The Sexiest New Party in New York

Photo by Brian Christopher Cummings

BonBon is by far the sexiest new club event in town and there’s no sex at all at it. I didn’t even see any light frottage!

But there’s pure sex appeal in the air at the Tuesday night bash (at the supper club Juliet) because of the distinct absence of boredom from the guest list in favor of possibility, opportunity, and very high fashion. The every-night-is-Halloween crowd finds their way there, all dolled up to the nine-inch heels and ready to party till gay marriage is approved—or at least till 3 a.m. Factor in all the corsets, bodices, and facial masks in the room, and you’ll realize that these fractured fairy tale creatures can’t get it on because it would hurt too much—but no one’s ever looked hotter while indulging in such (temporary) chastity.

And they certainly get their yayas off preening, sucking down the one-hour open bar, and chasing down hosts Susanne Bartsch and Kenny Kenny for free drink tickets the second it runs out. Swiss miss Bartsch and sardonic Irishman Kenny are the longtime scene stars who have always not only marched to their own drum, but dutifully beat the thing itself. Whenever nightlife threatens to get a little staid, these two wear spangles, dangle from chandeliers, and draw a following willing to either join them up there or catch them if they fall.

Their crowd is a flashy, indeterminate mix of genders, ages, and species, from plus-sized drag bellydancer Sultana, who was just laid off from her day job at Tiffany’s, to transsexual fixture Amanda Lepore, who, when asked how old she is, blithely responds, “I’m fine. How are you?”

On opening night, the ageless Bartsch and Kenny pranced around in matching cotton candy hairdos and Snidely Whiplash moustaches, Bartsch swearing, “I just want to relax with friends tonight.” She dropped that philosophy three seconds later to start shimmying on a platform, but when her muscley hubby, gym owner David Barton, showed up, Bartsch stopped thrusting her pelvis in time to pose for some shots with him against the blinding backdrop of twinkling lights and shiny glass walls.  It was a tableaux right out of Norman Rockwell via Horton Hears a Who by way of Cirque du Soleil.

There was just one sour note. “Everyone’s stepping on my dress!” moaned a beautiful young woman by the bar, her perfect little face looking fashionably anguished. One wonders why she wore a delicately colored gown with a three-foot train to a crowded nightclub, but banalities such as logic turn out to have no place here. And that’s kind of sexy. So how are you?

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