Under late summer sunfall, the Empire State Building glittered over Fifth Avenue as New York’s fashion set entered its gilded doors. Streams of stiletto-heeled editors and velvet-lapeled muses stepped out of yellow cabs and into the neon-lit embrace of the Starbucks Reserve with espresso-scented midtown mischief. Was it just another cocktail party? A midtown mixer? Au contraire. The night fell under the spell of a Siren’s call—and yes, we answered.
Between cheers-ing downtown darlings along the glossy pine bar and savvy mixologists shaking up the next batch of Pumpkin Spice Whiskey Manhattans, noir-fitted waiters weaved throughout, offering bites of elevated cafe craftsmanship. Cucumber coins with garlicky olive tapenade for the sleek model-types. Juicy caprese skewers for the streetwear-inclined. But the special du jour? A taste of the new Brown Sugar Protein Cold Foam, shot back with an audible “oh wow, that’s really good.” Yes, protein is haute right now, but this beverage was “trend” turned “something-worth-sipping”.
At the end of the bar, a custom tumbler station set up shop under green-and-neon lighting, inviting attendees to personalize black matte cups with their names. A calligrapher glossed sleek silver ink over the obsidian finish, crafting keepsakes in real time. A queue snaked back as onlookers admired the artistry and asked for one of their own. TikTok star Jean-Luc flitted between groups, phones in hand, documenting moments for social media bragging rights, while the crowds of downtown cool and uptown insiders blurred into a collective hum of fashion week anticipation. This was the pregame of the industry’s biggest week of the year.
Tumblers in one hand, espresso martinis in the other, attendees streamed to the dancefloor under the trance of Memphy’s high-octane beats. Her hand flicked to the beat—and so did the crowd’s sequined sway.
Taking a break from hyperpop pulses, a leather-clad scenester and her crew flocked to the nearby tattoo station, situated along the dancefloor’s edge for easy access. As they dug through their monochrome temporary ink options, they selected the Siren best fit for their after-dark alter-egos. A mermaid flicking her tail, curled up with a coffee mug. An abstract siren with a piercing third eye. Designs slithered across biceps, wrists, and daring back placements like badges of the night.
“Take a close-up of this!” one glitter-eyed guest handed her phone over to her sequined plus-one, camera flash readily catching the fresh ink. She struck a pose. They laughed. Rinse and repeat—literally. She created a sleeve.
The lights dimmed, a collective frenzy buzzed, and the Siren themself arrived: Dorian Electra. They launched into the set with a wink toward “Flamboyant,” each beat snaring under the strobe light’s flickers, mirroring the cityscape beyond the windows. True to their moniker, dare we say it was…electric.
“Yes, come to the front!” Electra beckoned the crowd with parting words. “Thank you so much, I love you!” Phones flashed and cheers erupted as the night continued to buzz on.
As the last notes of bass and hyperpop faded, the crowd lingered in an espresso-induced haze. Stiletto tips clicked against marble floors and leather jackets swished past emerald-lit corners as streetwear stars and couture confidants spilled out onto Midtown streets. Yellow cabs idled as groups piled in to head to their next round of sartorial soirées, Starbucks-emblazoned bags in hand, and one fact was clear: Fashion Week had officially begun.
