"My first orgy was when I was in seventh grade. "But I was doing it when I was poor, though," Rocky says. So I tell him, rather boringly, that he’s living the dream. Somehow he marries enormous self-confidence with vulnerability, a huge ego with a sense of personal irony. And it’s true, the wattage is undeniable. Which he does, and gets away with, on account of his fabled charisma, something that several others have remarked upon before me. The ladies may have loved Cool J in the Eighties but they’re all about Rocky now, even if he says so himself. And, to be fair, the comment threads under his videos are mostly girls swooning over his big boyish smile. He calls himself 'Pretty Flacko' and remarks upon his looks as often as Muhammad Ali once did. Rocky’s never been shy about his prowess with women. Already, the world’s just a little more interesting than it was a few minutes ago.
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Letting me in, almost in passing, on this facet of his extraordinary life, this hidden scene in which neglected career women in fancy zip codes get rappers to bang them silly on $100,000 beds. But Rocky’s not bragging, that’s the thing. On the one hand, it’s not that startling, a rapper bragging about his sexual conquests. Paola Kudacki/styling by Matthew Henson Esquire I’ve never met anyone who designed their own bed before, let alone a famous rapper. "It’s all in the style of Tim Burton and Wes Anderson." He’s been a huge Burton fan since he saw The Nightmare Before Christmas when he was four. "I interior-decorated the whole fucking thing," he says. He owns a mansion in Beverly Hills, on one of those picturesque boulevards that abut West Hollywood. I asked about his house, that’s how it started. We’ve only been sitting here six minutes or so. So it wasn’t quite item one on the agenda, but it was close. Even just among guys, orgies are a topic to work up to, you don’t just dive in. And that never happens in celebrity interviews. So we’re all good.īest of all, though, Rocky is talking about group sex. The evening sun’s pouring through the skylight, as our voices echo off the walls, and his assistant Isabel comes by to say his weed won’t get here for an hour or so, but as luck would have it, I have a vape pen in my bag. We’re at Milk Studios in West Hollywood, the two of us alone in this giant white cube of a room. That he might be tired or distracted at the end of the day, and I might get a half-hour out of him at best.
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