From top, left: Amanda Lepore, Duo Raw, Vasa, Marco Ovando, Laura Devotion, Avi Vichner and pups
There are those evenings where the event you’re going to is especially chic and fun and you think “Tonight I’m just going to relax, have a few glasses rosé, and not get sucked into anything too insane.” And then, of course, life happens, as it always does, and your night takes a very different turn.
My recollections aren’t very clear, but are as such: The Monocle Sundays, Patrick Duffy and Brandon Voss’ new early evening rooftop soiree at Sleep No More (the city’s hottest haunted hotel). Muscle boys and drag queens sipping champagne against overgrown shrubbery as the sun sets over the city. Juicy gogo boys in skimpy Victorian garb undulate to the music. Amanda Lepore throws her head back and laughs and I take the time to appreciate her beautiful neck (a part of her I believe many people don’t take the time to appreciate, distracted by her other more prominent attributes). Matthew Camp shows me his pubes. The most beautiful (and bossiest) woman in the world, Laura Devotion, takes me over to photographer Marco Ovando’s booth, tucked away under the privacy of sprawling ivy. He is sitting on what is essentially a puppy pile of muscle boys, dicks wagging in their designer sweats. He is the King of New York. There is talk of cerebral palsy. I do something stupid (ahem). Somehow it’s already midnight and they’re shutting down. I end up at Greenhouse. It’s boring, so glamour girl Mischa G whisks me over to Sway. It is the best place I have ever been. All I have ever wanted in this life is to be in a room decorated with Turkish tiles, filled with hip hop moguls, accessorized in Gucci sunglasses and bottles of Veuve, singing along to The Smiths and Jay Z. Bliss. A man puts a key to my nose. Then his friend repeats this action. Somehow I’m back at Greenhouse dancing to Rihanna while I grind my teeth. Cute. The puppy pile has reconvened in the VIP room. I can’t recall humping any of them, but I’m sure I must have. I am dragged to the smoking patio and the security guard yells at me for bringing my drink outside. I don’t even have a drink. I look at the sign for the Holland tunnel and then I stare at a beautiful woman. That’s the last thing I remember.
And then it’s off to work at 8 AM. Because underneath this tranny disaster exterior lies Mary Tyler Moore. Seriously.
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