THEY DON'T WANT NO SCRUBS:
Getting Discreet up in Hef's suite
Saturday, May 26, 9:20 p.m.
If you ain’t got no money take your broke ass home”—I’m so glad Fergie can put things in perspective for us like that. The ego has landed and so has the elevator. We sweep into the ballroom foyer in a cloud of purpose and with an air of importance. We’re not being snobby; it’s just that the occasion demands a little pomp. This is where the Simon Cowell of Coolness weighs our reputations, business cards and general appearances, and if we pass muster, we’re banded, congratulated and sent on our happy, haughty way. Behind us, the next guy is not so lucky. We leave him in the dust to call everyone he knows with any viable juice.
In a polite silence we ride the next elevator to the Hugh Hefner Villa in the Fantasy Tower at the Palms, along with one-half of an oil-heir pair, who is already either wasted or stoned. Maybe both. He and his diamond-encrusted Grateful Dead dancing-bear necklace disembark on a lower floor before deigning to descend to the Hall of Justice through which we just passed. “Gotta take a piss.” He’ll need no introduction, but even he will need a wristband to enter this party.
Discreet in the Suite is a series of three members-only, money-only parties to be held in Hef’s Villa on Memorial Day, Labor Day and New Year’s Eve. Men pay a $3000 application fee to be considered (yep, considered) for invitation; ladies are free but still must apply. Patiently nipping at our Veuve Clicquot from the open bar, we watch as the paying customers file in nice and early, adorned in a thick layer of self-importance as well as vast amounts of trendy denim, luxury sneakers and bling, determined to squeeze, dance, drink, hump and schmooze their money’s worth out of tonight, come hell or high desert. Singer Mickey Avalon wanders around, lost.
I normally don’t write about private affairs, but since it’s open for application—should you have an island or a jet to put in hock—I figure it’s fair game to tell you about the step-and-repeat photo wall and team of photogs poised to snap a shot of you accidentally grazing the breast of a Bunny in her tight, satin regalia. I only manage to knock her tail to the floor and watch helplessly as it is kicked around before she can get it back.
As midnight approaches, the two-story villa fills up fast. Massage room, check. Endless bars, check. Girls doing something suspect with mirrors and their noses, check. And then, the piece de résistance, the bedroom where at least 20 sylphs in all their exquisite big-haired, Barbarella, fembot glory loll about, posing for pictures as they feed each other salad and dribble champagne over their latex body paint. Behind them, a glass wall allows everyone down on the dance floor to admire the scene above.
“So, if you didn’t come with your own film crew, you’re nobody.” No sooner do I say this than one falls upon us. But when it becomes obvious that we’re not orchestrating an orgy or doing something else remotely interesting, we’re abandoned. After Sky Nellor’s turn on the decks, and Jeremy Jackson’s welcome on the mic, Tone-Loc jumps up on a speaker for a quick three-song mini-performance backed up by DJ P. “Y’all remember 1989?” Hells yeah! After a little “Funky Cold Medina” and “Wild Thing,” I’m definitely warming up to this party. Everyone is, in fact.
On the dance floor, a girl has her legs wrapped around her septuagenarian partner’s waist (homage to Hef, perhaps?) while his buddies hold a cell phone under her skirt. She dismounts just in time to dodge as one guy takes a swing at another and it lands. Hard. The recipient soars through the air and slides to a stunned pause underneath a VIP table. This is it, folks. It’s 3 a.m., the witching hour, and the point of no return. Security sweeps up the pugilists faster than the staff can sweep up the glass, and in seconds it’s like, what fight? DJ Doc Martin hijacks the room’s attention and the Bunnies scamper once more. Now that’s discreet!
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at [email protected] and visit thecircuitlv.com to sign up for Xania’s free weekly newsletter.