UrbanWire

Not being the most avid of drinkers, I wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of a wild night of decadence, despite a free flow of 42 Below vodka, touted by the UK’s Independent as the world’s purest. Well, at least there were models clad in lace and satin to look forward to. I know, I know, I’m privileged.

The wait for our turn to check ourselves in at Bar None seemed to take forever. After all, the line threatened to spill into Marriott’s lobby. Finally, it was our turn. I identified myself and horror of horrors, my name was nowhere to be found. The dude at the desk had left me out of the guest list.

Panic pangs wracked me, compounding the embarrassment that was rapidly overwhelming me. What was I to do now? It didn’t help that everyone else seemed at least 10 years older. My cheeks were turning claret red, even before I started downing any drinks. Rubbing it in, a friend could not resist saying, “Man, you look like some underage kid who just got bounced out.”

I didn’t head all the way down just to be turned away and humiliated. I made some calls and was told to inform the organisers that I represented UrbanWire.com, which I did.

We’re in! A brief apology and chiding from the organisers for not identifying myself clearly earlier on saw us past the burly dark-suited bouncers, through the large wooden doors and into sin.

Known for its older, more distinguished crowd, Bar None was indeed crawling, quite literally, with older folks. Human traffic was reduced to a snail-pace; the place was filled, if you allow me, like a shot glass, to its brim. Moving around was tough, getting from one end of the bar to the other took us no less than 3 minutes. To top that, having large squishy masses plaster themselves against you as you struggle to move forward isn’t the most pleasurable of sensations. The occasional yelping of people having their toes spiked by stilettos sure complemented the music.

My boozer friends made a beeline for the bar counter, I trailed behind. As you would imagine, it was swarming with drinkers, ladies and gents alike. Straddling on bar stools or standing, sipping their 42 Below vodka or propping their alcohol-heavy heads over the shoulders of their lady friends, were 30,40-somethings executive sorts with their glasses, ashtrays and Vuitton totes littering the bar top with a cornucopia of dazzling colours. The speed the glasses changed hands was frightening. People were gulping down their glasses of violet, orange and brown concoctions, emptying them faster than the bartenders could fill them. Debauchery. I was constantly reminded of how infantile I looked, against the backdrop of oldies.
A group of middle-aged ladies, caked make-up, reddened faces and slurry got our little company drinks. Thanks. I declined politely. But their egging proved overwhelming and soon my mates were downing shots and drinks, I sipped, albeit agonisingly. Yes, I’m male, but I abhor the putrid taste of alcohol. The DJ paused his deck and shouted into the mike, snapping me out of my thoughts. It was show time. Blush! Someone behind me mentioned that Rachel Lee of An Eye For A Guy infamy would be among the models, sparking a flurry of excited whispers. The lights above the stage burst on, and the music resumed. Many a hot-blooded male and an occasional female clambered onto any available platform of elevation, bar tops, tables, stools and even the backs of sofas, hoping to get a better view. They were rather precariously positioned, being pumped full of vodka, swaying from side to side.

Rachel led the Blush! show with a couple of other models, strutting across the catwalk, pirouetting in their slinky satin and scant lace. Father, I have a confession to make, for I have sinned. Diamante numbers, thongs and corsets, the testosterone levels in the room must have sky-rocketed. In my dazed stupor, I could have sworn I saw some ladies yanking, yes yanking their partner’s ears. The price you pay for ogling. But it’s well worth the little suffering, isn’t it?

Blush! and 42 Below sure know how to throw a party and they meant it when they said we were in for a night of downright filth and profligacy. Well, this doesn’t happen too often, so as long as it isn’t in excess, it isn’t so bad, right? But for now, I’m a young Sybarite, for the night.