Description: You’re officially allowed to stick your nose up in the air when you get to entrance of PM. You’re going to have to if you want to nab a spot inside. It may also take your best Armani attire; for some, a wad of twenties; and for my friend and I, a name drop of an important person who runs PM. It wasn’t easy, yet somehow we’ve finally managed to finagle our way past the velvet rope, security guards, and Versace-clad doorman. It’s all about who we know—we just had to convince the door diva we are friends with important people.
Now we bask in PM’s voodoo-like silhouette, highlighted by skylights and 20-foot-high ceilings. It’s like something out of a progressive Haitian nightclub, which I’m sure both PM owners, two seasoned promoters (I’ve done my research), clearly envisioned when they decided on the simple decadence of exposed brick walls and rosewood floors. It's no use standing in one place for more than 5 minutes; there’s no conventional dance floor inside, and I’m gyrating my hips this close to some random curly-haired 20-something in a pinstripe suit. Besides, I’d rather move around; I want to be seen mingling among New York's urban elite. I grind my hips to the blend of '90s dance tunes and classic R&B and watch as rich pretty boys dip into their wallets for bottles of Grey Goose. PM is sleek and metropolitan—and I’m just happy I got inside!!
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