IT’S almost enough to put you off sex. Almost. We lined up like mad cattle in the blazing sun, thousands of women and a few secure men. Some wore ball gowns or recycled bridesmaids’ dresses, sample-sale designer schmattas or rejects from the junior prom.
And then, you should have seen the women . . .
Most of the gals attempted to win macho points by inhabiting shoes that looked as if you needed an elevator just to climb aboard. I even saw one foreign guy, Hans, in knee socks and Oxfords. That takes confidence. Or lack of a mirror.
I wore blue jeans and flats. Spike heels, past the age of 20, are for hookers and cripples or people destined to become both.
The common goal of this mass of humanity, outside the Metropolitan Pavilion on 18th Street, was to land roles as extras in the second, big-screen installment of what people in fly-over country think is the quintessentially New York franchise, “Sex and the City.” At a pay rate of $134 a day, you can’t buy many Manolos working for “Sex.”
Of course, I was one of the few women on line who actually lives in New York City — and I live in Brooklyn.
“I’m from New Jersey!” was the stereo squeal from Samantha-wannabes Jessica Boyington, Juliana White and Christina Velasquez, who credited Jersey’s fabulous discount malls for supplying them with body-skimming dresses and arch-destroying footwear.
I crawled through the line with my fellow fabulous ones, until — success! — I was handed a slip of paper asking a few questions:
Name. Cell number. Pants size. Shoe size.
In case you’re wondering, I wear a 4 and an 8, in that order.
The form delicately asked one’s “age range.” There’s the rub.
As the “Sex and the City” juggernaut enters its third decade, one wonders if this city was ever as fabulous, as recession-proof — as ageless — as the show and its subsequent movie suggested.
Today, Kim Cattrall is thrice divorced, Sarah Jessica Parker is three times a mommy, Kristin Davis is a recovering alcoholic, and Cynthia Nixon has given up men and loves a lady.
In real life, the hot babes are those like Alexis Casano, who is 52 and lives in, you guessed it, Hamilton, NJ, where she owns a pizzeria.
“If I had six months to live, acting would be my dream,” said Alexis, a “Pilates freak” who wore a wide-brimmed hat, do-me heels and mesh gloves that set her back a whopping $325.
But who wants to plunk down 12 bucks to see a 50-year-old have sex?
Once I worked my way like a sardine to the front of the line, a bored-looking woman snapped my picture, took my form and told me not to bother to call. No problem.
I’m headed back to Brooklyn, where the sex is good. And shoes are flat.