We’re somewhere standing at some noisy venue on a long Memorial day weekend deep in the Hamptons. All around us are the surly signs of young boys and girls looking for that special something, or rather someone special. Then again at 2 am in the morning perhaps anything or anyone….
Amongst the uber
hedge fund traders frat boys and the aspiring vixen Long Island girls who may or not be Manhattan transplants the game is on. It’s a leery looking over ones shoulder and a quick gulp of whatever it is that keeps one on (or off ) their game.
In front of me is one of the girls from the house that I’ve been invited to be a guest at this weekend. I’ve probably said four words to her, ‘I’m a tabloid hack’ which caused her to involuntarily sneer before she suddenly excused herself to the vestige of her all consuming I phone.
Next to her is what appears to be a cocky ass fellow who keeps grinning until the cows come home every time Mandy (I’ve chosen not to reveal the identities of the parties involved so as to spare them the indignity of being recognized by their peers in a public forum) so much as looks back at him. Mandy for her part looks on the verge of being inebriated but then again I suspect that’s just a crutch. After all if one is going to make the move, being somewhat toast always helps the cause.
For my part I’m despondently looking on, wondering to myself how I got sucked into this game. I drag on my smoke and remind myself I am here on assignment and that I should have no expectations and the best I can and should hope for is a bevy of stellar vignettes to report on.
Nevertheless despite being cognizant that I am way out of my league (the turf may look harmless but then again the implied benchmark of what passes for remarkable is way above my income and social influence) part of me is seduced by the ridiculous game of getting laid. After all the temptations of the opposite sex have always being a preferred game amongst society, even if it is masked in blatant name dropping, photo ops, who one knows and most importantly what one has managed to accomplish (in the woman’s case sadly it boils down to how well her body stacks to the rest of the bixches she’s competing against).
At this stage one of the guys from the house, let’s call him Mark comes gallivanting in my direction.
‘Yo dude. Getting any action?’
‘Can only try, ‘ I meekly retort.
‘Dude, tell me I’m not missing anything. This place is stacked with babes. If it hadn’t been for that conference call I would have gotten here 3 hours ago.’
Mark takes a long deadly look around the room and then moves closer to me.
‘Look, I need a wing man. I don’t need you to say much, just help me look good. I’ll signal when I see babes we ought to go for and then we move in for the kill. Drinks on me of course.’
Mark from what I understand owns his own brokerage operation and probably employs close to a thousand souls and amongst fast cars and yachts that he has acquired (he’ll later that evening take me for a spin in his red Lamborghini) the Hamptons have become his de facto home for the summer.
‘So you game? C’mon I see a couple of hot Russians 30 degrees.’
Of course the thing with Russians is that they have horrible reputations up here in the Hamptons. Whether they are actually Russians or not hardly matters. It’s the cataloguing of particular girls who have set agendas; to date rich and be spoiled and in return they will give you their hard won looks to latch on to. It’s a gold digger’s game but unlike most gold diggers these girls hardly make an effort to disguise their motives. Notice the following discussion as Mark makes to talk to the blue eyed blonde vixen.
Mark: ‘You look familiar.’
Russian gold digger: ‘ Yes. Maybe we met at Nobu last week for Al Pacino’s party?’
Mark: ‘Nobu. So you like Japanese?’
Russian gold digger number 2: ‘We like anything nice. You share in the Hamptons or you have your own house?’
At this stage I am desperate to puke and run the other way, but I remind myself where I am and retort that I am tabloid journalist who gets to live a vicarious life by proxy. Of course this only elicits a blank stare before one of the girls casually asks me in an exaggerated Eastern bloc accent if I am famous or not and if I appear on TV. I silently chaffe before Mark takes out his cell phone and asks both the girls to give him his number. And just like that he gets both their numbers before nudging me softly in the back to move on.
Curious I ask him how he managed to get their numbers so quick, Mark proceeds to explain that he wasn’t necessarily interested in them but he figured that if he invited them to his yacht next weekend with a few of their girlfriends they’d probably take the bait.
In turn he began to explain he then goes home and goes and googles their name, doing a bit of cursory check up before deciding to invest his time in them again. Against each girl’s name is the time and place where Mark met her and highlight remarks that were exchanged.
‘Dude, I am looking to settle down. I’m nearly 40, I haven’t got time to waste. At a club people tell each other anything, but the trick is to get a handle of who they are and then to do some research and find out who they really are. You’d be surprised by how many girls say they’re actresses or that they are only 25 or whatever and when you google them you find out they’re nobodies or worse actually 32.’
As I am standing there absorbing the scene in front of me I am reminded of one of my own dates from hell this time last year when I invited what I thought to be a sincere young model (yes I plead guilty to being smitten by long legged trollops) to the periphery called the Hamptons.
