Love, Lex (2 page)

Riding a motorbike is just like sex, right?

“Lex rode her Suzuki scooter with a helmet. Her Chanel
fashions were always pressed. After graduating from Avon Porter she got into an
Ivy League university and was
still
a virgin. She didn’t do drugs or get
drunk. So how could my very best friend (VBF) be the daughter to two of the
world’s most infamously eff’d-up partying icons and not be an utter mess? The
answer is obvious, you ninny. It’s because of
us
. We’re her besties.”
—Vive Farnworth, wealthiest teenager in New York, socialite and aspiring gossip
columnist.

From the Desk of Manhattan School for Girls

October, 14, 1988

Dearest Mr. & Mrs. Easton,

I am a huge fan of your music and films. We are honored to
have your only daughter, Alexandra, at our school. However, it has come to our
attention, that she eats gummy bears and drinks chocolate soda for breakfast.
This may be the cause for her outbursts in class which disturb other students.
Enclosed is a high-protein, low sugar nutritional handout for a kindergartener
of her age and….size.

Yours fondly,

Principle Rooney Belding

March, 10, 1993

Dear Mr. & Mrs. Easton,

Today your daughter rode a motorcycle to school, all by
herself. While we applaud her independence, a 5-speed Yamaha dirt bike is not
permitted. Since Alexandra is ten and not sixteen, she broke the law.
Authorities have impounded her wheels. Child services will be in touch.

Take Care,

Principle Rooney Belding

June 1, 1996

Mr. & Mrs. Easton,

Alexandra ‘Lex’ is articulate and reading at the college
level—outstanding for a thirteen-year-old. Regardless, after the recent
physical altercation where she punched another student who admittedly called
her
fat,
coupled by your continued failure to work with Lex on her
behavioral issues and the ongoing paparazzi trespassing on our grounds in an
attempt to take her picture, she poses a threat to our entire student body. We
simply cannot invite her back for the fall term.

I’ve attached a recommendation for Lex to board at the Avon
Porter Academy in Connecticut where she’ll be out of the spotlight and
protected. Her humor and wittiness in class will be missed.

Goodbye,

Principle Rooney Belding

Thanks, Mom, aka Birdie Easton

August, 2002

Soho, New York

“Fuck me!”

Ugh…

Loud, perverse words came from Mom’s bedroom as I stepped
off the penthouse elevator into the foyer.

Carrying my Louis Vuitton over my arm, I hooked my
motorcycle helmet, a purply fiberglass, biker-chick, must-have accessory, on
the wall near the entryway.

“Come to mama, lover boy.” Mom’s words echoed throughout the
ten-thousand square-foot floor.

Looking out the window at the sunny, blue skies, I couldn’t
believe my mother, Birdie Easton, hooked up
again
, and so fast. Only
gone an hour, I was at the pharmacy stocking up on nicotine gum. Three
different Duane Read and two Walgreens later and I’d finally bought some at a
bodega. And here I thought I looked over eighteen, so why they’d kept asking me
for my ID was infuriating.

Did I, Lex Easton, smoke? Heck no! This gum suppressed my
appetite. Only ten or so more pounds to go till my BF and me would be making
l’amour
in Paris for my eighteenth birthday party with my BFF, VBF, and GBF. Wait let
me clarify. Only my BF and I are doing
it
together. My BFF, VBF and GBF
are staying in separate rooms down the hall.
Gross.

I sure hope I can shed the weight in twelve-hours before we
go. I have to. Losing my virginity, more commonly known amongst my friends as
Lady V, depends on it.

While removing my riding gloves, I tried to think back to
whether Birdie had a dude stay over last night or not. The piney, ammonia
stench of marijuana in the air hinted at her dealer, Don Juan Escobar, as
today’s possible “lover boy.”

My father, Eddie Easton, didn’t give a flip who or what
Birdie spread for. He was in Asia touring for his new album. Think Elvis
Presley meets Gene Simmons, that’s Daddy. Their marriage had been “open” long
before they’d had me. But did I have to hear her?

The Prince Street penthouse was more Mom’s place than mine.
I’d moved in with her after graduating from the Avon Porter Academy back in
June. Although up until a few weeks ago, I’d called boarding school more my
home than here. I’m sure Taddy Brill, best friends forever (BFF), Vive
Farnworth, very best friend (VBF), and Blake Morgan, gay best friend (GBF),
would agree with me. 

I’d only been here a few weeks, and already I’d caught her
lighting the cashmere sofa on fire while trying to clean out her pipe. Then
she’d
entertained
the New York Fire Department after they’d put her mess
out.

Well, the
mess
was still here, people. Hello!

One might say I’d forgotten about Birdie’s insatiable
appetite for the company of men, sometimes women, and yes, many inanimate
objects.

