In a spacious room at the midtown hotel where the inimitable Tennessee Williams died, congregated a small but lively salon of authors and storytellers. The champagne flowed as did the wine as did the whisky as did the conversation. Rumored to be in attendance were novelists and memoirists, editors and transcribers, porn stars and junkies, erotica writers and wannabe models, smokers and drunkards.
The hospitable host flitted about in virginal satin whites greeting guests and offering libations along with snacks. A jubilant vibe and the echoes of children at play set the tone. Visitors paired off in the kitchen dishing about sex clubs and fashion, k-holes and kratom, fetishes and kinks. A stranger disappeared and reappeared, notably altered. The balcony offered a respite for the socially inebriated. The room’s attention was held at a standstill when the distinctive voice of an experienced chronicler of music, art, and literature spoke. And just as things got good, it all came to an end.
Folks descended from the top floor, onto the rainy sidewalk, and into two luxury vehicles heading downtown—where the neon signs are pretty.
