Gawker
When we got back from the Billy Joel concert on Saturday night, our rent-a-host Brenda was standing in the kitchen wearing only a towel. "Come on," she said, "there's this hot party that's going on at my friend Fred's house." To seal the deal, she said, "He's a lawyer." Well? "Um, okay," we said, "we'll follow you." No no, said Brenda: "I don't have a car. You have to drive me. Let me just change." Mere minutes later Brenda was in our room, wearing tight lime green leggings and a sheer belted tunic in a shade of turquoise reminiscent of nail salon signage. "Are you ready to go? It's going to be hot." We wondered if she meant 'Russell Simmons is going to be there' hot or '16-year-old girls smoking pot and 50-year-old guys trying to bone them' hot? After getting lost for 90 minutes, we found out!
Worst Party Ever
The party was north of the highway. That should have been our first sign that we weren't going to see anyone famous. In the car ride over, Brenda was telling us how she was so European and how she spoke 7 languages (Arabic, Portuguese, Japanese, Spanish, Italian, French and English). Also that her ex-boyfriend looked just like Bon Jovi. Jon Bon Jovi, we assumed.
At one point we pulled up to a different house crowded with cars. "Let's go here!" said Brenda. But I didn't want to miss Fred's, so we kept trudging onwards. When we finally found the house, we had to walk five minutes in pitch black with only the pulsating beat of house music to guide us. The house itself was quite large. In the living room there was a large folksy mural that said "Sanctuary." Underneath it, a couple of dudes sat on the couch, smoking a bowl. In the backyard, older couples humped each other on deck chairs and a DJ spun records off his Dell laptop.
Back inside, we scouted out the house. There were no books anywhere. Instead, we found an Emmy from the Martha Stewart show. Also a very pretty girl who wasn't wearing many clothes. "How old are you?" we asked. "Twenty-one," she said inaccurately. Her name was Gennylee and throughout the night, gentlemen in their middle ages would approach her, whispering something into her ear. Usually she'd just smile and walk off.
We headed into the backyard. Around the firepit in the back were a number of teens in various stages of stupor. Bobby, a kid from East Hampton, pointed us to the woods. "Check out the bed, man. It's crazy." We headed into the woods. He was right. Nestled in the pines, Fred the lawyer had built a gazebo with a canopy bed. A multi-colored fake fur blanket covered it and mosquito netting enclosed the love nest. We lay down. It felt bad.
Our guide Brenda came upon a 21-year-old kid in a t-shirt. "Oh my god," she whispered as the two of them headed upstairs, "he wants me to adjust his neck." Bored, we went down to the basement. It had that musty carpet smell. We saw a blue and white blur. It looked like it was humping. It was a pair of seersucker slacks, on a man, making Hamptons love to some poor girl.
We couldn't find Brenda and her boy. They weren't on the dance floor, where a East Hampton art dealer wore a t-shirt reading, "I fucked your girlfriend." He was dancing with Lu Berry, a swimsuit designer. Brenda wasn't in the gazebo bed, as it had since been occupied by another couple. Brenda wasn't smoking weed in the kitchen. Brenda wasn't doing coke in the bathroom.
Brenda did come out of a bedroom. "He offered me sex in exchange for a massage," she said. Did she cut that deal? She said she hadn't. We weren't sure we believed her.
