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That night I went to a party at a killer loft in Chelsea. It was a scene, to be sure. Fashion people, mostly, kids with great clothes and lives that are very different than mine. One of the hostesses wore a black slip dress that was low cut in the back and hung loose on the sides. We saw the sides of her breasts all night, and at one point she revealed star-shaped, glittered pasties covering her nipples.
I ended up talking with a friend-of-a-friend's girlfriend who, as it turns out, works at W (she was also quite beautiful and wore the perfect shade of red lipstick). I mentioned my coincidence, and not only did she now it, she helped pull clothes for the shoot. Another lovely, W-related New York moment.
The night continued as parties like that must, slowly unraveling to an inevitable crescendo. In this case, somewhere north of two, someone broke the pedestal sink in one of the bathrooms. There it was, the toppled basin on the floor, cracked porcelain strewn about and pipes exposed. No spewing water though. I wish I had a picture.
So it was a crazy night. It ended, though, on a nice note. Around three or so, I had a compelling conversation with a late-arriving guest, one markedly lucid and thoughtful given the hour. He was older (shockingly so, it turned out) and was there with his boyfriend (of course), but we had a great conversation about media, print journalism and New York vs. everywhere else. It was unexpectedly mature and provoking and pleasant given that this was a party where people broke sinks.
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