Bash Compactor: Bon Shelter

Written by Joseph Alexiou on . Posted in Bash Compactor, Posts.


If new Chelsea club Juliet wants to be the West Side’s answer to The Box, it was clever in hosting Susanne Bartsch and Kenny Kenny’s new Tuesday night party, Bon Bon. When I pulled up at 11:30, there were four strapping gents already guiding a fifth shirtless friend out the front door.
The club kid duo already hosts a Sunday night freak bash, Vandam, at Greenhouse, and this party featured much of the same hijinks, freaks and folks dolled up like19th-century hookers. I found Bartsch early on, wearing a skin-colored medical corset, faux mustache, black garters and a thong, all topped by a massively teased-out blond wig and an itty-bitty bowler hat.
 I asked her what inspired the new party and how she found the space.
“Can’t we talk later? Over the phone? I can’t hear you now,” she said dismissively over the über-bass house track. Attitude city! But that’s why the kids come, I suppose. The kids, by the way, were dressed in looks I’d describe as morbidly burlesque (downtown pasties queen World Famous *BOB* jiggled voluptuously next to a severely made-up woman in a ruffled corset dancing with butcher knives) and the rest were fashion fags and real girls in six-inch heels.
Kenny, who wore the exact same outfit as Bartsch (except for the mustache) was slightly more welcoming. He eeked out an “I remember you” before turning away! It’s rare to meet my unbothered-queen quota for the whole week by Tuesday, but they say that in New York, anything can happen.
With well cocktails priced at $14, I decided to get high on aesthetics instead. Luckily, Juliet is gorgeous—there are big, horseshoe-shaped banquettes, mirrored tiled floors and overlays of geometric shapes in the ceiling, lit by red and blue LED lighting. It has a real VIP area, past the elevated performance areas and perfect for strippers or crazy ladies with dangerous utensils.
Ravishing the room was Miss Fire Island 2007 Stephanie Stone, wearing a bright red, slashed-up cocktail dress and a smile. “We’re inside a mirror ball!” she said, gazing around the club.
Indeed, many sparkling nightlife players were present in the room: the fluorescent Amanda LePore, Beyoncé choreographer Jonté wearing a bob weave with the tag hanging off of it, The One’s frontman Paul Alexander and 93-year-old party fixture Zelda Kaplan who, clad in a lingam-shaped hat, introduced herself to me while Queen’s “Under Pressure” blared from the stereo.
“I used to be a dancer and I exercise every day, no matter what,” she said, thumping me on the back with each syllable. “Nobody knows how trim I am!” she said, lifting up her tunic to show me a little thigh. “I have a great figure.” When she lowered her dress, I caught the twinkle of a massive ring.
“It’s a fertility symbol of the Bobo tribe in West Africa,” Kaplan explained, and gave me a wink. Maybe our hostess should have her ears checked, because I heard what Zelda was saying loud and clear. 

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