At the time it hadn’t been disclosed whether we were committed to each other, suffice it to say it was ambiguous (which probably describes most dating arrangements in the ever revolving corridor of NYC). Nevertheless when I had asked her to join me as my date I had presumed that she would act within a spector of decorum. Instead by the end of the evening she had amassed at least 7 different numbers (all for work she insisted) and by the last party she was holding hands with the host of the party whose birthday we had attended. When I went to fetch her to join me I didn’t even feign incredulousness or anger except to remind her that it would probably be best that she spend the balance the evening (nay the weekend) with said present host and that her bags would be waiting for her outside of our guest room. Needless to say the young lady in question was hardly impressed with my suggestion and began urging me to ease up and join them for a drink.
What though did vex me was the way the host, let’s call him Charlie looked at me and said: ‘She’s just having fun, you needn’t get jealous. At least you can have another drink. It’s my birthday after all.’
In the end I left her there only to get a volley of phone calls later that evening which I refused to answer…
The following morning finds me groggily walking into town to a cluster fuck place called the ‘Golden Pear.’ All around me are the aspiring arrivestes with their swag and caboose milking every high heel and high five they can muster. Instead of champagne and fillet mignon simply swap for salmon lox and egg white omelettes with country bread (what a bloody useless euphemism) and $5 caffe lattes. As I drag myself in front of the line, painfully aware that I am way too out of shape for this crowd (being buff is also a precursor I’m afraid) I motion for my slice of heaven and slink outside where I suddenly run into Mandy, one of the house guests who had come out with us last night.
Careful not to disturb her or even look her in the eye, I take a seat on the sidewalk before she motions me for a lighter as I inhale my first smoke for the day.
‘So how did things work out last night?’ I finally casually ask.
‘Oh so so.’
“It looked like you were having fun with that one guy…..’
At this stage she raises her hands up as if to protest.
‘Please I don’t want to talk about him. Yes I thought he was nice, even smart, but then I noticed something that just made me think- No no turn away.’
‘Really? He was too perfect?’ feigning concern.
‘No but close.’
Long pause as I sip on my $5 cafe latte.
‘He was attempting to be too perfect. Christ he was wearing white Gucci loafers, white Gucci silk shirt, white Gucci cargo pants and even a white Gucci belt.’
‘So he likes Gucci.’
‘Yes, but something didn’t add up. It felt too forced.’
‘Oh well. Next time.’
‘Hmm, well I’ve agreed to go out with him to the beach this afternoon. I just want to be sure. After all he was cute and yes he may be going a bit overkill with the Gucci thing, but you have to remember- Gucci isn’t cheap….’
At this moment I glumly smile as I pull the shades over my head and quickly make to cross my legs as the little hole that has just opened up along the inside of my crotch seams threatens to avalanche to an overall gaping inconvenience.
‘Yes, you have to admit Gucci are tried and true.’
By now I have probably recognized a whole denizen of who’s who that I had hoped to avoid (wishful thinking) before deciding it was time to return to the house of my host Mr Cass Almendral (he has allowed me to use his real identity for this article).
The irony of course about Cass is that this time last year was how page 6 came out with an article exploring the idea that today’s dating dynamics involved men of advantage, like Cass who had access to the spoils of Hamptons properties and by extension the affections of young women that men like Cass courted. That of course was page 6’s version, by the time I had finished comparing Cass to a heathen version of an immoral scoundrel looking to take advantage of young naive women it had become painfully obvious that I had an axe to grind with men like Cass Almendral who hoped to use their Hampton abode as some sort of phallic symbol.
The fact that now I had somehow now found myself a guest in Cass Almendral’s Hampton’s house was more than ironic. In Mr Almendral’s defense after having been introduced to him by a third party a few months after I had penned my surly article I found myself almost against my will being quite drawn to the fellow and would argue that he is probably one of the most sincerest, likable, gregarious, gracious individuals I have ever come across in my life. Of course stranger things have happened ….
Nevertheless there was Cass, his eyes beaming and darting as one young attractive woman after the other came in and out of the annex of his South Hampton abode. By now it was only 2 pm in the afternoon and to be sure our host Cass was paying inordinate attention to the bevy of 7 young women sprawling out of the kitchen, keenly downing bottle after bottle of Pinot Grigio that Cass Almendral had suddenly bought out.
One of the girls began a diatribe of her days when she used to be a model back in the good old days. Yet somehow the more she waxed about the good old days the more I suspected that at best she had been nothing more than a fluffer or at best a fit model whose real cash value involved looking sufficiently good as appropriate arm candy.
