Gemma was a far, far removed cry from the blown out blondes, with their anorexic fawn legs who pranced around the upper East side with their Chanel bags and their lash extensioned eyelashes. She was also a far cry from the tanned, toned, lip-filler filled gold-diggers hanging around Meat Packing. She was a long shot from the bony, cigarette smoking, diet coke guzzling models who hung out at VIP Room, and she didn’t really fit in with the edgy scene kids taking molly every night and partying in Brooklyn either. Basically, it is safe to say that Gemma was, for lack of a better word, a reject. She was an outcast for as long as she could remember. Her friends were few and far between. As flawed as she was, Gemma somehow managed to find a very, very hot foreign boyfriend one summer. She wasn’t sure why he liked her, or why he didn’t abandon her after they slept together on the first date, but she couldn’t believe that she would ever land such a hot bloke. The issue with this gentleman was however, that he was an up and coming rocker.
Yes, Gemma’s boyfriend was out almost every night of the week playing gigs. When he wasn’t playing at one of the city’s coolest music venues, you could find him promoting at clubs like Tao Downtown, Avenue, Provocateur, and the rooftop at the Gansevoort. As I’ve previously stated, he was very hot, and very foreign, which meant that he was a target of women everywhere. Poor Gemma felt so inadequate every time she went to watch him play a show or went to one of the clubs he promoted at. She felt like a little, disheveled field mouse standing next to the waif like creatures who belonged to agencies like One Model Management, Elite, and Ford. She wondered if she starved herself for 3 months straight if she could even begin to come close to such ludacris levels of emaciation and beauty. She wondered if she shelled out 700 for a cut and color at Oscar Blandi if her hair might be even a quarter as immaculate as the gorgeous, Argentinian models with the waist-length brunette tresses doing lines in the corner of Electric Room. “Maybe if I get some botox I too can be beautiful,” she thought to herself one night as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom of Electric room. Then she caught site of a group of blonde, Ukrainian models exiting the stalls behind her… “Maybe not,” she sighed.
Poor Gemma. As the years went on, she only became increasingly ugly. There were fine lines around her lips and eyes when she smiled. Her lips thinned out, and her skin lost collagen. Her boyfriend’s success grew, and even though he was not opposed to the idea of them getting married, he always kept it to, “some day, not now… but maybe someday I will want to.” Well, I tell ya’ kid- 7 years flies by pretty fucking fast in this cold-hearted town. Gemma was a young girl of only 25 when she had started dating Max… she might not have been a great beauty, but at that time, she was in good shape. Her skin hadn’t aged due to stress, a diet high in Cheetos and coffee, and hormonal acne. She had a more positive outlook on life then, she had been hopeful for a bright future.
Seven years of being led-on with the false hope that marriage was in her future later, Gemma woke up one day and realized she was a 32 year old woman, with decaying looks, a burgeoning waist-line, and deteriorating hope that things would improve. Her boyfriend of seven years now had minor success in the music industry and was getting recognized by passerby on the street. Her boyfriend had been cheating on her for the past three years of their relationship. Every time that Gemma couldn’t make it to a show due to her early-morning work schedule, he would end up going home with a bartender or a 22 year old Brazilian. She had tried to have “the talk” with him many times, which usually went something like this:
“Hey babe, I know that you don’t want to get married right now, but you know, some day I do. I don’t see why I should waste anymore of my time or these precious years with a person who doesn’t want the same thing that I want. Should we even be together?”
His response was always the same:
“I TOLD YOU A MILLION TIMES!!! I don’t want to get married now or ANYTIME SOON!!! Goddammit! Why do you always pressure me?! How many times have I told you???”
But the fact of the matter was, she didn’t really know what his version of “anytime soon” meant anymore, seeing as how seven years together had past. Gemma knew she wasn’t getting any younger. She certainly wasn’t getting any prettier. She always said that she didn’t want to wake up to find herself 34 and unmarried and here it was becoming her reality. She kept hanging on though because she loved him and didn’t know what else to do at this point. She decided to give the relationship another couple of years.
