G Spa & Lounge - February 16, 2007

I love the spa. It made total sense that I would eventually end up in this place, "G Spa & Lounge" in the Meatpacking district. I sort of fell there by happy accident, through a friend of a friend, some cum and girls named Carrie, and though I hadn't been aware the Hotel Gansvoort had a spa/bar thing going on in their basement, last night I became its most gung-ho...ho.

A friend of mine, Stydie the modeler, had just been dumped by what he called "Carrie 3," or the most recent Carrie in a string of Carries he'd been dating simultaneously. Last night, he texted me: "dumped by carrie 3. need drinks. looking for trouble. that's ur middle name." Now he's clearly a manwhore for dating three (or more?) women at once, but one I know to be sensitive, in awe of and pretty respectful of women, so I joined him at a bar around the corner from his place to see if maybe I couldn't toss some beer at the problem and make it go away even for a few hours. He was pretty despondent. Carrie 3 had been the frontrunner for his affections before she decided to try and make it work with her other boyfriend. She and Stydie were set to fly to London for a little vacation together in a week. It was getting serious, but now it was no more.

"I just want to fall into my bong," he said.

"Aww. Don't you worry. You'll find another Carrie tomorrow."

"Not like this one. She let's me cum on her face. Do you have any idea how special that is?"

"That is special, man. But there'll be others who like cum on their faces. She doesn't have to be the end of it." I patted him on the back.

He said, "Thanks, man. You're the best."

So it was through Stydie's face cum heartbreak that I came to be at this spa/bar combination shindig. With my love of the spa, I considered it destiny more than serendipity, or coincidence.

It was dark, sub street level and red, but not a good red like cherry or fire engine. It was a crusty orange-red. The furniture was white leather and comfy, so that was nice. There was a seven to one girl to guy ratio, and among the girls, a seven to one leopard-print-Peg-Bundy outfit to club wear ratio. Leopard must be the new thing. Hmm. I was the oldest woman there, and terrifically underdressed for the occasion in oversized jeans and a boring black shirt. (I can't seem to maintain a pant size here. Something in the New York water has affected my thyroid, and as a result my clothes are hanging from me and I can't sleep anymore. This thyroid will be the death of me). So anyway, I looked boring and average as usual, but whatev. You don't bring me to your party because I'm the eye candy. I'm there to make clever quips and chat about string theory and Dylan lyrics with the high rich guy. I planned to do just that, sip a little cocktail or two and then go get a treatment. Man, I couldn't wait to get a treatment, a massage, a wrap. Shit, I didn't care. A massage with a buzz on seemed like the greatest idea ever.

But I was aghast to find out that this hybrid concept, this spa/bar thing, was a hoax. A sham. A hornswaggling. There were no treatments to be had because the spa area shuts down at night when the barring begins. How is that a hybrid concept? That's more like dual space usage or something. The name is so misleading.

So G Spa & Lounge--or G ____ & Lounge--was a bit of a let down, but not all bad. I was there with very handsome young men. We were attended to by leggy Asian waitresses and one of them set her hair on fire, which provided a few moments of fun conflict. With free booze and an opportunity to see so many underage women drinking in scanty spandex, pretending to be gay amidst the glow of backlit spray-painted glass, crusty orangey-red in hue, to an MC Rob Base soundtrack--who was the shit before they were even born--how could I complain about the lounge part of G Spa & Lounge? I would actually recommend going.

[Aside: Do not bring a hunting knife. The bouncers look at you real funny, and they never stop looking. What? Safety first.]

So after G Spa, the models and I went to Stydie's apartment and fell into his bong, a bottle of Champagne and a bottle of Scotch, which I drank none of and can imagine whoever did partake of it regrets this decision. Did you know Scotch makes models want to do situps? I didn't know that either, but I admired their zeal and the fact that Stydie buys so much Tiffany and Co jewelry for his Carries they send him a catalog a week. Who knew taking a load to the face could get you jewelry? I bet if you wear jewelry that's a good deal.

A good night, I think.

Posted by The Bunny at 11:23 PM

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Posted by: Boss at February 18, 2007 04:17 PM

Posted by: Piper at February 18, 2007 07:52 PM

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