The self masturbation and sun tanning that extends in the back yard patio and eventually down the street at the local beach leaves me somewhat dizzy but clearly amused. At least the Russians have no illusion of formality and foreplay, it straight to the hilt and showing off what’s in store. Of course buyer beware and preferably loaded…
By the time dinner time arrives I now find myself in the company of hedge fund traders who seemed to be incestuously muttering about the market as they down drink after drink. At $15- $23 a pop one could only hope that they were on the right side of the market.
At some stage prior to our orders being taken an older woman, (a publicist I was to later find out) approached Cass and began clamoring for his attention. By this stage it wasn’t long before the publicist, let’s call her Rose was fawning herself over me.
Rose meant well, but to be sure she was far too old, and I mean at least ten years over my age (I’m in my early 40’s) when she subtly intimated to me. I don’t know what I had said or done but at some stage I was under the impression had I wanted to take Rose to the back room and assault myself on her it would have been a welcome relief of euphoria. Of course this promulgated the idea that women, especially elder woman in these parts are certainly quite aggressive and probably wanton of the notion of entitlement. Then again I suspect Rose had been busy drinking since early afternoon…
From there we moved on to a new venue which whilst making haste to (the long line at the door was quite distressing but par for the course I was later told) elicited the memory of a story of one of my female friends who had this time round declined the affections of the Hamptons.
Her story in brief involved being invited as a supposed house guest except when it came to sleeping arrangements later that night the host and his male cohorts were of the opinion that their female guest was obliged to take correspondence with one of the male cohorts. This had brought many tears and a frantic phone call to a limousine service which came and took her back to the city at the discounted price of $265 because they felt quite sorry for her. One wondered as she regaled me this story of her unsavory trip to the land of milk and honey if this was par for the course? But perhaps this is the balancing trick many of the young girls who come here, in search of the supposed good life and pony show who are willing to imply that they are up for grabs in order to acquire access to an escape route to an otherwise humdrum existence back in the city.
The next afternoon saw us invited to Niche Media’s Hamptons Magazine party honoring Mr Perfect Tea Cup Manners, Matt Lauer. It was to be sure a lovely staid affair that reeked of old money and some degree of charm. Matt must have said something momentarily but I couldn’t be sure if anyone really cared or bothered to listen. By now the drinks were flowing and as usual the good cheers were rampant as handshake led to handshake and air kisses turned to more air kisses. Meanwhile the camera boys were in abundance soaking up all the effervescence that such camaraderie could inspire.
Cass our host (he was able to secure all 9 of us on the guest list and many other guest lists over the weekend) was by this stage surrounded by a bevy of models which elicited a rueful laugh when I motioned to him he was almost just like a socialite. The truth of course Cass and his elk were in fact the new kind of socialite that habitually hobnobbed these territories, forever giddy by the prospect of meeting new friends and possibilities and the allure that being part of a type of existence that may have once been denied to them. In either event the camera boy was clicking with quite abandon by now and Cass in the comfort of at least 6 striking women couldn’t be happier even if he knew on some level it was all make believe.
Of course when Mark, the Lamborghini driving fund owner finally arrived I was almost besides myself.
“Mark- you’re only 3 hours late.”
‘Really? I was on another conference call and then I had to go to the gym. You know how it is.”
I sat there smiling, trashed, nodding that in fact I knew how nothing was.
Nevertheless Mark was once again sizing up the playing field and insisting that I come out as his wing man to seize up on any as of yet unrealized opportunities. I politely accepted even as I humbly told him it was never in my opinion to go after women but to let them come after you.
“You’re a guy. You’re suppose to be the hunter. That’s why you’re here. To get laid. Take what’s waiting for you.”
At this stage I took out another smoke, looked out into the universe before looking back to Mark:
‘Okay Mark. If you say so….”
At some point we came across the transgender/androgynous model Andrej Pejicwho Mark was adamant about making a move to before I stopped him and deftly whispered into his ear that Andrej, the stunning woman in front of us, who probably lay to shame most of the women in front of us was in fact (alas) a man.
From there it was off to another dinner and another outing where I sat watching aloofly the comings and goings of the mating ritual. To be honest I think it’s great when people can come across another individual that inspires them and makes them think and feel, but to be even brutally honest I suspect the Hamptons is hardly the forum that such feelings can ever be evinced. Then again we all have our tastes, preferences and particular mindsets.
As I sat there thinking this to myself and wondering what had compelled me to once again come to the Hamptons an exceptionally beautiful woman I had been paying attention to from the corner of my eye suddenly came and sat next to me and struck a conversation with me. And without meaning to, I listened to her and actually enjoyed her company until my congregation came to collect me and tell me it was time to leave. Deftly she gave me her number as I turned to leave and suddenly I understood the allure that a post midnight summer breeze can have on a heady soul in search of redemption, validation and the intimate desire to relate. Such are the affections of finding love and what not in the Hamptons….