Thank God for little miracles, right?
I was going to get the Carolyn Bessette story out of her one way or another.
I didn’t know a damn thing about style.
I spent two weeks prancing around a studio in Queens in my underwear with nine other guys. They were long days. But what the hell, it was Calvin Klein.
We live in a kissy society.
I’d gone to Manhattan to become a model.
We’re all pretty ordinary on paper.
My father was a sergeant with the Connecticut state police. My mother was a hairstylist.
I wanted to grow up to be just like my father.
It struck me that what I’d heard about certain celebrities was true: they had It, whatever the hell It was. Star power isn’t a myth; it is tangible and forceful.
I’d been around women who put me down, made me feel bad, or said things to fuel my insecurity.
I wasn’t even 20 at the time, but it taught me something about drugs. They can take a good man, a warm, funny, loving family man, and turn him into a loser and worse.
By the time I was 8 years old, sports had pretty much taken over my life.
I like parties, but I’m shy, and I often find myself standing around, feeling awkward.
New York is tough on lonely people.
I guess that’s what I was: a set of abs. And they lit the abs and shot the abs and sent the abs on their way. The photographer didn’t look at my face once. I was humiliated.
I began to believe the fairy tales: You know, how we’re all out there looking for our magical missing half.
The fact is, my parents loved me, and I wanted to be worthy of their love. I wanted to make them proud.