Pink Elephant Discoveries & What I Want in Men

The gloom, rain, lightening, and summer thunder did not keep people away from Pink Elephant last night, hands down my favorite douchette location in New York. My excuse for attending this time around is that Bartok is visiting, and Pink is a good luck place for us. We’ve never had a bad, let alone mediocre, night there. I think it’s all the crazy Euros who feed our Italy nostalgia with their colored shirts, tight pants, and hands enthusiastically in the air. They also give the place this unmistakable energy. If you’re fortunate enough to have a table where you can remain on the banquettes and never actually enter the club’s crowd or dance floor except to occasionally venture to the ladies room, it’s really an enjoyable time – assuming you:
a) Like house music
b) Don’t mind the siren noise, occasional cold blasts of air, confetti, and fog machine
c) Don’t mind half the people you meet being French
d) Don’t mind the other half of the people you meet to being metrosexual and,
e) Don’t mind being ripped off.

As an ashamedly frequent Pink Elephant attendee and a borderline club addict in general, I thought I had seen it all. Well, last night, I encountered not one but, TWO new phenomena. I think it was my father who said that “life is a constant learning experience.” How right he was. Last night I learned
1) That men can look sexy in headbands (something I never thought feasible) and
2) You can actually buy a $6,000 bottle of champagne that’s larger than a twelve-year-old in New York establishments. I’d only seen them as decorations at Nikki Beach, and didn’t think they existed for purchase in real life.

Humor me as I delve into these two discoveries.

Headband Boy I spotted instantly in the crowd since he was a head taller than everyone else and wearing white. Nothing says “look at me” in a club like the color white. Now as I indulge in writing about this, ya’ll are going to learn a little about what my type of guy is.

Note: Girls who say they don’t have a type are lying.

So here goes nothing…Model Behavior tends to aim for these basic characteristics in the opposite sex. I realized after compiling this list, that I described all the basic characteristics of a Guido. I’m humiliated, but please, try to think of the qualities below in an “Italian Royal Family” light not the “E-ed Out Sleezo From Long Island” light.

1) Tall. This is often a challenge since I myself, am rather tall. I like two to three inches taller than me, anything more is unacceptable. What can say? I’m used to looking down on people. Super tall people freak me out.

2) Big shoulders and nice wrists. Big shoulders is no surprise. Apparently all women are attracted to men with a sturdy frame because it meant they could more effectively club wild boars and similar menaces to death to protect and feed us in the cavemen days. Wrists are just my psychotic thing that I developed a fettish with at the barely sexual age of eleven. I like them square and sturdy. A great watch is a plus – it means my prospect might actually care about being on time.

3) Longish hair. Note the “ish.” Hair longer than mine is unacceptable. Actually, hair past the shoulders is unacceptable. As is hair that looks like a woodland creatures home. Visible gel or product of any kind is grounds for elimination. I’m looking for that thick, slightly wavy, longish hair that doesn’t make a man look effeminate but that’s long enough for me to properly grip when we’re in the throes of passion. Get it, already?

4) Dark everything. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark – well, okay – olive skin. That Mediterranean skin. Cut me some slack. I did pass my most formative sexual years in Italy. I don’t like blondes because well, in my experience there’s only room for one blonde in a relationship – and that would be ME. I’m also not a fan of light eyes. They’re cold, cruel, and unnecessarily bright. I want warm, chocolate-like eyes. Green are tolerable. Blue absolutely not.

5) Well dressed in casual clothes. What does this mean? That my prospect knows how to put himself together with a sense of style other than dress shirt and suit. I want form-fitting t-shirts. Jeans that give me a sense of what your ass looks like. Cute jackets and sneakers. Basically, a gay man that’s not gay.

So now that you’re all heartily chuckling after my pathetic Italian stallion description of what I’m sexually attracted to, let me move on to say that Headband Boy possessed all these qualities – with perhaps the most important, unmentioned one of all; Charisma. Let me make it clear that I never spoke to him. No, I was having much more fun gazing at him from post on the elevated banquette, much as I imagine Goddesses like Venus looked down upon their half-mortal children like Aeneas. I watched him scamper around, and especially in observing his interaction with other men, I could see it: the charisma. In watching two men interact with each other, one-on-one, I feel I can tell which one’s the “dominant” figure between the two. It’s extremely subtle, yet somehow instinctually obvious at the same time. It’s a fun game to play ladies, as well. (Men I’m sure you can play it on us, although I think your guys version of the game goes something more like ‘which woman is more fertile’ which usually boils down which girl has bigger gazongas). Anyway, it’s highly entraining and kinda like the Discovery Channel – two male lions fight over a wilder beast – in a low-key human setting. If the club had morphed away and Headband Boy had to ape-wrestle whoever he was talking to that night, he’d inevitably be the winner. I could actually picture him victoriously romping around with the winning piece of bloody animal meat clenched between his gums. I know you all think this sounds UNsexy, but oddly enough, it’s not. My point is, that Headband Boy was such a fine specimen of good genes at work, he could even put on a HEAD BAND (yes, like one with teeth/a built in comb, the kind I USE) and still look brutally hot. Kudos to him. I glad we never spoke because I’m sure anyone that good-looking is a moron.

Below is a photo I attempted to snap in order to forever prove the existence of the $6,000 bottle of Verve (and that people are crazy enough to purchase them.) Two waiters had to carry it. Compare it in scale to the Red Bull in the corner. I don’t feel it comes across as large as it really was, keep in mind half of it is submerged in that ice bucket.



I didn’t take a photo of Headband Boy because I know a candid shot of him by me, his stalker, wouldn’t capture his true beauty. Then I’d feel like an even bigger douche for writing him this pathetic ode.

Bartok is here through the weekend. I have no doubt more absurdity and inappropriateness will ensue…