“Yo did you see that?”
“What was it?”
“The bunny rabbit…”
“Nigga we in Pacha are you trippi…?”
“Nah, nah, look at that blond in the blue dress hopping around the club with all those dude just, just chasing after her…”
“Oh my God they are falling over each other trying to keep up with her…”
“Yo that’s why you pop bottles and buy drugs in the club, for that… Niggas go bald for that.”
A slightly embellished conversation between Dances with White Girls and myself. Pacha NYC.
I was too wasted to remember “Playboy Bunny” so I called her a bunny rabbit. She must have been a good 5’9, and with heels that made it her super model tall. Her hair was platinum blonde that glowed under the neon lights and bounced with her every step like her shoulders were trampolines. Her face was of a 15-year-old girl and a body of a porn star neglected by her father. Not like the ones that silicone up and do Gonzo porn because it doesn’t require a script for reading but like the ones with natural bodies and cancer free tans with huge Vivid Video contracts. She exuded sex. Her lips said “less talk” while her body said “fuck the shit out of me” and yet her actions where as innocent as a child flirting with daisies. See how that messes with your train of thought? That’s exactly what the men embarrassingly stumbling over themselves to be near this woman looked like to me. She would pull off from one corner of the mega club like the last train out of Paris and all of these random men were holding on for dear life, some falling off to an uncertain death on the dance floor. She couldn’t have been that hot, these mushrooms must be on dust or some other drug.
But she was.
Her dress was electric blue, very tight and elegant. Her jewelry looked straight out of the Harry Winston Barbie doll collection. Her shoes looked like she wore them at a prom in Las Vegas or Beverly Hills. Her skin was a glazed porcelain, far from pale and comfortably tan. If someone had told me before hand that she was completely sober I would have believed it. This was the high that popular kids feel in secondary school before they start trying drugs. She didn’t even carry a clutch. No cell phone or credit card just men auditioning for a spot in Madonna’s Material Girl video. I couldn’t even tell if she was there with anyone, just a flock of men trying to dry hump every single inch of her perfect body. She didn’t care; she just danced and giggled, sounding like what I would imagine Paris Hilton would sound like on helium but without all the annoying. She was a walking champagne bottle in the middle of an alcoholic marathon.
The men looked sketchy in comparison to her 3am sunshine. Armenian men with slicked back hair and elaborate watches with black crocodile leather bands and little Vinnys from the Jersey Shore in their first button down shirt. A mix of European driver shoes and those unsightly sneakers that Diesel made for club goers not ready to switch their dress code followed the ripped American Eagle jeans and the Calvin Klein slacks that wanted to be found on her bedroom floor. While one man would pull out his black American Express card to pay for a bottle the other one would snatch her to the dance floor where an auditorium of men awaited to gyrate with her. The men not confident enough to approach her shyly adjusted their boners while wilting in pain from blue balls. No one even tried to talk to her. Everything was a grunt or moan for her attention. The information these men needed was immediate and didn’t require the speed bump of conversation. It was the touch of her skin they spent every day of their lives working for and the pressure of their hard cocks bulging in their pants pressing against perfectly round ass is what they showered and wore cologne for. The feel of her youthfully perky breast against their sweaty pit stained shirts and the sensation of her fingers bear trapped in their jealous hands. The more one man spent at the bar to get her attention the more the other danced or showed off his steroid perfect body. She just danced, oblivious to the violent courtship that orbited her celestial self.
“yo I got go talk to her…”
I needed to see this for myself. What could possibly reduce a man back to the animal kingdom, where survival is as basic as eat, fight, and fuck? I left Frog at our usual spot on the dance floor at Pacha, underneath the 2nd floor balcony where all the Chinese ecstasy addicts hang out, in the middle of his old man dance. I followed the trail left by the bunny’s glowing blue dress through the crowd of New Jersey Guido’s and midtown real estate agents. DJ Erick Morrillo’s big room house music set has the crowd pulsating like an erratic heartbeat. The closer I got to her the highs and mid ranges from the music drowned out leaving me with nothing but life flooding bass. Then the bass started to filter out as I licked my lips contemplating what my first words were going to be to be. Everything was a sonic mumble. Would she even talk to me when she has an entourage of The Situations and Tom Fords surrounding her? Me? 5’9 on a good posture day wearing nothing but my thrift store finest? I doubted if she even used the same tooth-brush twice and here I am, smelling like Beacons Closet, a ratty second-hand store from Brooklyn.
