Hot bitches begets hot bitches, and hot bitches know the other hot bitches in NYC. To my dismay, I later learn everyone in the room has assets of 100 million+ and these hot bitches didn't tell me to hand out a few business cards!?? Meanwhile these dudes ad been ogling me, and hung over and tired I escaped to pick my nails in the coat check.
This hot bitch happens to be girlfriend to my douchey Wall Street homie, "R". Half tool, half useful, and sitting on some bills, he's a man who once collected attractive half asian women and partied like the prince of Monaco when we had our hey day. Back then, he was keeping a residency at Provocateur nightclub and throwing late night turn ups at 95 Wall Street. A kindred spirit of team #nevasleep #turnup, I always nestled friendly affection for him. These days he was running around w this hot bitch, instagramming pics of his bank statement and driving a hideous white McLaren. Why u gotta b so TOOOOL.
Backstory concluded. Hot bitch, let's not be rude and call her "swerve", proposes after work drinks. Says it would be lovely to reunite. She leaves, I text, and no word from hot bitch and I take my ass home for some much needed&R. I take the contents of my fridge out to begin plating when Im blasted: "COME TO HARLOW!" - swerve. fuck. The deeds is done. I swap into higher heels, toss everything into a fuzzy clutch and I'm out da door.
I start with a glass of Cabernet, safe right? It will be short and a quick catch up with friends. The company they keep is always questionable- Clients? Friends? Colleagues? There are 6. It's the phantom instagram couple (Swerve and R), Swerve's Hot bitch #2 , two spotty bald eagles, and a real wolf of wall/Dracula/Don Draper type eyes me from across the table.
I'm talking to Swerve and she's sounding like she did cocaine for breakfast. Bitch telling me about their friendsgiving potluck, and looking around the table I'm not certain it's a company I'd like to keep over turkey and stuffing from God knows who's kitchen. She seems lost in the sauce, maybe she's drunk. Repeating herself. R is telling me about his business. Not quite sure still what he's doing- venture capitalist? How'd he get that McLaren? Some wolf of wall. I need to escape to the next and things are wrapping up here. R and Swerve leave me on a midtown corner outside the restaurant with Dracula and bald eagle. I realize the other mature gentleman who joined us is bald's driver? Things are still not adding up.
The boys are headed to Sapphires- an institution rested on bottle poppin, panty dropping and a sad excuse for NYC "respectable" strip club. One that you can mention over a meal and half get away with. But the Lordy knows it ain't Sunday the sabbath (they throw a party), so I can't show my face there. But the boys are committed to keeping me. Some reason they are committed to the Upper East? Who knows why. Only reason I go there is for the immaculate live jazz and groove at the Carisle hotel. I propose, and they follow suit. So I hop into a new Bugatti. I'm joking. It's better. Dracula is the one with the super fancy whip parked out in front of the restaurant. I will learn there is only 27 in New York right now, a Jaguar F type R with 600 horse power that came out the month prior. Between balancing his hamptons estate, sending the girls to school and funneling money, the man picks up homegirl and takes suggestions.
We arrive to Bemelmans and the cigarette crowd outside has me enthused. They are chic and fabulous. We enter through the lobby and have been transported to an old New York fete. Live jazz, a lively, mature crowd is buzzing in fabulous grandeur. They have the best gin gimlet I've had in the city and I'm dying to put a martini glass to my lips and blend into this party.
Nicole Kidman is sitting in the corner. I didn't notice her among the fabulosity of the room. I'm exactly where I want to be and over the bar nuts and gimlet, bald eagle and I commence an engaging business convo. He nods approvingly at the $100 tab for four drinks and exclaims, "great! Exactly what we want to charge" (he's opening up a venue nearby). I spy Paul McCartney in the corner. He's kissing cheeks next to me while I text my modern Marilyn girlfriend to quickly come, and order her a last-call Manhattan. Why is this place closing!? No one's heading home.
I'm mixing liquors. Wine, gin, now whiskey. I'm headed in the zone. A hottie scopes me out from across the way. He's with this pretty young thing but we can't keep our eyes off each other. They together? He pick her up? I'm trying to decode their conversation while keeping the bald eagle appeased. I nod my head as he talks my ear off, and meanwhile scribble my digits on my business card so I can discreetly slip it off as the crowd draws to the doors. McCartney exits, my Marilyn has arrived and it's our que. With no holds barred, I lead the group out the door and slip the sucker into this hottie's bewildered palms. I'm charged- it's thrilling! Back into the jag, and we are headed to my regular rooftop venue. Dracula has a two seater so baldy and Marilyn follow us in SUV with this long-haired old dude who I still don't know if he's the driver.
I'm poured endless coups of Cliquot and we top off the evening there, while I sneak into the closet to play this one Maroon 5 song endlessly. I'm the worst. I hate Maroon 5. It's turning me on. Why are they so good? This song has been stuck in my head for days. In drunk mode I probably went back and played that shit an honest 4 times Mind you, other people are drinking here. I spy a lady who was just at the Carisle, I guess we picked up some homies? She's come alone? On my way out she was the one holding the tray of Bar snacks in her hands, shoveling kettle chips into her mouth. Can't judge a woman as I excuse myself with Marilyn and gluttonous and debaucherous drunk feasting is my last, fuzzy memory.
#thirstythurs
MM