Messy Women; Knee Socks
Everyone, it seems, likes to talk bout sex, and the Karl Lagerfeld dinner, packed with glam models and 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 with the “seen-it-all” attitude that only 20-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.” O.K., sweetie.
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, an artist in his mid-30’s didn’t deny it strong 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, “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, I asked my most recent ex-boyfriend, Sam, a lawyer at a downtown firm, to accompany me. Sam was a good choice, because, No. 1, he was the only man I could get to go with me; No. 2, he’d already had experience with this kind of thing: A million years ago, he had gone to Plato’s Retreat. A strange woman came up to him and pulled out the 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? Although no one had been to a sex club, everyone at dinner firmly asserted that the club-goers 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, i.e., 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 covers popular culture gave us a last piece of advice. “It’s going to be pretty awful,” he warned, though he had never been to such a place himself. “Unless you take control. You’ve got to take control of the place. You’ve got to make it happen.”