Bash Compactor: Kiss Me, Stupid

After a litany of creepy exes, I’m thrilled to be single and free as a bird. Except on Valentine’s Day, surrounded by ecstatic couples smooching passionately underneath the stars and overlooking the glittering New York skyline. Especially when the whole ghastly scene is confined to a 120-foot long yacht called The Jewel and cruising the harbor.

“The women here are on the prowl,” declared my female sidekick for the night. She was playing jazz baby, sporting a low-cut leopard top and furry jacket, and I was doing a festive red-and-orange look. ’Twas actually the night before cupid’s arrow would strike, and we were at Dances of Vice’s Secrets de Coquettes party, whose venue du jour was the luxury liner. Dances of  Vice is one of those “new romantic” parties attended by elegant dandies, divinely decadent lingerie-clad dames, vintage clad ne’er-do-wells, Victoriana and Rococo aficionados and devotees of glamour from past eras. And they sure put a lot of effort into their outfits: Gangster fedoras, ostrich feathers, beaded and fringed gowns, tailcoats, spats, you name it.

Dances of Vice began as a regular New York party showcasing bands and performers who primarily specialize in the opulent eras of the 1920s and ’30s. “Shien really does it right,” said Johnny Quinlan, singer for the band Revel Hotel. He was sporting a spiffy top hat, black boxers with red hearts and fancy garters holding up his socks. As a party promoter himself, he knows the score. There are other so-called romantic events, but they don’t attract such a friendly, elegant bunch. Resplendent in white, beauteous host Shien Lee was on hand to keep things moving.

The women were a bit too gorgeous, decked out in lingerie and pin-up latex wear. Redheaded burlesque artist Gal Friday was scantily clad in her mauve bikini bottom and lacy, see-through bra as she shimmied out on the dance floor. Shanghai Mermaid party host Juliette Campbell, wearing a low-cut red satin top with long blue satin skirt, got up and sang a few numbers, accompanied by the Baby Soda Jazz Band. Towards the end of the three hours was a fashion show of Renee Masoomian’s work modeled by a bevy of ethereal hotties. I didn’t see any lone wolf males looking for prey, unless you count the photographers. There were a dozen or so of them snapping away at the slightest gesture.

Then there was the soigné event creator and designer Lee Chappell, looking refreshed and wearing a hint of Opium, lounging by the bar. “Gerry, so good to see you!” he said. Good to know someone noticed. There was nary a kiss, a grab, a flirt, no action all night. But it was merely 1 a.m. Surely I would round something up by the end of the evening. After all, dear reader, won't you be my valentine?