Winona, Inc.

Back in her modeling days, Winona worked hard. And she partied hard, too. Yes indeed. Having Supermodel status created tremendous opportunities and this lil’ girl from the South Bronx took advantage of every one. From the top talent she worked with and celebrities she partied with to the A-list men she rode off into the night with. Our final throwback episode is a star-studded 24 hours. But for Winona, it’s just another day like any other.

Lourdis is my new friend. She and I met over in London just a few weeks ago while I was there on assignment with BRITISH VOGUE and she was singing backup for some Elton John wanna-be. Taller than I am, she’s narrow as a needle, with a killer voice and amazing ta-tas, which she flaunts at every opportunity. They’re the real deal. Why shouldn’t she? Sunday night I slip into a new VERSACE cocktail dress, and she and I meet outside Radio City Music Hall. The sexiest little muthafucka on earth is in town tonight. That’s right. It’s Prince.

I’ve seen Prince every time he’s come to New York. I even got into THE BOTTOM LINE years ago, thanks to the older crew I was hanging out with, when he opened for Rick James. Prince just kills it. Every time. Always smoking hot, his show makes me wanna hump somebody. Anybody. But here’s the kicker about him. Nowadays, possessing some star power of my own, he and I often show up at the same parties. All over the world. And no matter who he’s with or who else is in the room, he’s going to find me. Without fail.

After the show, his dressing room is a mob scene. Lots of big names floating around, all trying to bask in the light. He emerges from the private area in a bathrobe—eyeliner flawless—and a towel wrapped around his head a la Ferris Bueller. Hee-hee. He waves when he spots me and slowly makes his way over. Lourdis is excited to meet him. “Did you enjoy the show?” he asks us. Are you kidding? My panties are still wet. “Come to the afterset at Nick and Val’s SUGAR Bar,” he says. “It’s gonna be fun.”

Fifteen minutes into his set at SUGAR, both Bootsy Collins and Sting are on stage with him. The crowd is screaming. It’s amazing! Suddenly, Prince calls on Lourdis for a duet. TAKE ME WITH YOU. But she’s so much taller. She has to contort herself to sing with him on the same mic and it looks awkward. Must feel that way, too. And then he invites Chaka. Her mane takes up half the tiny stage by itself, but she’s a much better fit for him. Chaka doesn’t play nice, though. She drowns everyone else out. Lourdis steps back. She’s pissed.

Prince lives to perform. He really does. He gives us another full, hour-long performance, after the two-plus hours he did at Radio City! Finally, sweaty and gorgeous, he hops off the stage and what? He plops himself right next to me. But Lourdis…still salty about Chaka, turns her back to him. She pretends to ignore us as Prince sips champagne from my glass and we chat about my photo shoot in a few hours with the celebrated Richie Street. I should be at home catching some zzzz’s but instead, here I am. “I might stop by,” he says. “But listen. We’re going roller skating after this. I’ve got some cars outside. Hop into one.”

I should drag my ass home. I know it. But we’re outside and Lourdis is flagging down a cab. She’s calling it a night. Are you kidding me? Why is she acting this way? Turning down his invitation to party just blows my mind. Especially having no idea what he may do at the rink. He may even give her another chance to perform. I’ll have to catch you later with that attitude, chica. Waving goodbye, I wait for the chauffeur to come around and open the door to the white limo parked at the curb. I’m going to the rink. Okay?

Well whaddaya know? Guess who’s inside the limo? It’s another prince. Prince Akeem. Mr. Eddie Murphy himself. “Hello beautiful,” he says. “I saw you in the club but didn’t get a chance to come over. What happened to your friend? I couldn’t help but notice her, uh, outfit.” Yeah. Right. What he noticed was her boobs. “But I like this too. Armani?” he touches my tuxedo jacket. “Do you know my friend, J.B.?”

J. B., along with three women, are spread out along the plushy seats. Lines of cocaine are set up on a small table. “Help yourself,” Eddie says. I take two, pour myself a glass of wine, and sit back for the ride out to Brooklyn. The guys crack jokes and play the dozens all the way across the bridge. They’re funny as hell and I’m having a good time. But the three chicks aren’t. They’re scowling in my direction. I guess I put a dent in somebody’s plan.

Eddie is all over me at the rink. I don’t mind. Smelling like sweet sugar cookies, he’s a tight little package in custom leather. And he’s a good skater, too. Born in Brooklyn, that’s no surprise. But the tastiest part is, he’s got Hollywood by the balls right now. He’s the big dog in town and he’s in my ear, suggesting all the things he’d like to do to me. As a trio made up of Cher, Lisa Bonet and Will Smith blow by us, I suggest that he and I go someplace so he can show me.

