It’s barely 10:30 p.m. on a classic Manhattan spring night when they start arriving at the theater: The girls in sequin dresses and fabulous four-inch heels, hardened by years of dating in New York, but ready to be Botoxed by a hope in true love injected courtesy of a homegrown fairy tale.In a ritual repeated in theaters all over the city, hundreds and hundreds of women are here, in the Upper West Side, to see the very first showing of the Sex in the City movie at midnight on Thursday night. There is enough estrogen in the theater to reverse menopause forever. Fresh off their pre-parties and fueled by their first cosmos in years, they’ve come in packs of fifteen, eight, and of course, four, looking every bit like real-life sets of Carries, Mirandas, Charlottes and Samanthas as they strut through the lobby in an unofficial fashion show: there are nouveau-flapper dresses decorated with Carrie’s signature big flower brooch; very Charlottesque cardigans paired with tutu skirts; maxi dresses accessorized with chunky jewelry Miranda might rock. Someone walks by a slinky black dress with a pair of over-the-knee patent-leather boots. Can you say Samantha? Hundreds of clutches, berets, a telltale red-soled Louboutin heel or two, full makeup and hair round out the looks.

The gay boys have come, too, in full effect—decked out in tweed suits and matching hats, or preppy shirts that showed off their muscles, designer jeans that fit to a tee, manpurses tucked under their arms. Straight boys, the boyfriends who’d been dragged to the movie or come along to impress their dates, keep a dress code too. It consists of looking as hetero as possible: three-day old stubble, ratty jeans and t-shirts, anything that says, loud and clear, “I’m here, but not queer.”

Everyone packs into not one, not two, but five theaters, filling each one with giggles and chatter straight out of Sex:

“I hope Carrie ends up with Big. That would be so romantic!”

“You guys heard the rumor that a main character is gonna die, right? My money’s on Steve. Didn’t he already lose one of his balls to cancer?”

Girl #1: “How long is the movie?”

Girl #2: “Two hours and 20 minutes.”

Girl #1: “Well, it better be 2:15, because I have to go f@%& after this.”

“I hope you brought your flip flops. We’ll never find a cab at 3 in the morning.”

At 11:30, the excitement escalates into frenzy: Girls vamp in front of newspaper and magazine photographers who are there to capture the madness. People google the movie’s leaked plot points on their Blackberrys and spectulate about possible outcomes: the wedding dress Carrie would wear, whether Miranda and Steve would stay together, whether they’d get to see Smith or any other hot guys run around naked.

At 11:50, frenzy turns into impatience. A bored boyfriend, wearing hetero basketball shirt and hairy armpits, tries to get everyone in the main theater to do the wave.

By 12:01, the official start time, the lights are still on. People start clapping rhythmically, as a reminder to the theater people to get the party started.

At 12:06, the theater finally darkens, and after a string of previews, Sex and the City’s iconic theme song came on. Cheers. The characters walk into the frame one by one. The biggest applause? For Kim Cattrall. “Get that money, girl!” someone in the theater yells, instantly justifying Cattrall’s movie-delaying fight for a bigger paycheck.

And then, for almost two and a half hours, a tidal wave of emotions: general gasps at the size of Carrie’s new penthouse closet, awws at nearly every early scene with Big, riotous laughter at truly hilarious moments, onscreen, and off: When a phone rings in the middle of a poignant, key scene, someone belts out an awesomely unladylike “Get off the phone, asshole!” But then, when one of the characters is betrayed by her guy, there’s the exclamations of “Been there,” and “still there!” reminding everyone just what made the showso fabulously successful in the first place: deep relatability to the realest female characters ever put on TV.

When the credits roll and the last bit of applause dies down and the girls in sequins and pumps reluctantly leave the fairy tale New York world, they gather outside in the real one, reminiscing about the movie in husky 3 a.m. voices and checking out other girls’ outfits one last time.

One girl spots a statuesque Latina wearing a pair of gorgeous golden peep-toe heels.

And—you guessed it—it makes her wonder, who made those?

With a knowing smile, the Latina in the golden shoes names the brand. They aren’t Manolos, but tonight, they’d done alright.

She hops to the curb, hails down a speeding taxi and disappears into the glittering city.

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