Here's the set-up.
Liz Taylor Jr. organized a surprise birthday dinner last Saturday for Surfer Girl. The ruse took place at Scores. Yes, Scores. Scandal. The one in West Chelsea.
We gathered. One of Surfer Girl's best girlfriends came in from the East End. As radical as she is, her girlfriend races motorcycles, is married with two kids, and appears to be the alpha-dog of her brood. And she looks like Angie Harmon's sister.
UK-Guy and Cute-Guy were on deck. Veddy Briddish accents and one-up-badinage. Lads.
It worked. Surfer Girl was surprised. And pissed off.
"I don't fucking like surprises!"
Scores' management told us to stop shooting photos. And since the bouncers were enormous, and sporting dreadful hair styles - imagine slicked-back versions of Fabio - in whose world does that work? Right. Scores - we ceased and desisted.
We had dinner in the back dining room. Who knew Score's had a dining room? But yes, a lot of options. A lot of options if you like steak. But for us, food was beside the point.
Sloan walked in and our jaws dropped. Well, mine did. A strange spark zoomed across the guys' eyes. Boing!
Sloan - her real name, of course - was a lithe, lovely young thing, who in another line of work, would have looked slender and perfectly proportioned. Not in this place. Not in this circumstance, no. Sloan had double-d fake breasts. She looked like Jessica Rabbit - come to life. UK-Guy lapped it up. In all ways. She confided that her real name was Jessica. Her other real name.
And so it went. All the while a blizzard outside.
Scores didn't take American Express. The guys blanched. I'm sure it had something to do with Eliot Spitzer's or some other investigation.
"You don't take a Black Amex?" UK-Guy asked Sloan.
"We used to. I'll bet we will again. Just not tonight." She was blithe, she added, "But you don't have a Titanium Amex?"
Talk about metaphorical castration. Or urban legend.
All I knew is that my debit card was going to groan. We would divide the check. Scores is designed to suck the cash out of anyone's wallet - regardless of what color your Amex is.
Back in the main room, Sloane gave Liz a lap dance, courtesy of UK-Guy. Surfer Girl was triple-lap-dancer-danced. That's a lot of junk. In your face.
I lost a single bout of arm wrestling to the motorcycle-racing hellcat-mama. My elbow hurts today.
When we decided to leave, the monster-bouncers escorted us, Goodfellas-style (now there's a surprise) through the kitchen, through the back of the club, out the rear door, and we dashed across the street, through the snow to Cain, where UK-Guy had table service waiting. Now he could wreak havoc all over his Black Amex.
This, after his descriptions of mad sexual antics in Australia. Think proximity to Thailand. Think insertable items. Okay, stop.
We took pictures. I am not posting them. Not this time. Use your imagination.
UK-Guy got jiggy with a baguette. Cute-Guy flashed a very long, pointed tongue. The hell-cat frenched Liz, I think.
We split around four a.m., and I knew I was burnt. Home, home, sleep.
Surfer Girl wrangled a limo, and the gang insisted on some joint on 24th Street.
Good. I jumped out at the light on Sixth Avenue, but not before I landed in the middle of a fender-bender altercation between a yellow cab driver and smallish-fellow driving a big, black SUV. The SUV had skid through the snow into the backside of the cab, denting the bumper. The SUV driver's girl was screaming. Everyone had accents. I phoned 911. Maybe a cop would drive by in a few hours.
Somehow, the taxi driver had the SUV driver's credit card. Yep, a Black Amex.
I turned and walked the one block home, shaking my head.
Everyone would be digging out later in the day. Everyone.
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