Being otherwise detained last evening and unable to attend, we found the only assholes in New York who weren't participating in the greatest spectator of all time, i.e. PocketChangeNYC's Speed Date II, for "Sugar Mamas and Boy Toys"...and sent them to watch. This is their recap.
The evening started off as any other, 4 guys tenting for some poon - what was different was what we were after. The patina of time had rendered this particular target as soft as cordovan and the flavor as intense as Peter Lugers finest prime. Tonight was going to be glorious, not easy, but glorious nonetheless. As any successful hunter knows, the lure has to be tailored to match the prey - in this case, we were armed with a near encyclopedic knowledge of the contemporary art scene, latest Palm Beach fashions, and the bat-phone numbers of the best cosmetic artists in the city. Or so we thought.
Walking up to 230 5th avenue Thursday night brought back feelings of douchebagginess that I hadn't felt since the last time I was there. The anticipation of walking into the tacky lions den (literally, there is a large feral feline soon as you exit the elevator) made us a bit weary, but the greater purpose of the night urged us on. We were escorted through the lobby and after the requisite id check, we casually mentioned we were there for the PocketChange event and were briskly led to a special elevator. Walking out, we were not greeted by the requisite mounted cat but by real-live cougars who immediately noticed the stud-factor of the room go up the instant our pheromone-filled elevator expelled its contents. As the room behind the reception table was quite dark, all we could see was young boys' desires reflecting off their vertically-slit eyes.
Clearly we had no business being there. I thought Jeremy, the proprietor of PocketChange, was going to be like that guy Steven from Top Chef-- gigantic tie-wearing, wine knowledge-faking, punch-me-in-the-face-grinning, etc, etc, etc,-- but he was actually normal. Just another eloquent, well dressed kid trying to avoid real work. I craned my neck around the table so I could spot our boy Tanner, but the sea of local camera crews and bouncy interns was too thick to properly spot anyone. After some haggling and Bess Levin name-dropping we were set free on the crowd but as we arrived late to the event we missed most of the genuine love connections. What was left was an open bar, belly-busters, and samosas that my fat friend said were delicious. Back to Tanner. While chatting with Jeremy I asked where I could find the stud but he said he didn't make the cut. Shocked and dismayed, with our guts no longer full of fluttering anticipation of meeting a sugar momma OR, more importantly, Tanner the Towel Boy, we got out of there and walked our lonely boners home. Sorry little guy, maybe next time.