“If you’re going to be a dyke, get into it.”
This weekend was New York City Pride, and you know what that means: paying tons of money to get and stay wasted with lots of people you either have already slept with, or would never sleep with, or maybe, come to think of it, both, all in the name of queer liberation, and all on the 55th anniversary of Stonewall. My problem? I just wasn’t in the mood. The Fire Island gays on my timeline were posting Excel spreadsheets mapping out their party plans in 30-minute increments, but another year of claustrophobically crowded dance parties filled me with dread. Moshing with poppered-up and g’d-out gay boys just didn’t sound all that appealing. And neither did squeezing my sweaty self into latex for some slightly queerer rave.
So I decided to put my Pride in someone else’s hands.
On Saturday, I called up the youngest and coolest queer person I know in New York. Ellie, as I’ll call them — I changed their and their friends’ names so they could get properly messy without Googleable consequences — is a rising college senior living in Brooklyn and working as an intern for the summer. I’m admittedly envious of this 21-year-old. Their skin is still clear, and they end their sentences with a coquettish “tee hee,” and their personal politics aren’t as bitchy as mine have become. Luckily for me, they were willing to let me encroach on their Pride plans and invited me to join them and their friends for the Dyke March before heading to a couple of dyke bars. By the end of my night, I was in a much more optimistic state of mind and really into Chappell Roan.
6:16 p.m., Bryant Park | Unlike the Pride parade on Sunday, the Dyke March is really more of a protest — there are no corny, corporate-sponsored, drag-queen-infested floats here — and this year it is more or less a protest against the war in Gaza. (The official theme is “Dykes Against Genocide.”) Hundreds of queers in various states of undress are trooping down Fifth Avenue, holding glittered cardboard posters that read “Boobs Not Bombs” and “Brats for a Free Palestine.” Which doesn’t mean it’s not a party. There are bubbles in the air, and Ellie shows up in a tight leather minidress, holding a Twisted Tea in a plastic bag. They brought along two friends: a spunky redhead and self-described “femme dyke” named Sarah, who works at Coyote Ugly (“It’s a deceptively queer job”), and Mitch, a they/them who tells me they have already spotted a past paramour in the crowd. It’s humid, and Ellie is struggling to keep their dress on. “Are you tits falling out again? Do you need the keffiyeh?” Mitch asks. And on I march with these three adorable nonbinary Bratz dolls.
7:00 p.m., Fifth Avenue | Apparently, Sarah got broken up with at the Dyke March last year, and the theydies are hoping to “redeem the experience.” They entertain me with gossip about life at Bryn Mawr. Mitch describes their friend group on campus as “brown gendernonconforming weirdos” and the school population more broadly as “gay as fuck.” “Queer culture at Bryn Mawr,” Ellie tells me, “is the dominant culture.” In fact, they can think of only three straight students there. “Wait, no — two. One isn’t straight anymore.” I learn that all of them are currently single and not not interested in flirting tonight. The crowd starts chanting, “AOC, go to hell!”
8:27 p.m., Washington Square Park | The march ends in Washington Square Park, and we all take a seat in the grass and light up some “ciggies.” “There’s nothing sexier than being queer as fuck and living a queer life,” Sarah declares, before hesitantly admitting, “I hate bisexuals … but I’m consumed with love for the dykes.” There are plenty of those here — many of them dancing topless in the fountain, where the water has turned an alarming shade of brownish green. Ellie and Mitch decide to hop in. “If you’re going to be a dyke, get into it,” Sarah encourages me — she’s staying dry because she’s wearing “vintage” — but I’m really not interested in risking a bacterial infection, so I just buy a “pink pussy”–flavored nutcracker instead. “I’m radiating queer joy,” Ellie says while drying off, when we all notice the fireflies coming out. “And queer piss,” Mitch shoots back.
8:54 p.m., Uber | We decide to go recharge at Sarah’s apartment, and much of the way there we talk about pronouns. The consensus: He/theys are great.
10:05 p.m., East Village | Pregame priorities: (1) Inhale some dollar slices. (2) Put on Kehlani. (3) Shower off the fountain slime. We also down shots of whiskey mixed with tequila — “To grace, to God, if you can’t come in her, come on her” — because last night someone at Coyote Ugly told them it tastes like Fireball (It doesn’t). Sarah and Mitch change their outfits, opting for T-shirts that read, respectively, “Butch Bait” and “Save a Horse Ride a Dyke.” Then they tell me about our options for the night, listing all the clubs and parties we could possibly go to: “The Bush, Gush, Squirt … Tight Pussy, Pussy Squeeze … Thirst … Gorilla Grip …” At some point, I realize they’re teasing me and not all of these are real parties.
10:50 p.m., Uber | We choose a party called Kittypool at the queer Irish pub Ginger’s in Park Slope. Unfortunately, it’s raining, which the crew immediately deems “homophobic” (“Protect the bangs!”). In the car, Mitch tells me about their most recent “U-Haul” gone wrong with a lesson: “Lesbians crave unrequited romantic friendships.” This we have in common.
