Photo by Gerry Visco
It sounded good on paper; sex and fashion are two pastimes that always perk up my interest. And models strutting around in pinup fashions throughout the galleries of MoSex, the new nickname coined by the Museum of Sex, would definitely be a fun night out.
MoSex was throwing a Fashion Week party on its premises featuring models who were also DJs wearing sexy outfits paying tribute to fetish model Bettie Page. Designer Michelle Scott’s collection, called Wonderland, would be showcased, and was promised to be full of “retro sexiness,” “all things boudoir,” and heavy on the jewel-toned pleather, lace and satin. Later, there’d be an after party at the rooftop of the renovated Empire Hotel in Lincoln Center with the DIY models actually spinning the records themselves.
Entering the museum last Thursday night en route to the show, you had to pass by the Sex Lives of Animals exhibit. Damn! Nothing like seeing life-size statues of panda bears, reindeer and chimps getting their freak on to realize I really had to start dating again.
By the time I arrived upstairs where the models were parading around in their sexy outfits, I was really getting into the mood. But like an inept sex session, the building excitement came to a crashing halt when I discovered the models were wedged into the narrow galleries with more photographers than mannequins—there were 11 of them and probably 20 or 30 camera-toting voyeurs. The DJ models posed very prettily, delicately holding riding crops, and jutted their buttocks this way and that, thrusting their bosoms into provocative positions for the flashing cameras, but you could barely wind your way over to them. Instead of runways, there were packed crowds crammed in amid the bondage equipment and flickering videos of women giving blowjobs.
It all reminded me of a second-rate Pussy Cat Dolls concert. The line of clothing by Michelle Scott AKA DJ ChelleBomb looked like a cheesy version of Victoria’s Secret. I spotted an uncomfortable-looking Michael Musto (but does he ever look any other way?) trying to worm his way out of the line-up. As partygoers came in, many got a good look at the lovely models in their scanty outfits, and then turned around to grab their lipstick- red goodie bags.
Well, there was always the after party. One seasoned shutterbug was busily making plans on his cell phone next to the rutting elephants. “Are you going to the party,” I asked him. “Are you kidding? It’s a cash bar,” he snorted.
