I woke up in someone else’s bed a couple of weeks ago on a Friday morning. I looked around and felt like I was in the English countryside. But I wasn’t, I was in Manhattan, the West Village. Historically speaking, the oldest part of the city. There was a good-looking man next to me, still trying to sleep with me. He had dark, thick hair, blue eyes, and a French accent. I met him in the basement at Le Baron. André Saraiva’s brothel of nightlife culture transpired from Paris. An attraction for dogs, socialites, artists, models, musicians, etc. For the “tastemakers” with “learned palettes.” For kings and queens of art and culture and social climbers alike. Everyone is beautiful or foreign or rich or all of the above. The glamour and glitz minus the bottle-driven display of wealth typical of New York in this day and age. I think it opened in January of 2012. The first time I went, Scott took me. He got us in because he had done a bunch of blow with one of the doormen at an afterparty in Paris a month prior. How do you get in? It’s easy. You act like you belong, and maybe you do. If you don’t, you’ll probably be weeded out at the door. The doormen are most definitely salaried and they detest when rich assholes offer them money to cut the line. It is cramped, dark, smoky, and disorienting inside. There’s never a line for the bathroom, drinks are $15 a pop, and the music is superior. It’s completely unpublicized. Everyone’s flaunting their money, dumping bags of molly on the table, and licking it up with their fingers. Here, I met my French man. I arrived solo in a taxi in the early AM after escaping from some trash can of a club in the meat-packing district. I cut the line and made a beeline for the basement. That’s where I found Frenchie. He was tall. We danced and kissed and more kissing. We left. His lack of skills in bed lead me to believe he’s famous or something. That Friday, he needed to attend a food tasting in preparation for his friend’s upcoming party, then meet another friend in the studio. That Friday, I worked from home. Thankfully, we had “summer Fridays” at the office.
Copyright Alexandra Walters 2025. All Rights Reserved.