11:16 p.m., Ginger’s | Well, it’s Pride. So there’s a line. And it’s huge. But Sarah is absolutely ecstatic to discover she doesn’t know a single person in it. This relief lasts about five minutes. Soon arrives a masc with Justin Bieber (circa 2010) hair whom she once made out with at the Bush (yes, that one’s real). “That person tried to cannibalize me,” she scoffs. “They were trying to eat my neck alive. If you’re going to get kinky, if you’re going to hurt me, do it in private.”
11:45 p.m., Ginger’s | Still in line, my new little enby sisters continue to educate me about their Zoomer perspective. For one: They don’t fuck with Lana, for political reasons. Also, I learn that, at Bryn Mawr, taking your situationship to the dining hall for brunch on a weekend morning is the equivalent of a hard launch and Mitch has been known to do such a thing. “I’m a munch! I’m sorry!” they exclaim. Hesitantly, I tell them I’m not sure of the definition of a munch. “Brock … when two women love each other very much …”
Midnight, Ginger’s | We’re joined in line by a squad who just came from the gay bar Animal in Williamsburg. It opened earlier this year, and although it calls itself an “all-inclusive queer bar,” that was not their experience tonight. “It was a sausage fest.” Even worse, when one of them bumped into a shirtless jock, they overheard him tell his friend “I’m gonna kill this lesbian.” There is, thankfully, not a single cis man in sight at Ginger’s.
12:32 a.m., Ginger’s | Finally, we get past the green-haired bouncer — “That’s so Brat coded” — and into the bar, where it is delightfully sweaty and the dance floor is filled with couples staring longingly into each other’s eyes. “Yearning is a core tenet of lesbianism,” Mitch informs me. There is also, however, a lot of not-so-subtle heavy petting happening, and one girl in the crowd is holding up a sign on her cell phone that reads “IS SOMEBODY GONNA MATCH MY FREAK?” We buy a round of shots.
1:00 a.m., Ginger’s | Ellie finds a dance-floor makeout, but eventually returns with disappointing news. “Not a good kisser. A lot of teeth. And … they were licking my chin.” Outside, I smoke a cigarette with a Canadian expat on her way out of the party. “There’s a lot of diversity here tonight, which I’m thankful for. The only other lesbian bar I’ve been to was all super-white blonde girls. Not to hate, but to hate a little. ’Cause I’m brown,” she says. She had an excellent first Pride in New York City. “I fucked someone this morning, then did some homework, then came here. Now I’m going to Buffalo Wild Wings.”
1:35 a.m., Uber | The crew decides they want music with words, so we order an Uber to Henrietta Hudson, the West Village lesbian bar, or “Hens,” as they call it. In the car, Ellie and Mitch get into a playful spat because Ellie forgot Mitch’s sun sign. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking with me? You forgot? I can’t believe you forgot my fucking sun sign, bitch! I’ve known you for three years! I’m gonna kill you!” Mitch screams, clearly a little bit tipsy. (I asked them to finish my drink at Ginger’s, and they downed it in seconds.) “Brock, put this in the article. Write this down,” Ellie instructs me. “I hate gay people so bad.”
2:01 a.m., Henrietta Hudson | There is yet another long line at Hens (here’s what I wrote, a little tipsy, in my Notes app: “Pride = lines”), so first we pick up some more Twisted Teas, the group’s bodega drink of choice. Sarah warns me that the restroom stalls inside the bar are famously debauched. “Every time you go into the Hens restroom, you either get strapped or start a two-year relationship.” Speaking of: Everyone really needs to pee. “Just think about sex,” Ellie says. “That won’t work. Have you heard of squirting?” Sarah squeals.
2:55 a.m., Henrietta Hudson | We make it past the door gay in a cowboy hat and onto a dance floor that is so packed that — and I’m not exaggerating here — at one point, while being jostled between two busty girls, both of my feet leave the floor and I am suspended in the air for several seconds. We all manage to fight our way to the bar for more shots. On the menu: a “Wet Ass Pussy Shot” and a “Buttery Nipple.” Since I’m playing “sugar mommy” for the night, we get tequila.
4:00 a.m., Henrietta Hudson | We dance for hours to Charli’s “Mean Girls” and Tinashe’s “Nasty” and “W.A.P.” It may be just as crowded as any other Pride party I’ve been to, but here everyone’s positively glowing, no pesky cis gays in sight. When the DJ plays “Born This Way,” it’s the only time I can remember having ever felt something while listening to that song. Ironically, “Gimme Gimme Gimme (a Man [my emphasis] After Midnight)” is a crowd-pleaser. We end the night in a group hug on the sidewalk outside, and at 4:53 a.m. the theydies send me a selfie. “Made it haurm … chicken gyros secured.”
This article originally appeared in are u coming?, a newsletter about New York nightlife. Sign up here.
Related
