In my kitchen I have a framed cutout from a 1989 issue of Vanity Fair. It's a Steven Meisel photo of designer Marc Jacobs, then a longhaired darling of the fashion world, nude in bed save for a pair of black motorcycle boots. Yes, I was a fan. Flash forward to 2014, and Jacobs has just celebrated three decades of his global fashion empire and is approaching the one-year anniversary of his departure from Louis Vuitton, where he served as creative director for 16 years. Although Jacobs went through a chubby and schlubby phase, he's looking more fantabulously fit than ever and filling out his Adidas track pants better than most men half his age. We meet at Sant Ambroeus in the West Village, and from the moment we sit down to nibble on our pasta (tagliatelle bolognese for Marc, penne pomodoro for me), Marc is sincere, sweet and ready to talk about anything. Being gays, we naturally discuss porn stars and Grindr; even on such salacious topics he's thoughtful, candid and totally real. After our lunch, I'm more of a fan than ever.
Marc Jacobs at Sant Ambroeus New York
MARC JACOBS tattoos
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