Maybe I was in denial. Alright, I was in complete and utter
denial about what a reckless, sexually compulsive, whacked-out celebrity Mom
had turned into.

Her last album had dropped when I was like twelve. So she
has too much free time on her hands to get into trouble. Come to think of it,
there was no “turned into” anything. She’d pretty much always been this way.
Uh-huh, I’m growing up, seeing things for how they’ve always been. It’s sad.

Thankfully my Daddy had turned down MTV’s offer last year
for a reality show. If a camera crew had filmed what went on in this place, my
life would’ve been o-v-e-r. Last I’d heard, the network had asked my Father’s
music bud Ozzy to do it with his family, the Osbournes.

Rolling my eyes, I pulled my cell out of my stretchy-jeans
pocket and noticed the time.  

12:10 pm on Saturday.

My boyfriend, Kelle Sterling Dolley should be here soon.
Today we are going back-to-school shopping in his new Ferrari. He lives down in
the Financial District and claims since we’re going to be starting college up
in Morningside Heights, he needs wheels.

Kelle thinks he is too good for a yellow cab, let alone the
subway. Pretentious as white trash winning the lottery or my parents once their
albums had struck platinum, I told Kelle I wouldn’t be caught dead in his
tacky-ass racer. But he got himself one anyways.

He should’ve invested his father’s money wisely—on a
motorcycle. That’s how us Easton’s rolled. I wouldn’t have minded if Kelle’s
wheels had been new or an antique. It could’ve been a Harley, Ducati or even a
freakin’ Honda, just no pussy sports cars.

Vamp is what I named her, my Suzuki scooter. Mechanically
speaking, Vamp is not a motorcycle. She’s a single-cylinder, sporty thing with
a seat that fits my bum and painted in my favorite color, think dried blood
meets dark purple. She coordinates with my short nails.

Whenever I’d beg Daddy to buy me a motorcycle for my
eighteenth birthday, he’d reply, “Baby girl your mother and I will get you a
new set of wheels after we see your first semester’s grades at Columbia. ‘B’ or
higher on all subjects. We clear?”

Please let my first semester go well.

Pretty cray-cray considering how messed up my folks were to
be projecting academic righteousness. I’m not their Pollyanna Voodoo Doll,
although I’d grown used to it. Those who can’t do, preach. 

After Vamp, my dream bike was the Honda VFR400. Birdie had
hers custom made in Japan and nicknamed it after her vibrator, The Pocket
Rocket. I rode her as often as I could. I’m talking about the bike, not my mom.
Ugh, totally gross!

Oh…that throttled feel, such a heady mix of power and diesel
fuel pumping through the engine, between my legs, purring at my innocence.
After I’ve lost my virginity, Lady V, I imagine future sex with Kelle will be
similar to riding The Pocket Rocket. Hopefully minus the constant stop and go
between traffic lights.

Back to Kelle—I admit that, when one looks as yummy as him,
he could peddle a pink Huffy bike along the West Side Highway and get away with
it. So I’m sure he’ll be fine in his Ferrari.

Vive always jokes, “Lex, your Kelle is total gorgeousness!
Give ‘em your Lady V already. Or Blake will snatch Kelle’s juicy booty from
behind and I’ll take his ding-a-ling from the front.”

And according to
The Manhattanite Times
, Kelle was
the hottest teenager to have hailed from an American political family. Granted,
most of the boys I’d met over the years, who’d been born into politics had
not
…been
attractive.

I’ve dreamt of, lusted after, kissed on, and doted over
Kelle Sterling Dolley since I was like fourteen.

Wouldn’t it be nice if Kelle felt the same way about me? He
didn’t. I was working hard to change that. Take this gum, for example. The more
I chew, the more I lose, and then the more I’ll win at
l’amour
with
Kelle.

“That’s it. Right there. Tap it hard. Ah-huh. Harder,”
Birdie shouted in her drunk or high voice.

Usually, I could tell the difference. Today? Not so much.
That meant she was probably a mix of both.

Unzipping my bag I took out a piece of that gum, popped it
in my mouth and rolled the wrapper between my fingers. The directions had
clearly stated not to chomp all day. So I’d spit it out in a few.

Aside from the excess salivating, that made me appear to be
Cujo, the rabid dog, followed by bloating—which I corrected with Gas-X and a
spritz of Diorama perfume—the gum wasn’t half bad.
Shhh.
I didn’t read
the second half of the warning label where it had listed the other flu-like
symptoms. Seriously, I can’t freak myself out about chewing this stuff. It’s
mind over matter and right now my mind was focused on getting skinny and getting
laid.

Plus what I jonesed for wasn’t cigarettes. I wanted sweets.

Clothing designer Ralph Lauren’s daughter, Dylan, had opened
up a candy shop on the Upper East Side near Vive’s apartment called Dylan’s
Candy Bar.