Then the mushrooms started to peek.
After successfully using club security as a football tackle to lose the parade of testosterone following her, the bunny leans against the back of a speaker using its shadow as a cover. I have now been following her around the club for 15 awkward minutes, every breath as heavy as the 808 kicks coming from Erick Morillo’s CDJ’s. I had just gone from investigated reporter to card-carrying creep. Every time common sense told me to walk away the euphoria threatened to murder me if I did. Every man has their “The worst she can say is no moment” and this was mine. Suddenly everything around me lost shape and turned into an array of pastel colors. I was in the middle of a mushroom/ bass reaction. I took another deep breath in an attempt to grasp on to the world I felt slipping away. God damn these mushrooms are good. By the time I exhaled I was standing right next to her.
“How exhausting is it to be you?”
“Well all of those men chasing you around the entire club, I’ve never seen nothing like that…”
“I know right? Is it always like this in New York? So much fun!”
“I’m just here for the weekend it’s my first time in the big city. I’m a ballet dancer from a town outside of Seattle and I rarely go out. These guys are sooooooo crazy right? I just love dancing and everyone …”
“Huh? Did you just call that dancing?”
The bunny was really a bunny, a bunny that just fell into Alice In Wonderland’s rabbit hole. Her accent had a drawl that you would only find on the cutting room floor of a Dolly Parton movie. Her breath smelled like fresh-baked pie and her fingers looked like they wrote thank you notes to her grandparents and voted with her heart. Her eyes were blue and wide and as magnetic as a black hole. Her eroticism didn’t come from sex but from her unadulterated optimism and genuine belief in people. People still live like that outside of New York?? In her mind the perverted bottle service and Ed Hardy zombies that kept trying to rape a hole in her satin fabric where just being friendly; expected night club behavior like she saw on reality TV shows. She didn’t know what to wear for her big night in the city so she borrowed a friend’s prom outfit down to the tiara her male friend was holding for her. The only thing his suit was missing was a bow tie and the theme song from Green Acres. He hands her a bottle of water, I take whatever I was going to offer her and slip it back into the tiny sin pocket on my Levis.
“So you’re from Brooklyn huh? Tell me alllllll about it!”
“No well, I live there now but I was born and raised in Harlem and…”
Everything I told her fascinated her. She leaned into me and did that thing with her hair that blondes do when they are Farrah Fawcett hot, only this girl was young enough to not know who Farrah Fawcett was. To nightlife vampires she was the holy grail of day walkers, an American Dream in every sense of the word. I started to feel guilty. I went from Nosferatu to Edward from Twilight and she was my night club Bella of the moment. Every question I answered returned with another question. Her attention made me feel like the nerd who won his dream girl in the middle of a cage match against all of her jock ex-boyfriends, before the match starts. Between that and her attentive eyes my ego elevator took me from penthouse to basement and back with no care for what the g-force was doing to my stomach. Great, I’m going to have to fight my way out of this breakfast club like it’s a suburban school parking lot. She takes my phone, puts her number in, thanks me for being such a sweetheart, and vanishes into the neon lights and fog machine smoke. Some random dude purposely bumps me with his shoulder on his way to follow her, knocking over my drink. I’m too hypnotized, confused and dumbfounded to care. The music filters back in and the mids and highs from Morillos DJ set come rushing back into my ear like a tsunami. Oh shit I’m still at Pacha.
I skip through a bunch of sweaty weekend warriors in crop tops and tank tops in order to get back to where I left Frog. Without hesitation, I shove my brightly lit cell phone in his face. Frog and I have had this unspoken competition since back when I first met him at Morrissey Park and we both had on the same exclusive Nike’s sneakers on in different color ways. Needless to say ever since his “anal sex with a midget in an oven” story I was trailing far behind in exploits. This coup, the hottest girl in Pacha, was sure to even the playing field.
“I GOT THE BUNNYS NUMBER!”
“Yo you got the bunny’s number??”
We laugh and he throws a fist in the air as an exclamation point as to how excited he was for me. But, this is Frog; although he’s never mentioned it I’m pretty sure he’s aware of the competitive nature of our friendship. He places a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from bouncing around like a lottery winner and goes:
“So what are you gonna do with that? You do know you live with your girlfriend right?”
Fuck, the bunny made me forget I lived with my girlfriend. Back to the drawing board and quietly hating my best friend.
(This is the video Team Facelift was filming when I took all the above pictures. Enjoy.)