Socialite Fraudster Edward Davenport [Google him]

When you’re young and beautiful, the world can kiss your ass.

You have nothing to prove that isn’t already obvious, which is plenty enough.

But as you get older and your sense of self-worth [as a man] is tied largely to your lifelong accomplishments [including the ones in your own head], the prospect of fading “relevance” becomes terrifying.

Now what?

This juncture marks the onset of what I refer to as the narcissists crucible, “a place of occasion or test of severe trial” where anything can, and usually will manifest in order to keep the boat from sinking like a jackhammer.

Note: The following is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. It just seems like it does.

My name is Aristotle “Ari” Lazarov of Monaco, and I am a clinical narcissist. My 5th wife, Christina, is my enabler. Together we have 12 children.

Note: What I narcissists would admit so I wouldn’t have to run an intervention on their delusions.

I have a wonderful relationship with all my ex-wives because it behooves social climbers to keep their mouths shut.

Needless to say, they have nothing to stand on without party invitations, and therefore, everything to lose.

Note:  He should know. 

I am an extraordinarily good-looking man in spite of my age [which changes every 5 minutes, or just stays where it is for years at a time].

Note: Narcissists never fail to compliment themselves.

I dine at the right restaurants, drive the right cars, belong to the right clubs, know the right people, and wear acceptable designer apparel recognized by people who know and appreciate the finer things in life.

Note: He never wears anything that people who host photo-op-worthy cocktail parties and fundraisers might find distasteful, since party invitations are the lifeblood of his existence.

I stay in top physical condition through regular workouts with my personal trainer. I also maintain healthy eating habits, and take herbal testosterone that replenishes everything stolen by age, about which I remain in denial. 

Note: It’s a simple equation, really.

I have a home in Houston, an apartment in NYC, and a family compound outside Paris.

Note: Doesn’t everyone?

The other specifics of my life are up to you and your imagination. If I’ve been successful, you’ll imagine big.

Note: The narcissist stays light on the details and heavy on innuendo to keep the fantasies alive long after death, which is just as important as life in most cases. 

~~~

My name is Christina Lazarov, wife to my handsome and successful husband, Aristotle.

Note: I’m an enabler, remember?

Whatever my last name used to be is irrelevant because my life back then was irrelevant […not that it doesn’t haunt me in the middle of the night when I remember feeling something rather than nothing at all]. 

Note: This is something she should have broached in therapy, but because therapists lean in the direction of healing, she found a Pilates instructor.

Now my world is glamorous [pretentious], transcendent [privileged], and blissful [spaced-out], as everyone who’s anyone knows.

Note: Reflection [aka external affirmation] is heroin to any Stepford Wife with a working knowledge of the Devil’s Crossroads.

SUMMARY

1] Aging narcissist-socialites attend parties for the photo ops, not for the charities themselves.

In fact, many of them don’t even know the charities they’re attending, given the number of stops one must make on a particular night, particularly during cultural season.

“Oh is this the Opera gala? Of course it is!”

2] Old money doesn’t want the publicity.

New money can’t live without it.

Note the outrageously expensive and pretentious automobiles cars lined up in perfect formation in front of gold digging establishments.

Money is thrown around like party favors. Think of it as a carbon credit for people who don’t know better.

3] The aging narcissist sits on the fence between old and new, driving cars that are expensive, but not pretentious.

Wearing clothing that is stylish, but not trendy and/and garish.

And generally behaving in a manner reflective of sophistication and cultural maturity, in spits of the fact that it’s a ruse.

In this sense, they’re the lowest of the low because no one has any idea who they really are, including themselves.

I could go on.