scarily horny Sallie Tisdale, who in her yuppie-porn book, Talk Dirty to Me, enthuses about public, group sex: "This is a taboo in the truest sense of the word. . . . If sex clubs do what they aim to do, then a falling away will happen. Yes, as is feared, a crumbling of boundaries. . . . The center will not hold." I should have asked myself, What's fun about that?
But I had to see for myself. And so, on a recent Wednesday night, my calendar listed two events: 9:00 P.M ., dinner for the fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld, Bowery Bar; 11:30 P.M ., Le Trapeze sex club, East 27th Street.
MESSY WOMEN; KNEE SOCKS
Everyone, it seems, likes to talk about sex, and the Karl Lagerfeld dinner, packed with glam-models and expense-accounted fashion editors, was no exception. In fact, it got our end of the table worked up into a near frenzy.
One stunning young woman, with dark curly hair and the sort of Seen-It-All attitude that only twenty year olds can pull off claimed she liked to spend her time going to topless bars, but only "seedy ones like Billy's Topless" because the girls were "real."
Then everyone agreed that small breasts were better than fake breasts, and a survey was taken: Who, among the men at the table, had actually been with a woman who had silicone implants? While no one admitted it, one man, an artist
in his mid-thirties, didn't deny it strongly enough. "You've been there,"
accused another man, a cherub-faced and very successful hotelier, "and the worst thing is . . . you . . . liked . . . it."
"No, I didn't," the artist protested. "But I didn't mind it." Luckily, the first course arrived, and everyone filled up their wineglasses.
Next round: Are messy women better in bed? The hotelier had a theory.
"If you walk into a woman's apartment and nothing's out of place, you know she's not going to want to stay in bed all day and order in Chinese food and eat it in bed. She's going to make you get up and eat toast at the kitchen table."
I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, because I'm literally the messiest person in the world. And I probably have some old containers of General Tso's Special Chicken lying under my bed at this moment.
Unfortunately, all of it was eaten alone. So much for that theory.
Steaks were served. "The thing that really drives me crazy," said the artist, file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 12 of 156
"is when I see a woman wearing one of those tartan skirts and high knee socks. I can't work all day."
"No," countered the hotelier, "the worst thing is when you sort of follow a woman down the street and she turns around and she is as beautiful as you thought she was going to be. It represents everything you'll never have in your life."
The artist leaned forward. "I once stopped working for five years because of a woman," he said.
Silence. No one could top that.
The chocolate mousse arrived, and so did my date for Le Trapeze. Since Le Trapeze admits couples only—meaning a man and a woman—I had asked my most recent ex-date, Sam, an investment banker, to accompany me. Sam was a good choice because, number one, he was the only man I could get to go with me; number two, he'd already had experience with this kind of thing: A million years ago he had gone to Plato's Retreat. A strange woman had come up to him and
pulled out his unmentionable. His girlfriend, whose idea it had been to go there, ran screaming from the club.
The talk turned to the inevitable: What kind of people go to a sex club? I seemed to be the only one who didn't have a clue. Although no one had been to a sex club, everyone at dinner firmly asserted that the clubgoers would generally be "losers from New Jersey." Someone pointed out that going to a sex club is not the kind of thing you can just do, without a pretty good excuse, e.g. it's part of your job. This talk wasn't making me feel any better. I asked the waiter to bring me a shot of tequila.
Sam and I stood up to go. A writer who
But I had to see for myself. And so, on a recent Wednesday night, my calendar listed two events: 9:00 P.M ., dinner for the fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld, Bowery Bar; 11:30 P.M ., Le Trapeze sex club, East 27th Street.
MESSY WOMEN; KNEE SOCKS
Everyone, it seems, likes to talk about sex, and the Karl Lagerfeld dinner, packed with glam-models and expense-accounted fashion editors, was no exception. In fact, it got our end of the table worked up into a near frenzy.
One stunning young woman, with dark curly hair and the sort of Seen-It-All attitude that only twenty year olds can pull off claimed she liked to spend her time going to topless bars, but only "seedy ones like Billy's Topless" because the girls were "real."
Then everyone agreed that small breasts were better than fake breasts, and a survey was taken: Who, among the men at the table, had actually been with a woman who had silicone implants? While no one admitted it, one man, an artist
in his mid-thirties, didn't deny it strongly enough. "You've been there,"
accused another man, a cherub-faced and very successful hotelier, "and the worst thing is . . . you . . . liked . . . it."
"No, I didn't," the artist protested. "But I didn't mind it." Luckily, the first course arrived, and everyone filled up their wineglasses.
Next round: Are messy women better in bed? The hotelier had a theory.
"If you walk into a woman's apartment and nothing's out of place, you know she's not going to want to stay in bed all day and order in Chinese food and eat it in bed. She's going to make you get up and eat toast at the kitchen table."
I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, because I'm literally the messiest person in the world. And I probably have some old containers of General Tso's Special Chicken lying under my bed at this moment.
Unfortunately, all of it was eaten alone. So much for that theory.
Steaks were served. "The thing that really drives me crazy," said the artist, file://D:\Bushnell, Candace - Sex and the City.htm 2008.09.06.
Page 12 of 156
"is when I see a woman wearing one of those tartan skirts and high knee socks. I can't work all day."
"No," countered the hotelier, "the worst thing is when you sort of follow a woman down the street and she turns around and she is as beautiful as you thought she was going to be. It represents everything you'll never have in your life."
The artist leaned forward. "I once stopped working for five years because of a woman," he said.
Silence. No one could top that.
The chocolate mousse arrived, and so did my date for Le Trapeze. Since Le Trapeze admits couples only—meaning a man and a woman—I had asked my most recent ex-date, Sam, an investment banker, to accompany me. Sam was a good choice because, number one, he was the only man I could get to go with me; number two, he'd already had experience with this kind of thing: A million years ago he had gone to Plato's Retreat. A strange woman had come up to him and
pulled out his unmentionable. His girlfriend, whose idea it had been to go there, ran screaming from the club.
The talk turned to the inevitable: What kind of people go to a sex club? I seemed to be the only one who didn't have a clue. Although no one had been to a sex club, everyone at dinner firmly asserted that the clubgoers would generally be "losers from New Jersey." Someone pointed out that going to a sex club is not the kind of thing you can just do, without a pretty good excuse, e.g. it's part of your job. This talk wasn't making me feel any better. I asked the waiter to bring me a shot of tequila.
Sam and I stood up to go. A writer who
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