The world’s largest sugar shop served over 5,000 goodies.
You
go gurl!
I effin’ double-hearted that place. Hungry for gummy bears and
Sour Patch Kids, I craved a sugary zing like twenty-four-seven. Probably the
same way Mom did her cocaine.

Please universe, make my apple fall far away from
Birdie’s tree.

“My, my, my.” Birdie moaned, “Now I know what my daughter
sees in you, Kelle.”

What?

Un-frickin’-believable! Did Mom just say
his
name
from
her
bedroom? I nearly peed. True story, I crossed my legs while
standing, to brace myself from the utter horrid shock.

“Such a hot MILF.” He grunted like a pig.

A soon to be dead pig—FYI.

In a huff, I tossed my purse to the foyer table. With a
thud, it smacked the white marble floor—echoing a boom.

Crap on a yard stick. I’d missed.

Frozen, I stood still and listened to see if Birdie and
Kelle had heard me.

“No hands.” Mother bossed.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Easton.”

Squeaky noises started. Then skin-smacking sounds. All of it
picked up speed, getting louder and faster. Dirty talk too. And then came what
must’ve been spanking.

Grossarama!

A lump swelled in my throat, and it wasn’t from the gum. I
wanted to call 911. What would I say?

“Operator, this is Lex Easton. I live at 245 Spring Street.
My famous mother is screwing my hawt boyfriend. Can you send a policeman to
make them stop?”

Not!

I bet the operator’s first response wouldn’t be to see if I
was okay. Oh no. It’d be all, “I love Birdie Easton’s music. Her song
“Lucifer’s Mistress” has a special place in my heart.” That’s what she’d
probably say.  

I hated that song. The lyrics were about doing the nasty
with the devil.

Ready to bust it up, I marched across the penthouse, pulling
my blonde hair into a ponytail. The gold buckles on my motorcycle boots
clanged, bringing to my attention that this was gonna be a smack down. Easton
style! 

I thought about what I’d say, who I’d tell off first. Birdie
was one heck of a fighter. She has the restraining orders to prove it. And
Kelle, he stood at six-foot-three and has the body of an NBA Knicks player.
Weighing over two hundred pounds, he’d often bragged he could do a thirty-five
inch vertical jump and a three-cone drill in 6.5 seconds.

Either way, I’d already lost. 

At the end of the brocade wallpapered hall, I spotted the
door with its brassy handle wide open, and their ass’s wide out. I stepped
closer and watched.
I know!
Shoot me now.

Magnetic and forceful, their sex pulled me in as some kind
of touristy street brawl. One normally witnessed in the Meat Packing District
around 3 am on Thursday nights.

You know, with the teens that come in from New Jersey acting
all cool-n-craptastic till a Manhattanite bops ‘em on the back of their head
with a champagne bottle to remind them to get the heck off our island. Posers!

I must observe this ridiculousness for myself.

Of course Birdie Easton, my Grammy Award-winning, Grey Goose
drinking, Oxycodone-popping
mother
was riding Kelle Sterling Dolley like
an Arabian horse charging out of the stables.

Yes, sprawled out on her California King was
my
boyfriend, the only guy I’d ever given a BJ. Which was the furthest we’d
gotten, and that had been his choice, not mine. Clearly, today his body loved
banging Mom.

Why wouldn’t he? Identical to Catherine Zeta Jones, Birdie
appeared hot-to-trot for her age. I’d always been jelly of Mom’s beauty. It was
her substance abuse that was fugly here, people. Not her leather and lace meets
diamonds and pearls exterior.

In my almost eighteen years, I’d seen Mom do this, many
times before. Totally! Although, not with my boyfriend. That was a new low,
even for her. 

Normally it was her friend’s husbands. Or sometimes my
Daddy’s friend’s wives, my teachers and their spouses, the dentist, our
neighbors, the doorman, her limo driver, personal trainer, recording manager,
and let’s not forget her fans.

Birdie Easton’s fan club was freakishly ginormous. Sold out
years in advance, her annual Madison Square Gardens’ Appreciation Weekend
wasn’t coined Gang Bang Birdie for nothing. 

But to have Mom screw Kelle, the dude who’d gone to the
Connecticut Military Academy down the street from my boarding school—who Taddy,
Vive, Blake and me had planned, plotted, and OCD talked about as my
first
—not
to mention the son of Senator Dolley who was on the fast track for the White
House, was way worse than crap-flying monkeys.

Uber Devastation….

The stress of this suddenly caused me to see itsy bitsy
spots while I stood there. Resembling candy dots on strips of paper, their
bright blue and pink tones suddenly faded to yellow and then white. I chewed
the gum faster and prayed Mom, Kelle and the spots would all stop.

They didn’t.

Foaming at the mouth, not from what I’d watched but from
what I’d chewed, I wiped my lip, and reached into my pocket for another piece.