It was the first purely social gathering of the NYC Perverts’ Saloon since that seminal affair in February, and though we were missing a few esteemed colleagues, several of us braved the rain to converge upon a little Japanese restaurant in Midtown. Our merry band of revelers included Selina Fire, Viviane, Chelsea Girl (who brought her Pretty Dumb Things and her boyfriend Donny), myself, Leslie and Peggy. Donny, who looked younger than I’d imagined, seemed amiable enough, even if he was perhaps a little wigged out by we perverts and our constant talk of sex and politics.
Viviane and Chelsea Girl insisted I sit between them. This was a mistake: throughout dinner I found myself distracted by the heaving bosoms to my left and right. It certainly didn’t help when Chelsea Girl proudly proclaimed her bralessness, nor when Viviane hovered over my lap trying to get a snapshot of my LED belt buckle (set to advertise NLP, natch).
You know you’ve been in New York a long time when every goddamned place conjures a memory. After dinner we walked to our destination and when the doorman ushered us inside it hit me that we were standing in what used to be Float. It was the place where I’d first been offered cocaine, a key loaded with white powder shoved under my nose before I could wave it off; the place where I, penniless and drunk, somehow finagled my way into the double VIP room; the place where, in that same room, I’d seen a patron relieving himself upon the upholstery. The decor of what had once been a Mecca of after-hours nightlife hadn’t been touched since the last millennium. It was like running into a pretty girl you used to shag and discovering she’s turned into a haggard crack whore.
This was, in other words, the perfect venue for a porno party.
(more…)
