Mears racconta il «dietro le quinte» di una festa VIP, e come il folleggiare e il lascivo abbandono di quelle notti sia, nei fatti, tutt’altro che spontaneo, ma pianificato dettagliatamente per creare l’atmosfera dove sia normale spendere 100.000 dollari in bottiglie di champagne. Nel complesso rapporto tra status, potere e avvenenza, la moneta di scambio sono giovani donne.
The nightclub pulsed in the Miami heat. Dancers waved glow sticks with neon letters spelling out “F*** me I’m famous”. The millionaire was dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, and would have been easy to miss if he hadn’t been surrounded by a dozen tall, thin, beautiful women and waving a pink bottle of Cristal champagne. His next drinks order arrived in a ceremonial procession, known in the nightclub business as a bottle train. A group of bouncers carried two bins full of champagne bottles and sparklers, lifted high above their heads. They were followed by a procession of stiletto-clad waitresses, bearing the same gifts.
Mears si sofferma anche sul vissuto delle modelle che partecipano a queste feste, sulla loro sostanziale dipendenza dal promoter, su una «vita professionale» alienante e caduca.
Katia took what she could from the scene: sex with a promoter, smoking his pot on the beach, dining in fancy restaurants and the excitement of seeing where the night would take you. Yet she couldn’t simply leave a club if she wasn’t having fun, or when her feet hurt from the heels the promoter made her wear. She kept a credit card tucked in the back of her phone for emergencies, but she didn’t have much money so she relied on promoters to get around. Katia looked back on the experience as an overwhelmingly positive one. “It was amazing, no?”
Immagine: Thomas Couture, Romains de la décadence.