For serious. Who are these Saudis that pick you up on the corner of 17th and 10th and merely whisk you away from the club?? All I wanted was a god damn slice of artichoke pizza and to my non-recollection I'm banging on the pizzeria doors in a complete and shameless rock-bottom public display. Next thing I know, I'm browning in and out: to an iHop bathroom with this man- I'm bumbling about, asking for food, practically begging for it, and wanting to be taken home.
I started the night at this Cuban inspired speak easy in the East Village. An atypical commencement to my Monday turn up, but I meeting a different kinda crowd. I entered the premesis and seated myself in the circle of these yuppie, good looking young professionals spending their money on boug-ed up mezcal, and I couldn't help but wonder-is this how basic bitches start their evenings? The place was sceney and vibey and cool but it lacked that edge- can I describe it? Exclusivity? Everything was all too accessible and it felt all too- yes #plebian. Like, "we all went to like some liberal arts school or alternatively some shitty fashion/ design/ art college in NYC and now we're here". Yay. Moving on...
We proceeded to Miss Lily's supper club where the vibe got realer, the drinks got stronger, the lights dimmer and the music louder. Between a strong pitcher of Casamigos and watermelon, I found myself having a run-in with the Gotham awards winners and a table away from old Scar Jo and an Olsen.
A bummed puff of a cig, a tab I'm coaxed into splitting- "for the b day girl!?!?" -UHM fuck-off I don't pay for things, *amex handed over, cracks fake smile*, and I take that shit to meatpacking where Aveune nightclub becomes a war zone on my path to self destruction.
A beef empanada or two and a few plantain chips didn't hold a candle to the slosh of cachaca, tequila, champagne and Don Julio I had comin at me. I proceed to make my way to my throne at the service bar, where I post up in natural form with the GM. However in horrifying ritual I'm always escapingly bewildered/ completely unsurprised at the amount of people and tables and whoeverthierfaces I know when I step into a meat packing club. Do these people live here??? Carve out a home?? #fuckme It's dirty and criminal and all too fun. I kiss cheeks and rub elbows w him and her, and that promoter and this animal and what not, making my way to my designated post at the service bar. The conversation: "Art Basel this" "Art Basel that" "you going??" "Private jet??" "Duh, I'm taking you!!" "See you there" *numbers exchanged* "oh you didn't get my NEW cell" "iPhone 6" "blah blah conversation puke" "shots" "weeee".
I fight the Orcs off like the battle of Helms Deep until I find refuge and respite and a fresh glass of non-promoter "champagne" with the man running the operations. I'm schmoozing and boozing and going in hard. I recall a moment where I'm in the back office- why? all the sudden I'm back in the mix of things and I've lost everything and everyone. #ideal
I guess that's where Saudi took t(his) opportunistic turn of events to literally scoop me up. Not sure how we got to iHop but yes that happened. I also discovered how devout Islamic Saudis can circumvent the Karan and still turn the fuck up- maybe they can't drink but cocaine sure wasn't invented when that shit was published! (shocked face/ monkey face emoji insert)
So we are in the bathroom together, where I believe extremely questionable and legitimately non-remembered experiences were engaged in. I hope I didn't touch that crap- (im referring to the drugs) and in greater seriousness I hope he didn't touch me, Crap!
I'm led out of there by my arm. And I'm sure I looked like a rag doll being puppeteered through human motions. Thoughts: "I thought we were going to cafeteria? Where's my food? Why TF didn't we eat at iHop? I need to be home now, I'm literally too fucking hammered to function"
Scene change. I'm in this private vehicle sitting passenger seat and this hot young good looking Saudi is driving. Where youuu been???? Meanwhile we have the stout leader of the pack sitting backseat like a child. I can't recall at what point he stuffed bills into my pocket, or perhaps the one thing I do remember being exchanged - him offering me 2k for the night. Disgusted and alcohol induced nausea, I'm dropped home and somehow, I imagine myself like a helpless plastic bag in the wind, drift my sorry ass in to the back service entrance of a midtown side street and kick off my top shop heels to the princess bed for some beauty sleep. Yes, clothes and body chain still on.
#6AM