Let's be a sapphic dinner party hosted by Susan Sontag and "mercilessly bullied" lover Annie Leibovitz

I'm the ivy slowly growing over the walls of the house while this debate takes place, covering, covering.

I'm the razor in Sontag's shirt pocket.

I'm the leather and vinyl.

I am a copy of Camille Paglia's "Sexual Personae" that someone has smuggled in and displayed in the guest bathroom.

I'm the bag of Doritos, Cool Ranch flavor AND the Friendship Sour Cream served right from the container.

I'm one of the many manques. I am the strict absence of area rugs. The fort!/da! of drapery free windows nevertheless hazed in cigarette smoke.

I’m the salt being passed to Laurie Anderson

I'm The Joy of Gay Sex with a flattering inscription from Edmund White sitting incongruously on a kitchen shelf between a copy of the The Perennial Political Palate by Bloodroot and a can of Dean & DeLuca branded lobster bisque.

I'm brining the moussaka

I'm an ancient ‘Joe’ Carstairs, Standard Oil heiress, wearing what she swears is Mercedes de Acosta's eye patch.

I'm Terry Castle, wallflower, mentally caricaturing the other guests.

I’m the tall, commanding David Byrne.

I don’t understand their style. Tell me more.

I'm Ashton Hawkins (invited himself) hitting on a Glorious Foods cater waiter (pissed he didn't get the Oscar and Annette de la Renta gig uptown) (Ashton is pissed he wasn't invited to Annette's party, as well.)

I’m the dildo cock hidden under the bed

I'm the three cases of chilled Dom Perignon sent as a gift to Annie from Richard Geoffroy that at the last minute Susan refuses to serve. "Too obvious, I will not be gauche caviar!"

I'm Lou Reed, imperiously stubbing out my cigarette in my half-eaten dinner, then thrusting it behind him without a glance, certain that a servant will remove it from my hand.

You bitches are good at this.

I'm Rita Mae Brown and I'm pissed that everybody here is being so goddamned snooty about my cat mysteries.

I'm David Rieff suddenly invading the Sapphic sanctum and rudely demanding my coke allowance.

I am Susan attempting to explain to Ms. Leibovitz that her smoking a cigar qualifies as camp only if she holds it like Groucho did without being aware of it.

I'm Mia Farrow and I just can't DO this tonight, okay? I mean, I told you I just couldn't do this, remember?

r14

Extra points for the Ashton Hawkins reference!

[quote]I’m the tall, commanding David Byrne.

I always thought David Byrne was very tall, but then I served him a drink at a club where I was bartending. I barely recognized him because he's not even 5'10".

I’m the monotonous drone of Robert Wilson’s voice.

I'm the distinct, alluring, sweet spicy smell of opium coming from the fire escape. Why, that's NOT YSL Opium.

I’m the punch bowl of clam dip.