Allow me to preface this installment by stating three standards of the human condition so universally accepted that they need hardly be considered, intrinsic as they are to the basic principles that govern societal interaction.
I. Free beer tastes better.
II. One in three persons cannot remain in close proximity to another who earns more than five times that person's salary without experiencing debilitating symptoms ranging from mild irritation to homicidal fantasy.
III. When opportunity "I" presents itself as an option, but in the context of situation "II," the potential complications are often ignored. Further, in most cases where the two scenarios collide, the otherwise unavoidable consequences of "II" almost never materialize. In fact, an unexpected and opposite effect often results, characterized by laughter, physical contact and the exchange of personal information. This is known as the Stranger At The Party Conundrum, and remains unexplained by modern science.
I can't be the only person in America who didn't clean out his car for, oh, 18 months, and then found himself in the strange position of having to have it valet parked. Parking won't be a problem when The Difference, an upscale South Tampa men's spa, officially opens on Oct. 13 — they've got plenty — but they're obviously expecting a big crowd for this night's invite-only introductory bash. A steady stream of SUVs, immaculate Jettas and late-model compacts pulls to the front of the two-story former residence on W. Henderson Boulevard; a steady stream of smiling young men take keys from smiling young women, and give them tickets in return.
The dude takes my rolling yard sale somewhere, and I stand in front of two front doors, wondering which one won't make me look like an idiot. I go left, and find myself facing a spotless stairwell of blond hardwood. Wrong door. At least I don't have to go back outside, as open thresholds lead both left and right. I head right (left fucked me, like, 10 seconds ago), and into a gorgeous, streamlined interior for which my only basis for comparison is the Moby episode of MTV's Cribs.
There are a few pieces of black-and-chrome Scandinavian furniture, artfully placed. The walls are done in opposing but complementary light-and-dark neutrals. The vibe is calming, which is exactly what a brief getaway spot for men who need a little facial action, microdermabrasion, pedicure or sports massage should feel like.
Men's spas are nothing new in larger metropolitan areas sporting a percentage of men with a considerable discretionary income. You've probably heard the term "metrosexual" at some point during the last year. The implication is that this is an emerging cross section of males who indulge health, beauty and spending habits formerly associated mainly with any hip city's gay population. Which is, of course, a crock on any number of levels. For one, labeling such pursuits as feminine, and then ascribing them in toto to homosexual culture, is asinine. For another, as Difference owner Tait Kmentt knows, there has always been a large contingent of straight men who, leaving their twenties, begin to take steps to preserve their appearance, physique and confidence.
"It was a business decision, but it's also been a hobby for me since I was 17," says the 35-year-old Kmentt. "I wanted to create an atmosphere where they would feel comfortable, so they don't have to do it at home, so their girlfriends don't have to do it for them."
The antithesis of its venerable exterior, the space could be a small but chic Manhattan gallery or loft with a suspended ceiling, were it not for the pushed-aside computer workstations. And the receptionist's desk, unobtrusively located in a far corner. And the bar. And the bottleneck of beautiful, beautiful people.
The place is full of beautiful people. I'm quite sure not everybody here is beautiful, but there are so many beautiful people that it washes out everything else, like lens flare. It's like a truck full of beautiful people collided with a truck full of really nice black clothes (and exactly one crate of saline implants) right out front. The effect is overwhelming; I feel that if I opened a copy of Interview, all the fashion, perfume and booze ads would be just empty backgrounds and bold slogans. Or maybe there'd be a sign: "Went to party at The Difference. Back Soon."
It smells like … what is that? Chocolate chip cookies? I round a corner and encounter — no shit — a fountain of melted chocolate. Waves of liquid confection cascade over three tiers above a table laid out with strawberries, cookies and pineapple.
The other half of the bisected ground floor is taken up by a line of massaging pedicure chairs, facing three large wall-mounted flatscreen TVs, and to be equipped with individual headsets. Yes, you will be able to ease your lumbar, rejuvenate your cuticles and watch the big game.
There's a small step on the way to the stairwell that's gonna kill somebody. In fact, as I write this, it almost does.
Upstairs, each room showcases a new and frightening chair/reclining table/contraption. This one might fly a spaceship; that one is probably used to torture information out of a captured soldier.
Outside, another bar beckons, in front of the ad hoc catering kitchen and the whirlpool. Such accommodations quickly erase whatever stigma might exist between the friends of the owner and the group of young men who talk a little too loudly about how they just dressed nice and walked in. There are far more women here than men, and while that might seem a bit weird at first, given the business' intended clientele, it's a hell of a marketing plan.
I enjoy a long, elliptical conversation about girls, work, writing versus journalism, girls, capitalism, the weather, and girls with a guy who has the same first name I do. We are offered finger foods ranging from wrapped filet mignon to skewers of mozzarella, tomato and basil. I ask if maybe the owner paid exotic dancers to come and mingle, and am rightfully embarrassed when my question is relayed to a charming Difference employee named Trish. I meet a young Florida State graduate who recently bought into an organic hay farm and says he has a cheap, 100% environmentally friendly agricultural-control program he's about to start marketing to Florida golf courses. I perfect the art of peripheral-vision cleavage appreciation.
And at some point, I realize that the little voice telling me I probably shouldn't be here — you know, the one that can be either heeded or actively antagonized, depending on the situation — had taken the night off. That we're all the same, hanging out, united in the intertwined causes of enjoying someone else's tab, smiling at one another and marveling at the notions that some people with more … something than we've got turn into businesses.
"It's my job as the owner to make everybody comfortable," says Kmentt.
He isn't talking about the party; he's talking about his new venture.
But he might as well be.
Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Oct 16-22, 2003.