable sometimes,” she spat, sobs boiling to the surface.

  ​My expression softened. “I’m just trying to protect you from becoming involved in a very ugly situation. With somebody capable of murder.”

  ​“I loved him,” she stage-whispered, then clattered away toward her room, composure in shreds.

  ​“Then you deserve each other,” I said aloud to myself, tossing the magazine to the floor and retrieving my jacket from the bedpost. I opened the closet and took out two suitcases. “This place is starting to bum me out,” I snickered. I flicked off the light and walked out with my luggage. I was Simon Arable, diabolical young son of the unstable late scientist Dr Jules Arable, and an utterly ruthless sociopath with no redeeming quality but cuteness. So in-character as I strode off the set, I barely heard the stage manager call, “Clear! That’s a wrap!”

  ​A perfect second take. Allison Slater Lang, the Annette Bening-Via-Tawny Kitaen who played Natalie slapped palms with me, then administered a full-body squeeze.

  ​“Thank you very much, everyone,” executive producer Reese Jacobs intercommed from the booth. “Welcome aboard, Alex. See you in three weeks.”

  ​“You were wonderful. Have a great trip, Alex,” Allison said. She checked her watch. “Christ almighty, twelve forty-five. I’m ready to drop. But I can’t wait to keep doing this with you.” She pecked my cheek and took off.

  ​I said bye to the hastily dispersing crew and practically pranced to my dressing room. My last day as a “recurring” character on Hearts Crossing, the number-five rated daytime drama, was over. When this episode aired in approximately four and a half weeks, the general viewing public wouldn’t realize my character would soon be sneaking back into Harts Crossing, the town, this time to stay, as a three-year contract villain, at a satisfying two-show per week guarantee of $1350 per episode (up $350 from my day rate).

  ​It wasn’t as if the decision to make Simon a permanent character had been a surprise; when I was hired they’d made it clear it could go contract depending on “how the storyline played,” which of course meant how deliciously, indispensably evil I could play it. Still, I’d been in The Biz long enough (15 whole months at that point) to know better than to count on it. So I hadn’t. And when the call came two weeks ago, it was more than just great news – it proved that Belinda Carlisle had been absolutely right… Heaven was a place on Earth.

  ​I threw off my clothes and dove into the shower with cold cream, soap from the gift basket delivered yesterday from Network Daytime, and a bottle of seltzer I’d been saving all day. Minutes later — scrubbed, changed and carbonated — I was behind the wheel of my Accord, heading toward the all-night taco place for an in-car feeding frenzy. But when I hit Sunset, I hooked west and ended up at Ralph’s market… open 24 hours for Hollywood’s grocery needs. I was sure they cranked up the fluorescent lights after midnight to create a harsher shopping environment, but I wasn’t intimidated.

  ✽✽✽

  I emptied the dainty little red plastic basket onto the conveyor belt. One loaf of Italian bread, some organic peppers, Sure Unscented Solid. A woman and a kid around six years old walked into the store. When I was six, I would never, ever have been allowed to be awake at 2:00 a.m., much less be taken to a grocery store. My parents hadn’t even let me visit California ‘til I was 16. I wondered if I was a happier adult because I’d usually been in bed by eight-thirty when I was little. I doubted it. The stress of being forced to abandon the color TV in the middle of a prime-time hour probably shaved months off my lifespan. As the zombified cashier picked up the peppers and tried to scan them, I tossed down a Soap Opera Digest, too.

  ​I was filling out Pay To The Order of Ralph’s when I heard the girl in line behind me snarl, “Put those fuckin’ cupcakes back.” She was Sunset Stripped in a leather bustier and miniskirt and stilettos, a dripping dagger tastefully tattooed down the side of one shin, the dye-job on her glam-metal mane reasonably fresh. She dropped her carton of skim milk and can of Ultra SlimFast Chocolate Royale on the conveyor belt and turned on her smaller, similarly coiffed boyfriend.

  “I want ‘em, man,” he whined.

  ​“You don’t need any more sugar tonight, goddammit.” She snatched the package of disgusting, soft-palate-inflaming Hostess Cupcakes out of his hand. I looked at the cashier.

  ​“$8.79,” she repeated.

  ​“I got money, Veronica. I’ll pay for ‘em,” the boyfriend mumbled.

  ​“That’s for cigarettes,” she snapped, lobbing the cupcakes over his shoulder. They smashed against a big cardboard Teddy Grahams bear, which swayed but did not topple from its position above the Teddy Grahams crème sandwich-cookie display.

