Voyeuring from Chloe's Place

My good friend Jimmy the Brain (ne James Sevigny) is actress Chloe Sevigny's first cousin. When Jimmy visited recently with an entourage of wayward young lesbians, I met up with them at Chloe's apartment in the East Village, on one of the top floors of a high-rise apartment building. Chloe herself was there, wearing a torn-up Rocawear t-shirt, hotpants, suspenders and high heels. I can't recall ever being starstruck?and I wasn't this time, either?and I am pleased to say that Chloe was a gracious host and very down-to-earth.

Her apartment was a medium-sized studio that she said she was subletting from another actress, Natasha Lyonne of American Pie fame. It didn't look like Chloe had lived there for very long; the only furniture was a bed and a television. The view from the balcony was amazing, though, and it was there that we sat and had drinks and chatted. The topic of Chloe's career came up only once, when she mentioned that she was looking at a script based on the story of Stephen Glass, the New Republic writer who fabricated his sources and got caught. I told her I didn't think it would make a very good movie. (She later disregarded my advice; the movie, Shattered Glass, is being produced by Lion's Gate and Chloe will star opposite Hayden Christensen.)

Later we went uptown to Etoile, a trendy nightclub on E. 56th St., where Chloe's boyfriend was deejaying. Paparazzi snapped pictures and drinks cost $9 but were very strong. Clubbers ran in packs from room to room (the place was enormous); it reminded me of a junior high school dance, with lots of cliques and gossip and the feeling that anything can happen. I am sure I will never go there again.

A couple of days later, Chloe went out of town, making her apartment available to Jimmy the Brain and his lesbian entourage, and one night I joined them all there. We intended to gather for one drink, and then go barhopping in the East Village. Instead we spent two hours drinking beer and whiskey and enjoying the view from Chloe's balcony. And we weren't just admiring the New York City skyline. In the building across from us were two lavish, Friends-style apartments, into which we could see every corner of every room. One apartment was above the other, and we estimated they were on the 19th and 20th floors. The 19th-floor apartment housed three young women, the 20th what we guessed were a husband and wife who were entertaining a gay couple.

"Those girls are going to take their clothes off," I said with authority, sipping my Jack Daniel's. Everyone ignored me, which happens a lot. I was on to something, though; the girls on the 19th floor were rushing from room to room as if getting ready to go someplace. They flitted from the bathroom to the kitchen to the bedrooms.

"She just picked up a bra," I said, observing closely. That got Jimmy and the lesbians' attention. "No, that's not a bra," said one of the lesbians. But just as the sentence had been spoken, the young woman on the 19th floor carried the object in question into the bathroom, stripped off her t-shirt and put it on. We all got very silent. Then someone (probably me) uttered a very appropriate, "Holy shit."

We sat and watched as all three women changed outfits repeatedly, applied deodorant to their underarms and helped fix one another's hair. It was a lengthy process filled with suspense. Then we turned our attention to the floor above them. Out on the balcony, the gay couple sat in a chair with the lights off; we saw them hugging and kissing in silhouette. The hostess emerged and one of the men pawed playfully at her breasts. She laughed and slapped his hands away. The three of them went indoors and joined the husband for drinks. Just like on the floor below them, there was a lot of moving from room to room, and every time the gay couple had a moment alone, they would embrace and kiss. Sometimes they would get caught by the husband and display plenty of mock embarrassment.

At one point the gay couple embraced in the foyer, out of view of the husband and wife but in full view of us. They did a sort of serpentine wiggle together, and fiddled with each other's belts. We thought they were really going to get it on until we saw the husband meandering through the apartment toward them. The suspense nearly killed us. They broke their embrace just in the nick of time. Then the wife brought out a camera and, although it was difficult to see exactly what was going on, there was definitely some dropping of trousers and it looked like pictures were snapped of one of the gay men's penises.

It didn't get any more lascivious than that. The two couples eventually left, and so did we. We cruised the East Village and the Lower East Side, drinking beer, shooting pool and raising hell.

Noah Masterson