Enthralled (Dark Passions) by Sarah Bailey

 
     
     
     
     
    This
felt utterly surreal. Here I was, draped on Andy Warhol’s arm, being swept up
the grand staircase of the Chelsea Hotel. The lobby had taken my breath away.
The walls were covered in exquisite artwork; on one wall was a Herbert Gentry
abstract, the people in the painting looking like blue snowmen; on another was
a Roy Carruthers, depicting fleshy, bulky bodies with pinheads. As Andy Warhol
whisked me up onto the second landing, I noticed another fantasy painting: a
man with a wolf mask in his hand, his face green, with explosions of brilliant
red and night black behind him.
     
      
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice full of wonder.
     
      
Andy Warhol gave me another brilliant smile and patted me gently on the arm.
“We’re going back to the Silver Era,” he said, and his face twitched in private
amusement. My mind was still completely blown, and I had to pause for a moment
to catch my breath. “You alright, darling?” he asked, reaching over to tuck a
piece of hair behind my ear. Then I felt a warm, familiar hand on the small of
my back. I turned around. Bradley. He stood there for a moment looking down at
me, his eyes full of concern.
     
      
“You look like you’re about to faint,” he said, and put his hands around my
waist to steady me. The feel of his strong, warm hands around my waist sent
tingles up my spine. I took him in and my eyes dazzled. God, was he ever
gorgeous. Standing there in black tie, tall, muscular, dashing, his mesmerizing
green eyes focused intently on my face, he completely took my breath away.
     
      
Andy Warhol cleared his throat. “Love birds, there’ll be plenty of time for
that soon,” he said, tugging gently on my arm, and giving me a sly,
conspiratorial smile. I took a moment to take him in. He was wearing a black
velour top, flared jeans, and tortoise shell glasses. One of his classic looks.
He gazed at me pleasantly, but his eyes were also assessing me. I must have
looked completely star struck, just standing there staring at him, probably
with my mouth open.
     
      
I snapped myself out of my trance and gave him a questioning look. “Are you
taking pictures of me?” I asked, my voice full of disbelief.
     
      
He grinned at me and said, “You’ll see soon enough. Now follow me.” When we
reached the fifth floor landing, he guided my down a plushly carpeted hallway
to a door at the far end. Then he pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and
swung it open with a flourish. When my eyes scanned across the room, my breath
caught. The walls had been painted silver, and they glittered in the bright sunlight
coming through a large bay window. Tinfoil stars hung from the ceiling, along
with silver helium balloons, and in the middle of the room was a giant, cherry
red couch. I stared in absolute wonder. This room was a replica of the main
room in the original Andy Warhol Factory on the sixth floor of the Decker
Building. Billy Name had decorated that place for him; he had even found the
red couch on the street that was famous for hosting many a drug fueled orgy,
but was later stolen. The infamous red couch was also featured in many photos
and films from that time, including the well known film Blow Job .
     
      
I turned towards Andy, and he beamed at me, looking pleased by my reaction.
“This must have taken quite a bit of time to set up,” I said, giving him a peculiar
look.
     
      
He nodded and said, “Yes, my little superstars helped me prepare for this days
in advance.” His superstars. The Warhol Superstars: all the misfits,
artists, drug addicts, and socialites that made up his scene and appeared in
his photos and films.
     
      
I let out a strange laugh. “You mean like some of the Chelsea girls? Like
Nico?” I asked, citing a stunning blond singer he helped make famous.
     
      
Still looking bemused by my reaction, he shrugged and said, “No, not Nico, but
if you want to meet her later, that can be arranged.” I