Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me - Chelsea's Family, Friends [6]
I told Ted that I would just write my now dear friend Kenneth and explain that Chelsea had a severe mental problem and had hijacked my computer. I knew it was not the kindest thing to do, because generally if I’m coming on to a man, I don’t want to turn cold so quickly. That’s never a good way to end a relationship with a man you’ve never met. I prefer to do it like a gentleman: in a steam room, wearing a towel. But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.
Ted said, “By no means can you ever let Kenneth know that this was a joke and that people over at Chelsea Lately are messing with him like that.” In fact, he told me that I was going to have to go through with having lunch with Kenneth and treat him nicely.
What the hell? Now I had to go on a date? What would I wear? And who was going to tutor me on what the fuck is going on between the Israelis and the Palestinians?
I started to panic. “Ted, there is no way I’m going to lunch with this guy.” Also, I didn’t think Ted was taking into consideration that I’m pretty goddamn charming, so most likely Mr. Falcon was going to take a liking to me—and then what? More lunch meetings? What if that led to a dinner? Then, before you knew it, I’d be over at his meticulously decorated apartment when his partner was not there, and he’d put on some Teddy Pendergrass and open a bottle of French champagne. Actually this was starting to sound pretty nice, except for a few minor speed bumps commonly referred to as a penis and a set of balls.
Chelsea couldn’t get enough of this. It was so much more mortifying for me than she had ever dared to dream. This was when her real evil genius kicked in and she said to me, “Jill, we can’t let him know what you’ve done. Ted says you have to follow through with this. It’s out of my hands.” Thanks, Chelsea. Then she added, “So it’s settled. You’re having lunch with Kenneth Falcon.”
I made an executive decision of my own and decided to pretend none of this had ever happened and hope for the best. I’m guessing Mr. Falcon made the same executive decision, because that was the last I would hear from my dearest Kenneth.
For the next few months I went back to the comfort of my daily routine full of wedgies and being called a little girl. I did wonder if Mr. Falcon and his partner had ever closed escrow on their Palm Springs hideaway or if I had negatively affected their relationship. Perhaps he started using me against his boyfriend when they’d fight, saying, “If you’re not careful and don’t start respecting me more, I have this sweet young man over at Chelsea Lately who is very interested in me and wants to know how I feel about worldly topics.” But then I noticed that Chelsea had stuck my peanut butter and jelly sandwich to the ceiling and it was seconds from falling on my head. So that was that.
Then one day a mixer was thrown on our stage so people from the E! corporate offices could mingle with us Chelsea Lately folk. I wasn’t planning on going to it, until some grinning son of a bitch walked up to my desk and said, “Hey, Johnny, that guy Ken is downstairs.”
“Well, holy shit! Yippee ki-yay, Mr. Falcon!” Now let’s see what you look like.
I needed to know. I had been this close to sharing an intimate, lustful desert experience with this guy. I wanted to see if, had things worked out differently, he would have been up to my standards. I mean, if we had ever been seen out together, he’d better be pretty goddamn good-looking. I wouldn’t want people to think I couldn’t pull an attractive man. That would have been plain out embarrassing.
When I did finally catch a glimpse of him, while I was trying to look nonchalant, standing in the corner eating a piece of the delicious cookie cake, one thing stuck out immediately. He had a goatee, or as Chelsea likes to call it, a flavor saver. I don’t really care for facial hair on a man, especially a goatee.