Penetrating The Inner Sanctum Of The Tom Ford Store

Live from the pages of The Underminer: The Best Friend Who Casually Destroys Your Life, we invited everyone's favorite frenemy to chime in from time to time on various hot topics. That's right, The Underminer has a Gawker column now. But keep trying! You'll get one someday! You trouper!

Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find the top hats—

Oh! Hi there! Sorry I didn't recognize you in your gussied up French footperson outfit. You're working here? At Tom's new store? As a cleaner? That explains the feather duster, ha ha! That's so great!

But I thought they were just hiring models for this job. Oh. I guess you have a look they want. It sort of makes sense because Horacio was saying how the next season is all about environmental decline, and so models with blotchy sort of cancery skin are really big.

It's so the most amazing thing that Tom found sla—I mean, MAIDS, maids and butlers—to keep this place as immaculate and appointed as his London home.

Tom is a genius. When he said he wanted to open a men's store that focuses on "deeply personalized luxury," it's like he read my mind! I am so sick of feeling like my luxury is anonymous and superficial and not really ME, you know?

These products are made by some of the finest Italian crafstmen and artisans. A shirt here is available in 350 colors, 35 fabrics, ten collars and two cuffs! How do I know? The lust-dripping profile Vanessa wrote in New York magazine, silly! But Tommy and I go way back, to when were were both model-actors.

I'm just here picking up my made-to-measure tailored head-to-toe suit, monogrammed luggage, some Black Orchid Finishing Oil, and some bottled sweat of a man's balls, all of which I plan to use this weekend when I take a quick trip over to Cannes.

Have they shown you the secret inner sanctum of the store? Probably not, since you are just sort of starting out. I would be happy to show you - No! Don't worry, you won't get in trouble. Chill out! I know all the confidential codes. Tom gave them to me.

All I need to do is stroke the labial folds of the stainless steel Fontana sculpture here, and...wah la! A secret doorway opens up which takes us to the special deluxury chamber of the store where only a select few are allowed to shop, like Richard Branson, Clooney, Brad.

Ooo. I can see you are getting a little faint and light-headed, aren't you? That's because Tom's musksmell pervades the secret catacombs of his Upper East Side store. It takes some getting used to.

Tom's smell is like none other. I love his smell. Everyone does. Of course he loves his own smell because he is his own muse. So he has created fragrances that bottle his musky essence with notes of pine and orchids, as if you were walking through a sultry wood, while breathing in his oily thick chest fur at the same time.

Here is where they sell Tom's just-worn pants that stink with his crotch odor, and wads of his toilet wipings in a porcelain urn.

Here is Tom's B.O. Line: Body odor infused vodka, and Tom B.O Plug-ins for the bathroom and home, and a $10,000 dollar canister of Tom's intestinal gas. Do NOT whiff this mesmerizing scent or you may spontaneously fuck yourself with some nearby object! The last novice staffperson smelled Tom's fart and pierced his colon with a letter opener!

Ah...and here is the sealed off, air-tight Sex Chamber. No! Tom doesn't have SEX here. No no no. Tom and Richard are monogamous. It is a great personal sacrifice on the part of Tom, who just this week turned down sex with Iman, a threeway with Ryan and Scarlett, and the spellbinding Sting, who tried to lure poor Tom into his English castle with the sight of his resplendent foreskin.

But Tom must remain with Richard and his fox terriers, proper and barely pleasured! It is this act of temperance and restraint Tom makes, so that his irresistibly potent sexual supremacy can be harnessed for the greater good of the Earth.

See what happens here in the Sex Chamber is that Tom stands naked for about 15 minutes, exuding his powerful, almost noxious sexual allure. Technicians (wearing infrared goggles so as to not succumb to their animal desires at the unmitigated sight of Tom which would make them tear off their flesh in horny bacchantic abandon) capture the gorgeousness of his essential energy, and with state of the art nanotechnology, transform it into a series of print and media ads which further his legend for future generations forever and ever.

Anyway you better get back to work picking up the minute fibers left around the store from uglier, less interesting customers. But if you find one of Tom's gorgeously thick genital or chest hairs, be sure to get it to the backroom! They are weaving a sweater for me on the Pubic Loom.

Ciao!