On any given weeknight you will see the most beautiful people in all of New York City out at the same handful of nightclubs. Weekends are now for the amateurs. A Friday night at a club in New York is still better than any New Year’s Eve celebration most people only dream of attending. Bella Hadid doesn’t go to the club on a Friday, way too mainstream. She’d much rather go on a Wednesday.
So there I was (thanks to a promoter), another celebrity sighting Wednesday night, another table filled with antisocial girls visiting from Denmark. Or maybe it was New Jersey? Doesn't matter. There’s also a few overly good looking guys at the table. Models. Male models. The guys don’t say much to each other. Maybe they’re all lifelong friends that don’t need to maintain a conversation with each other the entire evening? But what’s more likely is that there’s only so much that can be said about today’s workout and protein powder.
None of it seemed very exciting, but it sure was entertaining to just observe. Yes, these guys were all very good looking and every girl did give them a second look as they walked into the club, but they weren't good for much else besides that. They're all Instagram famous. Each one of the guys has more followers than the DJ that’s playing, more followers than the club’s page, more followers than most C-list celebrities, and more followers than all those accounts combined.
They’re definitely not my type, too pretty. But I get the appeal. The girls at the table all swayed to the music while swirling the straws around in their cranberry vodkas. The guys only drank vodka sodas, because, calories. No really, that’s what one of them told me while we were all getting our first drinks and passing around the various mixers.
The girls continued bopping around pretending to ignore the guys. The constant hair flips and extra booty shaking in front of them proved otherwise. The male models were looking, ranking them on perceived easiness and deciding who was going to go for which girl. Once each of the guys figured out their ‘matches’, they swooped in. You could see them turn on their charm, as if it was a switch that could only be activated by two vodka sodas and the right Justin Bieber song.
They didn't lead with it but the phrase, “I’m a model” was definitely said in the first three minutes of every one of the conversations these guys were having with the increasingly intoxicated group of girls.
It blows me away that none of these people at the club seemed to have to work the following morning. Either because they are so well off they don't have to, or they have nothing to do the next day, most of the time because they are models. Models who don’t have a shoot in the morning, and the show they’re walking in isn't for another couple weeks.
So whether the club is completely full or almost empty, the clientele always consists of New York’s hottest hotties. Models trying to meet their next under 30 year old sugar daddy/sugar mama, or big spenders just trying to surround themselves with beautiful people at the measly price of a few Dom Perignon bottles. Some of the most fabulous rights out are when the club is practically empty.
I’m left wondering is this chiseled model at the table who is from a farm in Michigan the same person when he’s home on the range? Is this all just an act? How does he go from studying agricultural engineering, to only talking about raves, working out, and photoshoots? It’s all so odd, and oddly fascinating.
So my advice is if you want a fabulous night out in New York City, try a weeknight, drink champagne, and meet some models. Because I haven't found a better way to spend a Tuesday night, well, not yet.
You do you.