Last night, Rachel, Erin, Tara, Caroline and I decided we needed to hit the town for a night of dancing. With most of LA in the desert for Coachella, or, at least, all the cute, flannel-loving, hipster boys we'd normally cozy up to at Shortstop, we opted for a night of pure Hollywood, beginning with Drai's and ending at Voyeur.
With all the hype surrounding Drai's we thought we were in for quite the evening. After jumping a line that stretched all the way to Hollywood Blvd thanks to a super hot doorguy named Dan and some old friends I used to know from my nightclub days, a move Erin dubbed "some Hollywood realness," we rode the elevator up twelve floors and walked into the tackiest Vegas recreation LA has ever seen. (Apologies for no photos but we all felt so uncomfortably touristy in there, I didn't want to lose any more street cred by busting out my camera.)
I'm all about gaudy, in fact, I like to describe my personal style as "Dynasty" meets Compton, but Drai's has it all wrong.
Behind the bar, a blinged out curtain of jewels dangled over flickering candles, reminding me of the old Forty Deuce stage but with an added fire hazard and the classiness of a Kardashian. The entire place was set up for bottle service, a fad I thought went out with the Bush administration, and the crowd appeared to be comprised of sugar daddies and their 22-year-old minions, young, upwardly-mobile Asian posses, dudes in Christian Audigier trying to look like ballers, and the Newport Beach botox set having a "Sex and the City" night.
The pool area has shades of both Sky Bar and Crest, but on steroids, and while looking over the city had a certain enchantment, the bar's very "Real Housewives" clientele, the sad, bored looking go-go dancers, and the terrible DJ were quick mood killers.
Back inside the lobby bar of the W, Living Room, we decided the mirrored staircase and cascading chandelier were the best parts of entire place, Drai's included.
Erin and I also discovered the lobby's "Whisper Rooms," little curtained stalls that were clearly invented for getting into no good.
Rocking my newly altered Alexander McQueen for Target dress. It was thiiiis close to going to Goodwill until McQueen's tragic suicide last month. Now it's a collector's item that just needed a little bit of help from the tailor.
Erin in one of the two whisper room's chairs.
Deeming Drai's a bust, Erin and Caroline set off from Fred 62 while Tara, Rachel and I headed for Voyeur. Again, there are no photos (except from their inhouse photo booth which is awesome) but that's because of the club's strict no cameras policy.
It's easy to see why they'd want to keep photography out. Across the club topless dancers writhe around in assless chap-style fishnets, lace thongs and masks. Some spend the night in a bondage swing, some are in a glass booth getting nasty with a video camera, one is on a net suspended above the crowd, and a few, including one amazing girl who is my new gym-spiration, dance in between two VIP booths.
Everything that made Drai's fail, made Voyeur awesome. The music was great, the drinks were poured strong (hello, pear vodka, my new friend), the crowd was fun and all the boobs on display were real. Win!
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