  ✽✽✽

  I balanced the groceries, gym bag and pop-out CD player on one arm while opening my mailbox, shoveling the mail into the grocery bag. I noticed a yellow postal slip stuck to the back of the box. It said I had a package that had been left at Apartment C. It was too late to get it now and tomorrow morning I had to leave for the airport before seven, which would be too early. I started up the stairs, irritated, when a door opened. An Asian teen came out of C, trying to squeeze a hand into the pocket of his jeans.

  ​“Excuse me,” I said. The teen turned around. Then the resident of C peeked out his door.

  ​“Oh, hi,” he said to me. He was around fifty, homosexual, with close-cropped hair and a little beard. He was in a short silk kimono. “You haven’t met Chang, my student.” Yeah, right. “Chang, this is my neighbor, Alex.” We nodded at each other. I’d been in C once before, when I first moved into the 4-unit 1920’s Spanish building five months ago. One wall was nothing but framed Mapplethorpe prints, which grew progressively raunchier as you got closer to the bedroom. His big-screen projection TV had been tuned to a Facts of Life rerun — the one where Tootie was way too into Jermaine Jackson. That it only took me nine seconds of dialogue to ascertain that, out of 200 possible episodes, meant I was way too into Facts of Life.

  ​I brandished the yellow slip halfheartedly. “Do you think I could get my package from you? I know it’s late, but…”

  I didn’t have to finish. “Of course!” He disappeared into the apartment and came out with a long, thick envelope. The teen finally extracted his car keys from his skintight pants and left. Get a purse, Chang. My neighbor handed me the envelope. It was from the network.

  ​“How’s the show going? I was flipping and saw you the other day. Aren’t you nasty?”

  ​“It’s more fun that way.”

  ​“Oh, don’t I know it,” he drawled flirtily, still gripping the end of my envelope, his eyes locked on mine. If the Asian fetish was only a phase, I might need to re-up at the rental service that put me here. Pronto. But then he giggled dismissively and spun back toward his place without another glance.

  ​“Thanks for watching,” I said, through the douche-chills I’d just given myself. He turned toward me politely, nodding. “And thanks for—” I waved the envelope at him, not about to say “my fan mail”, which I totally knew it was by the return-address stamp.

  ​“Anytime, sir,” he said, not flirtily, then winked. Which had me wondering again. Knowing damn well I wasn’t entrancing enough to distract anyone from a 40-year fascination with the erotic allure of the Orient, I made a
brisk but not insultingly speedy getaway.

  ​Still famished, I constructed a huge pepper sandwich in my kitchen with my farmers-market tomatoes from last Sunday and the olive tapenade I’d snatched from the gift basket. I ate it while pawing through the contents of the network envelope. There were 17 letters addressed to me, Alexander Young, and eight addressed to Simon Arable. I opened a Simon letter first. Viewers driven to write to someone fictional understandably produced the most enjoyable mail. Like this:

  ​Dear Simon, You evil prick. What you did to Cyrinda is BEYOND BELIEF. You are ruining life in Hartz [sic] Crossing. I am SERIOUSLY considering boy-codding [sic] the show until you are inprisoned or kilt [sic/sic]. Tell me, are you really Natalie’s half brother or is that just another one of YOUR DAMN LIES. Sincerely, Arlow Shank, 9115 Wagon Wheel Lane, Carson City NV 89701

  ​I used to quickly and personally answer all such letters, because I got such a kick out of it… and if they wrote to Simon, that’s who replied. But lately the Hearts Crossing producers had forbidden us to respond to any “weird, threatening or abusive” mail, which constituted a sizable chunk of mine. I regretfully tossed it aside and tried an Alexander Young. This one was from Delaware and bore the unmistakable stink of some fragrance sold door-to-door. It was neatly typed on equally feminine stationery, except for the three bits specific to me that were hand-printed. It was a form fan letter. For fuck’s sake.

  ​Dear Alexander Young, I watch you all the time on Hearts Crossing and recently rented your movie Teenage Brides of Christ. I was wondering how long you’ve been performing and if you are single or married (if you don’t mind being asked)? Your friend, Elaine Cloonan P.S. Could I please have a color autographed picture of yourself (if you don’t mind being asked)?

  ​Now that I was under contract, Network Daytime PR would soon start answering my mail for me before forwarding it on, but for the moment it was just Elaine and me (if I didn’t mind being asked). I hoped B&W would be acceptable. I’d send her a color one when the network hooked me up. I thought my family would enjoy the mail, especially the crazy shit, so I decided to bring it all to San Antonio and segregate and answer it there.