Feature

Welcome to the Fun House

Ricky paces around the pool. For his paying guests, he functions as a combination camp counselor, cruise director, and concierge: He calls the caterer for Sunday's lobster barbecue, buys alcohol for the Saturday-evening cocktail party, and gets tickets to benefits like Gourmet Global Tastings, which the house is attending this evening en masse. "We like to go to these charity things," explains Bonnie, a smiley 32-year-old nursery-school teacher who favors Gucci. "Not that we're so into MS or whatever, but it's always a good party."

Walking me through the manicured grounds, Ricky fills me in on the elaborate selection process for the house. For most of the spring, about 500 people, "professionals, 28 to 36," pass through his partner Jeff's Upper West Side apartment for a weekly Sunday-afternoon meet-and-greet. "Most owners like to have their meetings at Hi-Life or Trilogy or some bar, but we make it more personal," he says. "Picking a house is like sorority rush or something," adds Bonnie. "I just liked this house and thought it was a nice clique of people. It wasn't too anything." Ricky nods. "We like to get people who know people that you know in the house, you know?" he says.

"Where'd you go to high school?" asks Bonnie, turning to me.

"Dalton," I say.

"Omigod, I used to live right around the corner--on 89th Street and Madison Avenue, in that big red building," she says.

"Hey, I have some friends who live there," I say. "Do you know the Neiders?"

"They lived across the hall from me!" she exclaims.

"See," says Ricky, clapping his hands and looking my way. "See! Now, if you were applying for the house, you'd be in."

At 6:30, Ricky presides over the weekly cocktail party at the house. The Chablis begins to flow freely, but many of the women aren't yet ready--Donna, for one, is prancing around with her blonde hair up in huge rollers. "My glamour technician--you know, like from Steel Magnolias--told me that I have to straighten my hair this way, not with a blow-dryer," she says gaily. "I like to play tennis. I bring my racquet out every weekend, but by the time it's cool enough to play, it's time to do my rollers."

"Too many women in this house are high-maintenance," sighs Suzanne, a trim 34-year-old who sells fashion accessories, rolling her metallic-shadowed eyes. "It's like, relax. You don't need to wear flip-flops in the shower here--this isn't camp."

"It's not?" I ask.

"Camp is like when you put Nair on someone's legs when they're sleeping," she says. "God, I totally did that once. It was terrible, but she had such hairy legs and we didn't know how to tell her!"

At 7:45, the well-dressed posse makes its way down the long driveway to the Shinnecock Shuttle, a van service they've hired for the night. "We don't believe in drinking and driving," explains Ricky. Popping the tops off of cold Coronas, everyone packs into the dark-red van as a sunburnt TV booker slips into the front seat. "Just 'cause we're going to a lobster bake doesn't mean we need to bring one," calls out Brian from the backseat. The booker giggles and turns up the radio: It's playing "Livin' la Vida Loca."

A huge white tent has been erected at East Hampton Airport for Gourmet Global Tastings, a food-and-wine-tasting benefit for Guild Hall. It's barely begun when we show up exactly at 8 p.m. Bobby Flay is sautéing mushrooms onstage. "My God, he is just the hottest thing ever," says Donna, pushing toward the boyishly handsome chef. The rest of the gang start circulating. "The guys in the house are nice guys, guys to like start out the night with, but they're not guys to date," explains Leslie, Suzanne's slender 30-year-old sister. "My God, you're hot," says a blond stockbroker with whom she has flirted on and off throughout the summer, sweeping her into his arms. "Ugh," sighs a plump brunette. "I never meet anyone. And if I ever do, they always live out of town. It's like, you could've told me that two hours ago when I started talking to you!"

Later this evening the trusty Shinnecock Shuttle will return to take the group to NV, a nightclub in East Hampton, all of them patiently biding their time outside as Ricky chats up the doorman. For now, however, it's cocktail hour. Again. As most of the group swigs Merlot at the Forest Glen?winery stand, I approach four women in the house whom I haven't met yet. "No offense, but we really don't want to talk to you," growls a tall, pretty woman who resembles Lara Flynn Boyle. "We all watched Sex and the City last week, and there was this episode where Carrie was supposed to be in this great photo shoot for the cover of a magazine, but she was all hungover and looked horrible. So she looked awful on the cover, and the cover was supposed to say single and fabulous, but instead they wrote single and fabulous??? So I guess that's what's going through all of our minds right now."