And so it was that Gemma woke up one day at the ripe age of 35, unmarried, and having spent the past 10 years of her life loving a man who she knew wouldn’t give her the future she wanted, cheated on her, and clearly didn’t love her back. It was on her 35th birthday that she awoke, alone in bed. It was strange to wake up alone since Max almost always slept in later than her. She meandered out of the bedroom to the kitchen, to find a note on the table that read the following:
“Hmmm,” she thought to herself, “that’s funny- Max usually sleeps in later than me and he doesn’t even drink milk.” Curious things began to cross her mind. “It must all just be an elaborate surprise for my birthday” she thought. Gemma decided that he must have forgotten to buy her a present, or perhaps had to run out for a card or something and that he would probably be returning shortly. She went into the bathroom and looked herself in the mirror to pretty up her face before he returned home. As she went to dab some concealer under her eyes, she observed herself. She was a far cry from the girl she had been at 25. She had dark circles under her eyes, crows feet at the corners. Her lips were thin and turned down at the corners. Heavy lines on either side of her mouth. Her skin was beginning to sag on her jowls, and her hair was spotted with about 30% whites now. She sighed, and thought to herself “Maybe this is the year- I can still look good in a wedding dress with a little botox and the right make up.” Then she turned out the light and walked back to the bedroom to dress herself. She put on an expensive piece of lingerie and some thigh highs from Agent Provocateur. She used to wait for her boyfriend all the time wearing lingerie like this- however, even after slipping on her seven inch heels, the lingerie just didn’t flatter her body the way it did when she was 27. Her boobs were beginning to sag, her arms had filled out on top and her hands were extremely veiny. She had vericose veins in her calves and her butt kind of sunk into her meaty thighs. Oh well- it was an effort at least. She poured herself a glass of champagne and waited around like this for about an hour for Max to return.
Max never returned though.
After an hour of waiting, she called him and his phone went straight to voicemail. She would go onto call him about 100 times that day, all the while telling herself that it must be some sort of elaborate effort on his behalf to surprise her for her birthday. Every last call, all 100 placed calls, went straight to voicemail. Finally, it was 9pm at night- Gemma was wasted, sobbing, had called every single mutual friend and acquaintance they shared to see if anyone might know of Max’s whereabouts. No one knew. She thought about calling the police and placing a missing persons report, but in her heart she knew the truth. Max was gone forever. He had left her. Abandoned her like an old, mangy dog is abandoned, tied on the stake in the front yard where he spent his entire life, by a welfare family living in a trailer park upstate.
Gemma cried for 3 days straight. She had to have her now married girlfriends take turns coming over to spend the night with her. She was inconsolable. One night, about a week after Max left, Gemma finally decided to leave her apartment. Her girlfriends finally managed to convince her that a night on the town would be good for her. They had secretly wondered if it was good, given the fact that they didn’t know if Max had jumped town, or there might be a possibilty of them seeing him. Sure enough, after a lovely dinner at a cozy French restaurant in the West Village, they decided to have a cocktail at the Standard. As they entered the premises, low and behold- there was Max. Gemma was the first to spot him. He was sitting on a leather couch with a leggy, blonde who couldn’t have been any older than 23. Gemma lost it. She hauled ass across the roof top, as tears welled up in her eyes and her face gew hot with anger. “You fucking cock sucker! How could you do this to me? How could you leave me out of the blue with no explanation, no break up discussion, not even a fight??? On my birthday?!” She started to physically attack him and the whore sitting at his side. Her friends cheered her on, but security stepped in and pulled her off and quickly escorted her downstairs onto the street.
A month passed by, and Gemma received a phone call from a friend who was still friends with Max on Faecbook. She called to tell Gemma that Max was engaged to a girl named “Olysia Slavojenski” … the same fucking cunt from the Standard! Gemma fucking lost it. In ten years of dating Max, they hadn’t posted a single photo together on social media. He never would cater to her request to change his relationship status. It always seemed to Gemma as though she wasn’t good enough or hot enough to be publicly in a relationship with given the bevy of other beautiful women that he was surrounded by on a daily basis. Now here he was, a couple months into an affair with a girl half his age, wife-ing her up and announcing it on facebook, complete with engagement photos and all.
Gemma couldn’t even cry anymore. She did the next best thing she could think of and had a gang bang with about 4 young hipsters 10 years her junior. After she was done with that, she took a handful of painkillers and washed them down with a bottle of champagne. She climbed into the tub and cut her wrists. Sadly for Gemma, she didn’t cut deep enough, nor were the painkillers a high enough dose to kill her in her sleep as she had prayed they would. Instead, she just vomited all over her bathroom and had the worst fucking hang over of her life. The next day she had to clean up the spots of blood all over her tub and order new towels since they were all covered in vomit and blood. Fuck this shit! She wanted revenge. Gemma hit up an old friend who was in the army and conned him into giving her his gun. She put on her seven inch heels, an expensive bandage dress, and hid the pistol in her purse. She went to the music venue where Max was set to play his first large NYC show, and waiting patiently for him to go on stage. Then she fucking Abe Lincolned his ass ass soon as he came out with his electric guitar. Then she fucking John Lennoned his fiance too. She ran out of the music venue and got hit by a taxi. She died.
The end.
The High Heeled C*ntessa 