Summoned to the posh St. Regis hotel on E. 55th St.,
Words by: DUNCAN QUINN
My own personal Agent Provocatrice for the evening quite loved it. I wasn’t so sure about her penchant for gangsta rap at Spinal Tap volume levels, but as all gentlemen rogues know only too well, there are occasionally things you let slide when the end result is a win.
After consuming a more than fair amount of fine champagne it became necessary to tender my keys to the omnipresent keymaster, and we moved along for the evening to a sumptuous dinner and amusing repartée at BLT Steak. A carnivore’s delight ensued washed down with a glass or two of medicinal Côte-Rôtie.
Somehow this evening that began so quietly grew into a raging storm, and after a quiet word in the ear of Noah Tepperberg (the guru of all things that occur when the sun has set in Gotham city and beyond), we found ourselves surrounded by gyrating young sirens. Not to mention a rather large contingent of chaps who looked as if they’d wandered past the gangplank to their Wally one dark and stormy night and ended up marooned in New York City.
What better place to dissect the finer points of the evening’s fashion choices? After all, there may not be much to them, but racy undies can be just as much fun as racy cars….
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