The Deep Shallowness of Marc Jacobs

Jacobs is short and wiry, with a store-bought tan, zero-fat musculature and a nose made broader by artificial means ("I walked into a door once, and I thought it looked really hot," he says). He's aware that his new body is a great draw for guys. As the gay pickup scene has increasingly moved onto the Internet, nothing is more important than a photo of your six-pack, and that may have been part of the allure of the gym for Jacobs. He's dated a series of boy toys, most in their 20s, many of whom have warmed very quickly to the notion of dropping anecdotes about their lover to the gossip columns. Alleged threesomes with porn stars, fights on private jets, the guy he fought with in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire — it has been well-chronicled and extensively blogged about, particularly in the case of Jason Preston, a former rent boy, party promoter and Jacobs' long-term on-and-off boyfriend. Preston talked about getting married — "Wouldn't it be fierce if my bridesmaids were Mariah, Naomi Campbell and Lindsay?" Preston once asked — and Preston got Jacobs' name tattooed on his arm in the same type as the store logo. "The day I got the tattoo, Marc and I went to Debbie Harry's induction into the [Rock & Roll] Hall of Fame," Preston recalls now. "We totally stole the attention from the event, and she was so not having it." He cackles. "People think that Marc is a shy person, but he's totally wild. He loves the gossip about him."

"I've had boyfriends who were media whores, and God bless them, they were great people," says Jacobs, obliquely referring to Preston and then trailing off. "I shouldn't have said that, that wasn't nice to say." He pauses. "I was in a relationship for the past couple of years with someone who loved the attention of the media," he says. "I don't want to make the same mess again."

Although Jacobs' personal life may have edged toward the abyss where Perez Hilton and Lauren Conrad reside today, the collision between couture and raunch has continually fascinated Jacobs. Sonic Youth performed at his last fashion show, but Kevin Federline sat in the front row. He prices handbags at his stores from $20 to $8,000. He appliqués the word "Hardcore" on the front of pastel cashmere sweaters. He dresses prim ingénues like Kirsten Dunst for the Golden Globes but recently selected Victoria Beckham for an ad campaign. Jacobs is also the only genuinely high-end fashion designer who has admitted that he might want a reality show, about "all the drama, the intrigue, the sex, the romance, the work." Why? "I'm a shameless human being," he said. In fact, he wants to have the word "Shameless" tattooed over his heart.

Jacobs is quick to tell anyone who will listen that he's horribly insecure, but he projects a diffident confidence. "Marc is like a kid, enjoying life but also marveling at the freakiness of meeting different celebrities, how surreal it all is," says Kim Gordon, a close friend. A few weeks after the museum event, he loafs around his messy Soho office in a crisp white shirt and tiny blue jeans (Jacobs splits his time between New York, where he lives in a hotel, and Paris, where he has a Champ de Mars apartment with a lavish modern-art collection). Plastic boxes are stacked high against the walls, filled with multicolored zipper parts and a zillion colors of grosgrain ribbon. Punk Pioneers, a photography book of the early scene, lays on a table for fashion reference, and the new Death Cab for Cutie album booms over an iPod sound system.

When Jacobs talks about design with his minions, a group of quiet girls and British boys, he uses a childish, singsong tone, which reminds one of the innocent pleasure he takes in his work: Dresses are "things," some designs need to be "less sweater-y," and on the whole, he wants pants to look more like "girl-y pants and less like boy-y pants."