It’s noon at THE WALDORF. And I’m late! What a greedy thing he is! Peeking in the mirror, I’m expecting the worse, but my eyes are bright and my skin is glowing. I haven’t slept in 24 hours but you wouldn’t know it by looking at me. Eddie is awake. He wants to know when we can get together again. “Aren’t you getting married soon?” I smile at his reflection in the mirror. “Married men aren’t my thing. So let’s just remember last night, keep it between us, and send me an invitation to the wedding, okay?”

I swipe a pair of RAYBANS from his dresser—I always take a souvenir—and dash before he starts to argue. Oh well. I won’t be holding my breath for that invitation, either. But I’m so late for the shoot and there’s no time to go home, shower, and change clothes. Outside the Waldorf, I flag a cab. They’re gonna have to take me as is, in a spicy cloud of sex and sugar cookies.

When my cab pulls up to a red light on 32nd Street, I spot the Italian version of RED DRESS magazine there on the corner. I’ve been looking for weeks! “I’m gonna jump out and run to this newsstand,” I tell the driver. “I’ll be back before the light changes.” And I am. I slide back into the cab just as the light turns green but what the hell? Somebody else is in the back seat now. We eyeball each other. And then we point. “Aren’t you—?”

It’s Vanessa Williams! Miss America! MY Miss America! It’s silly I know, but I still lose my cool around certain celebs. I gush. “They did you wrong, Miss Thing! Wrong! But it’s better now! Your new album is so hot! I just love you!” At the same time she’s gushing back at me. “You’re my favorite model! My husband has such a big crush on you! He’s gonna die when I tell him!” We’re both so excited, we finally end up grabbing each other and hugging.

At the studio I wolf down a pastrami on rye from KATZ while the hair and make-up team work their magic. I’m still geeked about meeting Vanessa Williams in the taxi and I tell them all about it. Then Mendel, just returning from Paradise Island, shares all the gossip after being trapped with John Travolta and a houseful of guests during the hurricane that blew through there last weekend. “The Wayan brothers were there,” he said. And then he names several of Hollywood’s most precious young ingenues. “It was just one big, nasty orgy, honey. They jumped in and out of beds like it was 1975.”

Finally I’m ready for my closeup. I step out on the rooftop of the Tribble building, in DONNA KARAN, where Richie Street is waiting with his crew. I adore him. He’s got a great eye for the dramatic and he always makes me look good. Standing on my mark, we pop off three quick rolls of film. The city looks awesome behind me. But then Richie gets an idea. He steps over to me, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a red bullet loaded with blow. He takes a hit to each nostril. “What would you think about climbing up on the ledge so we can get the eagle in a few of the shots?” he says before handing the bullet to me. “I’ll understand if you’re too scared to do it, but it would be really cool.”

Sneaky bastard. He knows that daring me to do it is just the way to get me to do it. We’re eight hundred feet in the air and I should probably know better but his assistants help me up onto the ledge. It feels pretty secure up here. The ledge is wide and the eagle? She’s not going anywhere. But…between the wind, lack of sleep, or maybe Richie mixing his coke with something else, I’m suddenly sick to my stomach. I spin away from the crew and brace myself against the stone. The pastrami sandwich comes back up with a vengeance and flies out over Manhattan. But I’m a pro. Not one, single drop lands on the gown.

I turn back around to face the camera. “How’s my hair?” I ask. “You look fantastic,” they all shout. Richie begins shooting. I do my thing. Suddenly there’s squealing inside. Lots of commotion. And then, there he is. Prince. Out on the rooftop with a small entourage. Wow! I’d forgotten he said that he might stop by. His mouth drops open at the sight of me on the ledge, as everyone who was inside is outside now. They’re all staring at him. But he can’t take his eyes off of me. And I’m working it, too. I know how fucking amazing I must look up here.

Richie finishes the final roll of film and shouts, “Got it!” The crew breaks into applause. But it’s Prince who peels the pop tart off his arm and steps up to help me down from the ledge. I can feel the heat of his palms as he grips my hands and holds me steady. “You are such a bad bitch,” he says just loud enough for me to hear. “You’ve got to let me fuck you.”

He’s totally hot. From head to toe. And you know I saw this coming. But he’s so damn tiny. I’m five-feet-ten in my bare feet and just thinking about getting it on with such a little dude feels ridiculous. The idea of it, in the abstract, is nice. I mean, it’s Prince. But in reality, I’m afraid it’s gonna be too weird. And besides, I climbed out of Eddie Murphy’s bed only a few hours ago. And he was short enough. As trophy-worthy as it would be to dust off not one but two superstars in one day, even I can’t be that stone cold of a ‘ho. Can I?

THE END