Cousin Sherry

Sherry @ The Club.jpg

When I first hit Paris to walk for Givenchy, I was nineteen and you couldn’t tell me squat. So when I saw that cabaret chanteuse Sherry Rogers was in town performing, I invited some of the crew to her show. She’s my cousin, you see. But then I got grand and sent a note backstage saying that I was in the audience and would love to visit and say hello. She replied, “Dinner plans. Sorry.” Broke. My. Face. Sherry wasn’t feeling me or anyone from the Bronx. Been that way for years. The bitch didn’t even come home for her mother’s funeral. Okay? Later on though, she had the balls to send me a note backstage after a Versace show. She and her granddaughter were there and she wrote, “my baby is dying to meet her supermodel cousin.” You know I had to drag her, right? How could I resist? I wrote back— “Dinner plans. Sorry.”
I haven’t heard from Cousin Sherry since.

Get Out Of My Face


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