Gay Club Jet Lag

sun. oct 19, 11:02 am
Hi everyoneeeee great news. After my incident, I am pleased to announce I do not have epilepsy! I confirmed this status earlier today when I attended the basement for the first time since the big seize and did NOT explode in front of the colorful lights. I have yet to get official results from the doctor, but at this point, we can chalk it up to a freak accident.

At the hospital, I was tempted to ask the doctor if I could still go to the club, but someone was actively having their own seizure across the room, so I thought the question might be in poor taste. I purchased my ticket a month ago with great excitement that I’d get to see Midland spin for the first time, but as I did, an anxious worm whispered in my ear that I wouldn’t live to see the day.

And well, I must say I’ve been feeling a little… erm… divinely cursed. After all, I fainted, broke my nose, and had a seizure. Earlier in the week, I received some bad news, and on Friday, I accidentally punched myself in the face because of course I did. Before I hit myself, I sensed something in the air, as if Pandora’s Box had been opened. I penned the following haiku:

I need to go home
and lock myself inside there
To hide from evil

Which greatly upset my friends. 90 minutes later, my knuckles kissed my nose. Since then, I’ve been keeping an eye out for evil spirits. By the way- they’re everywhere. But! I’m choosing to be positive. My Saturday night begins with Simona’s Diwali dinner, where I eat heavily and receive an incredibly simplified explanation of the holiday- basically, a triumph of good versus evil, knowledge over ignorance, a celebration of light in the darkness. (#TheLightIsComing.)

Returning to Brooklyn, I meditate on the mythology and its meaning with Megan as I plan my alarm for 2am. Later, I stir from my late-night catnap at precisely 1:58. I recall a tidbit that Oprah once shared- she doesn’t set alarms, she merely wills her body to wake at the right time. Despite my grogginess, I know fate is on my side tonight.

Thus begins my pre-club ritual. Stretching, light exercise, a shower, and something to sip on. I’ll confess I snagged a bottle of Soju from the dinner party, but truth is I did it for a bigger purpose. My outfit? A sparkling, oversized mesh top that dangles beautifully when I move, Mugler Angel parfum, a statement necklace, hot pink lip gloss mixed with deep red lipstick, ankle brace, and dancing shoes with good support. Around 2:50, I tiptoe out the house and glide to the L train.

I hop the turnstile (sorry, mom) and as soon as I land on the platform, so does the train. A smile cracks on my face. The world continues to affirm my destiny. Five stops later, I slide out, open the fire door for an old lady, and begin my hike to the club. Google Maps alleges this will take 21 minutes, but I’m a power walker. I can clear this in 15.

Exactly 15 minutes later, I arrive at my destination and find there’s no one in line for ticket holders. This couldn’t go better for me unless one million dollars magically appeared in my hands- but fear not- as I stroll into the barricade, I find a crumpled dollar bill on the floor and tuck it into my coat. Bingo.

Before I step in, I run into old friends. One of them calls me an angel. I clutch my new necklace, a rose quartz in the shape of an angel wing, and give him a big squeeze. At the entrance, the bouncers reject a pair of drunk bitches in the other queue. The evil spirits are out to play indeed. The head drunk bitch in charge yanks his friend by the hand and stumbles past me. No shade, but I get in immediately. A triumph of good versus evil, perhaps.

I rent a locker and stuff all my valuables inside. I’ve arrived at the perfect time, just a few minutes before Midland’s set. I step onto the dance floor and am immediately greeted by the familiar scent of the basement, an odor I can only describe as in the genre of steamed mushrooms.

After a pit stop in the bathroom to wash my hands and drink from the water fountain, I march into the studio. The previous act finishes their set, and I feel like I’m in Ibiza (derogatory). Slowly, the beat changes. Soulful synth sizzles my skin as the coked-out circuit gays start slithering out of the room. I’ve planned this perfectly. Midland and his cute mustache fully take over the music, and I let loose.

I realize about an hour later, I’m pretty much sober at this point. I trade dance moves with a few girls, and one blasts her electric mini-fan on my face. I feel good. I feel heavenly. Not to be a club rat, but girl, I needed this.

Anike says I might have manifested my recent darkness by calling it out so much, but it’s not like I could ignore it. Besides, it’s Halloween, and as many have noted lately, the veil is thin. As a naturally impish individual myself, I know forces of chaos don’t like to be disregarded. Knowledge over ignorance, perhaps?

I take heed of the present evil spirits: a trio of roided-out muscle gays dropping their pants at each other, a belligerent blonde who keeps leaning over the DJ booth, and a shirtless bro swinging his hot pink fanny pack, peddling poppers and k. I’d prefer if everyone treated the discotheque with some decorum, but I also recognize that it’s 6:50am and this kind of behavior comes with the territory.

Around 30 minutes past closing, Midland lights incense, propping it up in his can of Redbull as he spins his latest groove into a heartbeat pulse. As I’ve said before, good house music is an exorcism. I look around and breathe in the incense, the steamed mushroom, the stink of my sweat. I baptise myself in a mixture of body water and the drip of the AC above me. I dance with my unofficial coven of carries and allow the music to purge me from darkness. I watch the sunrise through blurry windows. I see the light.