Get set for some seriously stylish action

 
The boys are in town: Caggie Dunlop
10 April 2012

During Fashion Week, the world's biggest cities become polluted by the most beautiful people on earth. I usually have two strong reactions to this. The first is an immediate need to shield my eyes from the stunning, waif-like models catwalking the streets - the best possible course of action when you feel a dough ball in comparison - and the second to get out there and get busy.

After all, these visions also come in the boy variety; they are only in town for a week; they are in constant post-show party mode; they are up for some seriously stylish one-night stands.

A few weeks ago I was in Manhattan for New York Fashion Week. I was at Griffin, a club in the appropriately named meatpacking district. At Griffin models are basically paid decoration, there to make the place look good. They come, drink copious amounts and feed off each other's genetic favouring. My friend Meryl and I took full advantage of this, wiggling our way into a group of male models - all far prettier than us - on their way in.

After necking a couple of shots and indulging in a dance-off, I met a Swedish model called Hans at the bar. Thanks to the combination of his slightly odd accent and the pulsating music, I could hardly understand a word he was saying. But that wasn't important. Within minutes we were making out.

Success, I thought, as he wrapped a lean arm around my own slightly doughier one.

Eventually I untangled myself to grab five minutes of fresh air (or rather a cigarette) outside, feeling rather smug about the Swedish import I had left waiting for me inside.

But as I went back in, ready to take the goods home, there was Hans, eating the face off my friend Meryl, who moments ago had been throwing up. I watched in shock before Hans came up for breath, clocked me out of the corner of his cat-like eye and strutted over.

He then tried to kiss me with a mouth that I'm pretty certain was smeared with Meryl's sick. "Cazzie, let's go have sex at your apartment," he cooed into my ear. Umm, now let me think this thrilling proposal over ... how about, no? And my name is not Cazzie.

I didn't bother to give his tiny mind a piece of my own but grabbed Meryl and dragged her over to the cloakroom.

Hans wasted no time. When we left a few minutes later I saw him making out with some genetically gifted equal. "Crap," I thought, but just for a moment before remembering his equally pouty pal probably now had the remains of Meryl's sick in her mouth.

Sadly, it is safe to say that my get-out-there-and-get-busy Fashion Week attitude died that night in Griffin. For London Fashion Week I followed my first option instead, and hid.

@Caggie_Dunlop

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