Fast Forward New York: Gotta Say It Was a Good Day

If you were paying attention last week, you'll recall that I got stood up by my potential Friday evening love interest and was forced to fly wingman to my buddy Buddy as he attempted to deflower one or more females from his postgraduate institution. Whether or not I joined in on that quest isn't the point; actually, there is no point, other than to segue into this scene: I'm sitting at my desk on a Friday morning, not working (but appearing to work- I click my mouse violently on occasion to signal frustration with my imaginary task), minding my own business as I scan ESPN.com, when my Friday night date cancels on me again via email. This is a different girl, and a new old story (not feeling well), but the same rotten feeling.

Typical male logic presents two options:

A) Get extraordinarily drunk, identify one or more loose women while out on the prowl, and try to schedule an appointment at the free clinic for later next week; or
B) Instead try to schedule a last minute meet with someone else of at least semi-legitimate interest, in this case the subject of my rejection the week prior.

Already quite adept at option A, I settled on sending a missive to Miss Fabulous, a fashion designer, world traveler, and absolutely smoking hottie. In fact, should she make out with me at some point, it would qualify as the hottest mouth I've ever inserted my tongue into. (I haven't mentioned this to her, of course.) She responded that she couldn't go out with me directly, as she works one or two nights a week at a club in Chelsea; however, if I were so inclined, I could stop by the club and she could take a break and hang out with me for awhile.

Of course I could do that. This smelled like major brownie points for me. But I'd need some wingpeople to help me out- that much is certain.

I met Andy at Pete's Tavern around midnight to have a beer or three; Tiger and the GF Muggsy would join soon after. I chose Pete's not because of the history (opened 1864) or the ambiance (it's just a pub) or the beer (pretty standard selection with a bent toward the Irish) or the sociability (it can sometimes get way too crowded), but because it was reasonable walking distance to the ultimate destination, which I'll save as a surprise. Nevertheless, the history is cool, the ambiance is friendly, the Guinness is a solid pour, and the place was pleasantly buzzing without being difficult to navigate as I met my three friends. Of course, they wanted the lowdown on how I stumbled into this phone number, and I was more than happy to oblige. I explained that I met Miss Fabulous at a friend's party, and (inexpicably) instead of asking for her number, I instructed her to find me via Facebook. The following Wednesday, she did, explaining that she delayed only because she "didn't want to appear too anxious." "She digs you!" shouted Andy, with a shade more incredulity than I thought was necessary. Nevertheless, I could not fault his logic; despite the prior week's no-show, it appeared that yes, she dug me.

After perhaps one too many beers we began the walk over to Duvet. Yes, that Duvet. I'd never been there but was aware of the reputation, and Miss Fabulous was sure to warn me beforehand: "...it happens to be the most popular nightclub in the city, if you are Mexican and on welfare." I thought that this was just a joke initially, but as I approached the door I stopped laughing: the line outside appeared to be low-ranking gang members and single-mother hookers. (Yikes.) We were waved right in, of course, in retrospect much too quickly; I would later remark to Miss Fabulous that normally when I approach a place with a line and am accompanied by more dude than chick, I have a little trouble. Not so here: just a pat-down for weapons by a woman with a mustache and a twenty to the door. I could tell I was gonna love this place.

The hook for Duvet would appear to be the beds; instead of tables or booths throughout the 20,000 square foot two-level space, they have custom beds with foam "mattresses" set throughout for bottle service and the like. Another cool feature is the one-way-mirrored unisex bathroom, which would be more functional and architecturally interesting if the light effects were coordinated with the mirroring; as it is, it's just creepy as you watch someone walk up to your stall and try and open the door as you hope to (the Christian) God that you locked that door well as you're taking a crap. (Not that I took a crap there. I'm just sayin'.) Back on the main floor, there's an expansive dance floor whose populace appears likely to erupt in spontaneous gunfire or orgy, or both; and oversized, rectangular bar is fashioned out of some underlit cracked-ice lucite that looks extraordinarily cheap. Of course, the drinks are overpriced and watered-down.

I could tell my crew was uncomfortable. Duvet is not our scene. The onus was on me: buy the beers and find the girl. So I bought the beers. She found us, walking as if on a cloud of air. Tiger and Andy's eyes lit up as she approached.

"Is that her?!" Again, a bit too much incredulity, there, Tiger.

Yes, guys. Down.

She escorted us back to a bed, and Andy remarked that he was amazed that a place like this would use so much blacklight given the likelihood of protein stains on the sheets. I shook my head and laughed, as Miss Fabulous laughed, and then I looked more closely at the beds to confirm or disconfirm Andy's "joke." The surreality of my situation was starting to sink in: on a pseudo-date with a girl well out of my established league accompanied by my jackass buddies with only Muggsy as a mediator to keep them in line while I caroused around a night club that has a death toll. I wasn't sure how to feel about this. Also oddly, she's not a waitress, really; she "works" bottle service, meaning she brings out bottles and mixers and is paid to hang out with crowds and look hot. She does this rather well, I'd say- Again, I'm not sure how I feel about this. I do like how it looks, though.

Since she had no real work to do, she was able to entertain me for over an hour, telling me about the times she got attacked by women in the club and how she's only doing this for a few more months; I made a few dumb remarks and made her laugh a few times. We separated from the group fairly quickly and made our way to our own bed to chat until she had to close down. Of course, little tangible headway would be made on this night, as Miss Fabulous did of course have to work a little. So a bit after 3am I said my goodbye and navigated the protoplasm to the exit, largely unscathed. As for Andy and Tiger, they were ejected for smoking cigarettes inside fifteen minutes of sitting down. Muggsy notified us of the "bad news"; Miss Fabulous tried to go off to rescue them (because she's got the juice) but Muggsy stopped her.

Yeah, they did that on purpose. It's good to have buddies you can count on.

Until next time...

Pete's Tavern