THE MODELIZERS

Not any man can become a modelizer. "To get models, you have to be rich, really good-looking, and/or in the arts," says Barkley. He's an up-and-coming artist, and he has a face like a Botticelli angel, framed by a blond pageboy haircut. He's sitting in his junior loft in SoHo, which is paid for by his parents, as are all the rest of his expenses, his father being a coat-hanger magnate in Minneapolis. That's good for Barkley, because being a modelizer isn't cheap—there are drinks at clubs, dinners, cab expenses from one club to another, and drugs—mostly marijuana, but occasionally heroin and cocaine. It also takes time—lots of time. Barkley's parents think he's painting, but he's too busy spending his days organizing his nights with models.

"Frankly, I'm kind of confused about this whole model thing," Barkley says. He's pacing around his loft in leather jeans, shirtless. His hair is just— washed and his chest has something like three hairs on it. Models love him. They think he's hot and nice. "You've got to treat them just like regular girls," he says. Then he lights up a cigarette and says, "You've got to be able to roll into a place and go right up to the hottest girl there—otherwise, you're finished. It's like being around dogs, you've got to show no fear."

The phone rings. Hannah. She's doing a shoot in Amsterdam. Barkley puts her on the speaker. She's lonely and she's stoned. "I miss you, baby," she moans. Her voice is like a serpent trying to crawl out of its skin. "If you were here right now I'd have your ding-dong down my throat. Aaaaahhhh. I love that so much, baby."

"See?" Barkley says. He talks to her, raking his fingers through his hair. He lights up a joint. "I'm smoking with you now, baby."

"There are two kinds of modelizers—those who are closing the deal, and those who aren't," says Coerte Felske, author of Shallow Man, a novel about a man who chases models.

Leading the pack are the supermodelizers—men who are seen with the likes of Elle Macpherson, Bridget Hall, Naomi Campbell. "There are guys like this any place models congregate— Paris, Milan, and Rome," says Mr. Felske. "These guys have status in the world of modeling. They can pick off models like clay pigeons. They burn 'em and churn 'em."

But not all modelizers are high profile. In Manhattan, a necessary stopping-off point for young new models, just being rich can be enough. Take George and his partner, Charlie. On any given night of the week, George and Charlie are taking a group of models, sometimes up to twelve, out to dinner.

George and Charlie could be Middle European or even Middle Eastern, but in truth they're from New Jersey. They're in the import-export business, and though neither is thirty yet, they're each worth a few million.

"Charlie never gets laid," says George, laughing, spinning around in his leather swivel chair behind a large mahogany desk in his office. There are oriental carpets on the floor and real art on the walls. George says he doesn't care about getting laid. "It's a sport," he says.

"For these guys, the girls are a trophy extension," confirms Mr. Felske. "Maybe they feel unattractive or are blindly ambitious."

Last year, George got a nineteen-year-old model pregnant. He knew her for five weeks. Now they've got a nine-month-old son. He never sees her anymore. Here's what she wants: $4,500 a month in child support, a $500,000 life insurance policy, a $50,000 college fund. "I think that's a little excessive, don't you?" George asks. When he smiles, the tops of his teeth are gray.