TMZ dubbed her The Tush. People devoted an article to her ass. So did the magazine King, though that’s less surprising (what is surprising is that she was the first white cover model in its six-year history). Kim is something of a photo-negative Venus Hottentot, the elusive White Girl With Physics-Defying Buttocks. According to her, she developed early and was a C cup by age 11, with similar topographical shifts south of the border. “I would cry about it,” she says. “I swear, I would say my prayers at night, hoping that I would stop developing.” In her adulthood, things changed. “I’ve embraced it,” she says. A few months ago she unveiled something that can only be called a Signature Angle. It’s kind of a three-quarter turn, Kim smiling coyly back at the camera. You can see it in the tabloids. You can see it in web videos, in which the paparazzi shout their requests: “Kim, Kim, over the shoulder!”
Thanks in large part to that well-bejunked trunk, Kim’s 15-minute empire is slowly, inexorably coming together. There’s the television show, a Meet the Osbournes minus the complex characters, executive-produced by Ryan Seacrest and relentlessly hyped by E! commercials. There’s the Playboy spread. (“My mom was like, ‘Wow. If I had pictures from when I was your age . . . You should do this while you can. They might never ask you again.’”) The calls from cable networks, from Adam Sandler’s people. Today alone, Kim has two TV segments to tape, a fashion shoot for a magazine, and the show’s premiere party. After the TiVo’d clip ends, she leaves to change outfits.
While she’s gone, Bruce Jenner talks about taping episodes of a new reality show called Jury Duty. The concept seems to be that people agree to settle their legal disputes via a panel of quasi-celebrities. “I did it with Paula Poundstone,” he says. “She is an ab-so-lute riot.” He still has the 1977 Wheaties-box haircut, and his face is wrinkle-free in a way that seems unlikely.
Kim comes back into the room in a sweat suit and a deep-V-neck T-shirt. She heads out the door to her white Range Rover (the words range rover on the back have been custom-painted pink) and drives the 10 minutes to Dash, the Calabasas clothing boutique that she owns with her sisters. Kim’s also a professional closet organizer. “There is a huge misconception of Hollywood girls,” she says. “That we don’t work, and we’re just famous for being famous.” Though, of course, she is. Inside Dash, the girls prepare to tape another segment for the morning showsomething about “hot looks for fall.” A table in the middle of the room displays some non-apparel items: Nicole Richie’s “novel,” The Truth About Diamonds; a Taschen book about Marilyn Monroe; a novelty striptease kit. It’s like the impulse-buy version of Kim’s id.