Why Was New York Fashion Week So Horny?
Words: Mani Mekala | Photo credits: Ben Doctor photographed by Paulo Santana | Shawna Wu by Hop Nguyen and Naicha Mercier | Mila Sullivan by Monica Feud and Andrea Sabugo | Allina Liu by Karla Tomanelli
Each September, New York City swells with hope. It’s popular to say that NYFW is “over,” and it’s true that the city’s fashion scene has fallen from grace over the past decade. But outside of the boring churn of major shows, young independent designers could be its lifeline, and the city whose subcultures have influenced the world has something spicy on its mind. This season, fashion sold sex. But is there something meaningful behind the edging or are we just tricks being turned?
The evening before fashion week was filled with anticipation and dinners. While some schmoozed over prix fixe, a chaotic and camp runway show by The Twink Next Door took over Dallas BBQ. Models in stripper heels fed chicken wings to the front row and Hustler Hollywood shopping bags fluttered between tables like flagposts of the hot stuff to come.
On Wednesday, my first stop was the Ben Doctor show. In the car, I realized I was wearing basically the same look that was on the invite: funny hat, flirty dress, micro shorts, and black sheers, arguably sluttier than bare legs. At the show, models in tiny flight attendant-inspired outfits and voluminous blowouts gave their best supermodel walks to a euro-pop soundtrack—an homage to a bygone era. “It’s sexy!” Ben exclaimed when we snuck backstage.
Ben Doctor
My friend and I then stopped at a JPG fragrance launch at The LGBT Center that felt like a homoerotic locker room scene. After holding a giant Labubu and sampling a few jellies made of sweat, we headed to the most anticipated party of the week, an exclusive night at Studio 54 with Valentino Beauty. When we made it through the swarming crowd and into the strip club-esque blue lights and leopard print carpet—ahistorical design liberties—the fête felt relatively sanitised. I wondered whether hedonism and glamour could really be curated to exist together in the digital age. Aptly, two of my friends left together.
On Thursday, I woke up early to write a story for a Doxy Magazine reading featuring a lineup of sex writers and workers in a club basement. Afterwards, I ran to Shawna Wu’s debut fashion week presentation, “Carvings.” Behind glass walls, hotties writhed and danced, dressed in stone body jewelry and knotted knitwear informed by Chinese tradition. A short documentary by Erika Kamano played, depicting Taiwanese “electric flower trucks,” which hold neon-lit pole dancer stages and are used in prayer, celebration, and mourning. My friend got a lap dance from a model. In Wu’s universe, there are no taboos. When asked, though, Wu told me her inspirations came not from sexuality, but from the appeal of merging traditional and “radical” ideas—like 3D modeling ancient craftsmanship on a stripper. We bopped around to five parties before I ended the night, exhausted, and watched a Tubi reprise of The Devil Wears Prada.
Shawna Wu
On Friday, I kept it chill and went to dinner. En route, I snapped a photo of a subway ad for Bidsy, a new dating app where suitors bid real money to speak to eligible singles. Is this considered sex work? The streets were bustling and the Lu’u Dan party was packed out, so my friends and I headed to a dive bar. By chance, we discovered a trans strip show called Girl Party in the back room. At this point, though this party was a tangent, the eroticism of the week was getting impossible to ignore. We threw some singles and danced. Back at home, I scrolled through Vogue Runway and found the big shows I hadn’t attended to be somber, tasteful, and wearable. Good shopping, but what else?
On Saturday, I filed into a theatre to witness the operatic grandeur of Mila Sullivan’s show, replete with lacy water bottle accessories, thanks to the sponsor. After a quick stop at a Praying pop-up, I hopped in a car to FiDi, where Renell Medrano was hosting the launch of the second Ice Magazine. At the party, more strippers jiggled their asses and hit upside-down splits while faux bills rained down on them. Next, I joined friends impromptu at Rosewood Theater, a lap dance club where Cadena Y Rosas presented an hour-long show. Chainmail, crystals, and kinkwear accessorised back-to-back pole and shibari performances, and the mood was heightened. “Work It” by Marie Davidson played, which felt emblematic. We stopped for dinner, then back downtown to a sultry French restaurant where Matieres Fecales was hosting a party with DSMNY. There, we found more leopard carpets and, yes, more strippers.
Mila Sullivan
Cadena Y Rosas
On Sunday morning, I pushed through my fatigue to attend CFDA grant recipient Allina Liu’s debut show, described as inspired by Secretary, shibari, and Ren Hang and Nobuyoshi Araki, famously controversial erotic photographers. The collection’s sensuality was more delicate than anything: watercolour flowers bound models’ lips together, and their bodies were covered in thin ties and ruffles.
Allina Liu
Next, I headed to Gabe Gordon, also a CFDA Fashion Fund finalist, whose runway show titled “Autoerotic” kicked off with the vibrating growl of a motor. Any car girls out there? The third stop was Iseder, the brainchild of two recent college grads, full of sheer sexy shapes that clashed intentionally with the fluorescent gallery space we sat in. Later that night at a friend’s house, we watched aughts runway shows and mourned moments of fashion we never really knew. Fantasy was once sellable. Even during past periods of financial anxiety, “timelessness” wasn’t requisite to fans or even consumers. In fact, certain aesthetic timestamps were what enthralled us about fashion. Eras were universes. Is monetising sexuality going to revive fantasy in the mainstream? If so, how long until the provocation fades?
Gabe Gordon
On Monday morning, I visited the Ridgewood studio of Ramona Beattie, the designer behind Shame, who pushed her show to next month. Off-off-calendar shows give you something to look forward to. Ramona showed me balconette activewear, sheer unisex leggings, and t-shirts that read “Sodomy,” all in black. She designs from an iconoclastic queer female gaze on criminality, morality, and sex work, she tells me, and is skeptical of empowerment narratives. I’m excited for the show.
The same evening, Luar presented “La Fantasía,” extravagantly influenced by pre-colonial Taíno craft as well as post-BBL shapewear and those stripper outfits that come in a box. After a refreshingly theatrical presentation from the dolls-only cast of Gogo Graham (soundtracked to “People Are Still Having Sex”), I headed to meet my friends from Stripper News at the Pornhub x Chrishabana show. I wasn’t the only one who had noticed that sexuality was a subject of all-around fascination this week. At least this show honored sex workers themselves head-on, though not unlike the others, in all its tacky glory. Amid trad trends, political fashion boycotts, and the usual industry mess, the spectacle of this week felt surreal and brutal. Come Tuesday, I finally retired the heels and gave in to the ultimate temptation: my beautiful mattress.
