Whattya Working On?

“Whattya working on?”

This is the way we greet each other in my biz. The correct response is to have a few smart sentences ready so you can turn the tables and ask, “So that’s me, how about you—whattya working on?”

I was at a swank soiree the other night, at a millionaire’s penthouse apartment.

This doesn’t happen often, but in my line of work, it happens now and then. Rich people like to have bookish folk around as conversation pieces. We poor church mice will go anywhere there is free food.

The rich and their in-house intellectuals—it’s a time-honored system of interdependence.

This was a catered affair, with a nice dinner preceded by cocktails and appetizers served by ultra-gorgeous caterer waiters.

I was chatting with a legendary historian—a brilliant old queen—when across the room, I noticed that one of the waiters was the most gorgeous black man I have ever seen in my life.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I need to kiss that handsome man—and now.”

Which I did. I gave him a wet kiss that would put curls in your hair.

My conversation partner was impressed by my verve. The waiter was impressed with my kiss.

Of course, I’ve been kissing him hello for years. We used to work together. What the hell was he doing here?

He was surprised to see me in this context. He was fine, and very happy. As we talked, he said his new gigs at parties had freed his schedule to focus on his real work as an actor.

It’s New York. We do what we have to do. So I asked: “Whattya working on?”

He is all over the place, doing regional theater, local stuff, modeling. Someone plucked a salmon cake from his tray. I let him work the room.

I had an editor at my elbow. When was I going to write for her again? Whattya working on?

I considered the answer I can’t give. I have a super secret sex blog. I am trying to come up with literate ways to describe Shelby’s skin. I came to this party after blogging about sex in front of a voyeur.

If we were to talk about the writer’s craft, I would say: struggle as I might, I can’t come up with better words that “hard” and “wet” in describing sex. Gutter words make you forget about language and think about getting laid.

I can’t talk about that in this context. Instead, I effused about an artist I want to write about. She nodded, drinking white wine. I asked, “So, whattya working on?”

I ended the evening in the kitchen with my friend and the caterer. They sent me home toasted on the host’s booze and loaded with doggie bags for my kids.