What’s happening right in front of me isn’t really what’s happening in front of me. By most accounts to the unobserved eye the group of people giggling in front of me, swirling their hips and lips in the air, brushing their lips against champagne glasses, their vowels behind each other’s ears are just sitting there, sifting aimlessly to a disco beat on a Thursday night. On one level it is exactly what they are doing, but if one were to be precise what they are really engaging in is a ferocious game of locking tongues with each other and banging headboards sideways. Not in actuality but that’s really where it’s most likely going to end up or at the very least supposed to end up…
Who’s here is are a scattering of the type of crowd that you come to run into time from time that tell you that they are in fashion, publishing, in the arts, just finished a novel, a solo showing, raising money for a new entertainment company or there abouts. The funny thing is they are who they actually say they are and what they do, where in a town like Manhattan looking like you write a novel is more important than the part where you have to get down and dirty and write the damn thing or star in it.
At this current moment I’ve been turning my head backwards and forwards, not too aggressively but obviously enough taking in the high end drama subtly playing out in front of me. To my left is the sly dog with fingers that keep plucking at his ruby colored ascot and the magic words coming out of his mouth. The beauty nonchalantly listening to him is almost there but not quite there. For the affairs of sexual predatory acclimation to work both parties are required to a play a game of never appearing too eager but cordial enough to resist their initial primal urges.
By now it’s DJ Mel de barge who is doing all the seducing. He may behind his box, but to the trained ear it is him who is really bedding the beauties wafting to his beat. The guy in the Yohji suit and silver converse shoes is really doing his number. He reminds me of a Brahman, except he’s not, even if he probably wanted to be that before he relapsed and became a gregarious socialite about town. Such are the choices in life.
The flute in my hand is courtesy of Armand de Brignac Champagne, and I’m quite enjoying it, maybe too much, then again as much as I am in a nightclub I’m really not. I’m in a lair of sexual feeling. Everything is slow motion here, picture frame cued, high heel accolades and the boys and girls slowly sizing each other up. Not in a lewd way of course, that wouldn’t never do for the swank of an establishment that bristles with exclusivity and familial accoutrement. Every other person who walks past me or near me has double kissed the other, all of them except for me. It’s obvious I need to get to work.
Next to me is a posse, a gregarious group of boys and girls, they all remind me of a group of handsome actors auditioning for a spot on a coca cola commercial, of course no one is drinking coca cola. He’s holding her hand, she’s clutching her drink, her girlfriend slinking in the corner, the guy next to her pretending he is not eating her out in his dreams and the Coca Cola smiles getting wider and wider.
The guy next to me smiling his head off (I always find the happy ones) happens to be the general manager- Jason Lawrence. I can’t tell you why but I like him, real easy going, his eyes forever scanning the scene of seduction in front of him.
It’s time for a cigarette smoke and that’s where I find the girl with the visage of every twenty one year old’s fantasy. It’s a fantasy because it’s never going to happen, then again I’m not twenty one and I kind of fancy myself a lady’s man.
“Could I proffer a smoke?”
“Mmh are you English?”
“It’s funny I was going to ask you the same thing.”
What I really want to ask her I want even dare to repeat even on this page. The next eleven minutes are spent talking about God knows what. As I have reiterated earlier such things never really matter. It’s never what is said but how it’s said, and in any event – it’s a sexual feeling.
‘It’s time to go,’ I tell her. ‘You kidding me’ she retorts, her hand wrapped over mine, her blonde mane outlining the perfect face you think you never get to see except for when you’re watching movies or some runway show.
By now I’m being introduced to her friends, being bought drinks by them, and gradually moving closer to the girl who calls herself Irina. And it goes something like this, the dj spinning a mad deluxe of heaven and the grog sifting through mine and everyone’s mind, the smiles (why the hell does everyone smile here?) getting wider and friendlier by the minute, Irina’s pulse sliding somewhere very close to mine and the plush leather bar and champagne flutes a fleeting recall of some Fellini movie.
I’m now shaking hands with a guy who happens to own the place- a Matt Levine. And even he is smiling and enjoying himself. Of course I remember reading somewhere he’s suppose to be a prima donna but the truth is I can’t tell why anyone would say that, and the guy has got me laughing. Funny how gossip has a way of making the rounds. Of course I blame journalists for such things even if they think they’re telling you some truth.
By now the place has become a haven of seduction, laughter and wondrous banter. I kind of think I’m in someone’s living room, assuming living rooms come with book cases, bottles of champagne, and movie star guests who are whispering sweet seductions in each other’s ears.
“So Irina, tell me what turns you on?”
“I thought you knew by now.”
Of course the truth is I never know, but it’s best to pretend like I do.
“So you like to scare the boys or encourage the boys?’
“Encourage. (slight pause) Of course only the select ones.”
“In which ways?”
“That’s up to them.” she finally lets out.
I’m praying I know what to do next, meanwhile the guy next to me grabs my book and writes something in it that I dare not repeat.
She looks at me, takes the book back, pretends she hasn’t seen what the Italian prince has written and slips me her number.
I finally make to go out, smile and champagne induced and think to myself – ‘it’s all just a sexual feeling.”