[All photos by Rob Rich for Society Allure]
Last night, Cain shut its doors for the final time, but not before hosting one last, alcohol soaked party. In the face of a crumbling Empire, owners and clubbers of West 27th Street gamely donned their finest club wear and undertook the solemn duty of partying in the name of Bungalow, Guesthouse, B.E.D., Marquee, and all those who passed before. The sinking ship of Cain approached its final hours, and the DJ played on.-
There was awkward dancing on banquettes. There was making out. There was brawling, shirt-ripping, and pec-showing. There were the girls in short tube-dresses and the bankers who love to buy them drinks. And overseeing the action were once-great kings and queens of Club Row, who, on the eve of their beheading, decided to let them drink champagne.
Where will all these former-clubbers go now that they're slowly being expelled from Chelsea? Out of the city to Montauk? Out of the State? Perhaps they don't even know themselves, but last night they bravely partied on, partied as if there wasn't a tomorrow. Which for Cain, of course, there isn't.
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