My eyes open from darkness to the front door slamming. The tranquilizer’s after-burn fights my movements, the ground a collage of gold metallic wrappers and scattered clothing. “Skin of the night” is playing softly on repeat. Reaching the marble counter covered in bottles and glasses, I find a legal pad lying sideways with “Laura 555-212-7341” written in sharpie. Australian? Brunette? Who cares… I open the aluminum door praying for coconut water; find nothing but a bottle of Veuve and some Cholula. Reprobates live on a Spartan diet.
My iPhone vibrates on the stone; “Sarah B. is at yoga works” who the fuck goes to yoga at, umm 3:30pm. Such things shouldn’t make me laugh. Such things should instill anxiety and urgency. In need of rescue I text Hann at the Bodega: “2 Zico, 2 apples, sugar free Popsicles”.
My position in the coyote fur hammock allows me a view of the city vibrantly churning below my loft. People rushing to complete tasks I’ll never experience, but understand to be essential in perpetuating the decadence. The bottle resting on my chest has a surprisingly long finish as it begins to alleviate the cloud. Vibration, Damon: “Oi, at The Randolph. Get here”. Ignore for now, one must salvage a bit of the Apollonian before submission to the inevitable bacchanal. A Libertine’s game of hard to get.
A text from Meaghan appears, and a faint sense of responsibility creeps in. “Babes are you still coming to brunch, we are seated?” The ramifications are low, but the reservation is under my name. Thankfully she is endlessly entertained by my reality. “She wouldn’t leave… I’ll meet you after.” Meaghan: “Hahaha, who? The one I met at Electric Room? You should bring her.” Horrendous idea. Was I at Electric? “So sorry darling, let’s play later”.
The wall buzzes. Doorman: “Hann is here.”
Pay. Drink Zico. Run. Equinox. Ignore people. Church. Duncan Quinn. Odin. Milano’s Bar. Pint. Shower.
“You could be mine” erupts from the speakers while I select an outfit, a process in dire need of acceleration. Placing the first cuff link in with a twist, I’m interrupted by a familiar double beep “Anisia’s B-day Dinner at Felling”. Less than 15 minutes to get deep in Chinatown, and I’m not wearing pants. Skip? Can’t, the illustrator I’m “collaborating” with is invited.
Dress, eye drops, ATM, cab.
Arriving 30 minutes late, I’m the first in the party to arrive. The decor is heavy in reclaimed wood, accented by stainless saw blade chandeliers and shelves full of matte black chainsaws. The grizzly bartender takes my order as “Mr. Saturday Night Special” blares in the background. Rustic glam? Lumberjack chic? At least it’s packed with pretty people.
Who is staring at me? Did we stab a few weeks ago? No, this is new. An Intense gaze, collarbones, lithe arms, leather pants, stunning. She walks over to me, but I get a slap on my shoulder and turn. “Hey stud, are we the first ones?” It’s Fabian, the only person at this dinner I can actually tolerate. I turn back around and she’s gone. Panic. Fabian: “Why are you so pissy?” “It’s nothing, just loathe our punctuality”.
The private table next to the kitchen is a veritable minefield of my carnal history. It’s astonishing, could I have actually been with six out of eight? I need to move to Berlin. Thankfully Meaghan came. No sign of the girl from the bar. Predictable.
The meal is a seven course tasting of obscure New Brunswick game, mostly offal. Really? With only four men, most plates are poked at rather than eaten. Thankfully they are liberal with the Bollinger. “Sriracha, please?”
Mingle, bubbles, set meeting, flirt, bubbles, evade explanations, bubbles. Refuse dessert. Check. Cab.
The Boom Boom Room is pulsing, an increasingly rare sight. Fabian and Meaghan run upstairs to smoke, I take Anisia to the dance floor. The walk is an informal procession line. Everyone seems to be here. “Home” fades in from the speakers and the crowd begins to leap in waves. A glitter filled sea of elbows and smiles. Over my partner’s shoulder I see her. Head flung back, hair waving in rhythm. I go numb. Anisia: “Where are you going?” Nothing to say, no need to incite a scene.
I aggressively fight through to reach her; she sees me coming. Grasping her hand I pull it through to an empty space and pause. She corners my body, pulls on my lapels and kisses deeply. Warm sensations begin throbbing against the denim. She pulls away and brushes my hair from our mouths, “I like your hair”. “I like your…teeth?”
Our rush to the bizarre back restroom is simultaneously violent and efficient. We enter in an unbridled fury; I elevate her against the wall, a race to unbutton everything. Teeth, tongues, grasps, pulls, thrusts. We move to the sink, the skyline’s lights blur behind her. She feels like, Christmas.
The door swings open, “Oh hey sorry, uh, mind if I piss?” Before I can react she pushes away, jumps down, and leaves in haste. The Neanderthal offers 80’s era inspiration as reparation. “No meat, just get out of the way.” Sprinting downstairs I’m oppressed by the crowd, find nothing. Panic. Angst. No name, no number, 8 million people.
I search the roof with similar success. Meaghan spots me, “Are you ok? You look insane?” I look up “It can’t all be so ephemeral.” Perplexed she responds, “What happened between you and Anisia?” Annoyed, “Who?”
Walking downstairs, disappointment and lingering desire drown my synapses. Plowing towards the exit, I pretend not to notice my acquaintance’s shouts too contain me. I grab a flute from a tray, which is clearly intended for another. Vibration, a text from Damon: “Mate, Crystal Castles are about to hit the stage.” Salvation. Alice is an obsession. “In. Where?” I smirk as the glass presses against my lips and the city sharpens into view.