girl, last night was a think piece

A tale of guilt, undles, friendship and god.

By Greta Doyle

It was 10pm and I was vibing out in the bathtub of my apartment, watching family guy.-same shit as always lol,. I had set my laptop up propped on the toilet with three candles that I took from the dining room table. Peter Griffin was about to follow his newfound dream of becoming a world-famous bull rider, meanwhile, I’m off a delta-8 edible from the bodega, wondering if I’ll ever fall in love again. 

My friend Angel texted me that she’s hosting an event at a club about a mile away and offered me a list spot. Just like that, I felt the need to get out of the bathtub and actually be social; a lingering feeling that I’ve been gradually getting better at ignoring in the pursuit of alleged “creative isolation and alleged “self-care”. I probably would have benefited from staying in, but. I wanted to see my friends and strangers and maybe make out with someone. I wanted to chit-chat because I enjoy intoxicated conversations, I don’t even remotely view them as surface level like others do; I view them as somewhat self-actualized. I think oftentimes substances can unlock the least palatable version of someone and make it palatable. 

When I arrived at the club where Angel was hosting, I was greeted with loving arms from her and her new lesbian situationship. A lot of us have been completely baffled at her sapphic era, but as someone who has dabbled in the world of kitty, I viewed it as her getting to know herself and unlocking new pleasures both physically and mentally. I watched them dance under purple strobe lights while I thought about how I had been dancing alone for about a year now. 

Still, I adored seeing them happy and, truthfully, Angel is somewhat of a lighthouse in the midst; she represents authenticity, draped in 1990s glamour mixed with timeless humour and Joan Didion-level intelligence. About an hour later, after some undles, she told me that her situationship had done too much of the ketamine that we were offered by a brown haired lesbian and that she had to take her home. When I met said lesbian, I immediately was reminded of Shane from The L Word. Their aura was sombre yet loud, like a church bell or Kate Bush’s “The Sensual World”. Their presence followed you after they left the room and made you want to know more. They captivated me with the kundled glimmer in their eyes and their soft-butch tone of voice. Do I sound like a lesbian? - I hope not.

 

When Angel left to take care of her situationship, I found myself talking to a rather shy acquaintance from Philadelphia and their doll friend whom I had just met earlier that night. Both had a sense of kindness and humility that wasn’t always prevalent among people in nightlife, like you could laugh with them and be shady and not worry about coming across as cool. The one from Philadelphia said to me that it would be a good idea to go to a second location where her friend was DJ’ing. I was wired off the bundle as usual, so, of course, I wanted to keep partying. They got us an Uber, and away we went.

When we got to the second location, I saw a couple of friends. I hugged them and it felt like home; it felt like I had reason. They looked excited to see me, I felt blessed. I was only at this second location for about an hour, though, spending the majority of my time walking up and down the staircases of this industrial warehouse riddled with strobing lights. I was wired and just trying to think straight. This location was straight out of a Skins UK episode - stunning yet bewildering. I sectioned off from the crowd and explored the space alone because one of my personal issues is that I can’t ever seem to process my emotions in the presence of others. The only way for me to address my thoughts in an even remotely copacetic way is to walk around like I’m on a mission so that no one comes up to me or disrupts my thinking. The music there was blaring, and Ariel Zetina was bringing Chicago classics to New York like a gift wrapped in ribbon and satin, drenched in bass.

 In fact, I wrote down on my notes app during her set- “Ariel’s presence felt like walking in heels across a massive bridge between Chicago and New York. Everyone on the bridge was in full face and holding hands, walking with purpose to the beat.”

Walking with purpose is a motif in Trans-Femininity that isn’t spoken about enough. When you’re a doll in the city, you can never let anyone know that you’re scared, upset or confused. It’s sad, I know, but you have to walk with pride in the face of evil to survive. It’s your only liferaft against the currents of masculinity. A cunty walk is a slap in the face to those who want nothing more than for you to be sad and humiliated. If you strut hard enough in your size 12 heels,

 no one can hurt you but the cracks in the sidewalk.

The lights faded as I walked into the bathroom and sat on the toilet to think. I then thought about my friends, my mom, my cat, my writing, my presence in the lives of others; What does it mean? Introspection is sometimes the only cure for bouts of narcissistic escapism; however, in public settings, it’s not considered approachable to be visibly staring into space. That's why you need to isolate, even in public settings; not every trip to the bathroom is a team effort, girl.

I sat in the bathroom and wrote a poem while thinking about love.

While writing that poem, I received a text from my aforementioned “lighthouse friend”, Angel. She told me that her situationship was in bed safely and that she was going back out and I was to meet her there. So I did. The text lit up my smile. I love Angel. And after spending only about an hour at the second location, mostly sitting in the bathroom and walking up and down staircases, I called an Uber and left with Ariel and a few others.

When I arrived, I was greeted by friends who never really see me out that late. I hugged them even though they looked confused when they saw me. I then saw Angel in her adorable 2005 semi-formal dress, and she hugged me as if she had lived 50 lives since I last saw her. We walked further into the crowd and I then saw my friend Alexander dancing as the Gundle took over him; he rubbed his tan skin and danced in the center of the seating area as if he had never experienced turmoil in his life, I knew he was escaping something yet running towards himself at that moment. I found it beautiful, I’ve always found him so beautiful. It reminded me of a clip that would play at the beginning of an episode of Geraldo about NYC Nightlife in the 80s, particularly the Limelight and Club Kids. The sweat glistened on his skin against the dim lighting, and as I watched him, he relieved me of my own fear somehow. He was self-actualizing in front of me, if even for a second, he deserved that escape and to make love to his pain. 

On the other side of the room, two dolls were lying together, cuddling in sheer tops with exposed nipples, almost as if they were one; I like to think that they were one… And that we all are one. Everyone looked like a Renaissance painting; everyone looked like art. There was no sadness or fear, it had all been upcycled into a utopian experience where sex, love and drugs were each their cathedral worth devotion. We were simply all churchgoers. 

A DJ by the name of Matas was playing a soothing yet cunty mix of music that I’m not going to bother elaborating upon because I’m bad at describing genres. I will, however, say that each time the music softened, you could hear people screaming “GET IT  GIRL!!!!!!”. Matas was annihilating his set yet kept a calmness to his demeanour while playing. He had a profound eastern European sensuality to his facial expressions… almost as if he had been czech-hunted just moments before the party, idk, either way, I wish I had told him that I saw world peace in the eyes of a twink as he lifted his head from a line of mephedrone during the set. This twink’s eyes were like stained glass windows in the Vatican.

When I saw that twink’s eyes, I didn't see what his father had done to him for being an effeminate child; I simply saw god.

Moments later, the lights had finally begun projecting themselves through the glass windows onto the sweaty faces of the attendees, it was ethereal. In fact, when I looked around at everyone, all I could see were crystallized beads of sweat on the bodies of people who had sacrificed so much to even be in those bodies in the first place. It almost made me cry. Matas was the pilot of the cunty flight that led people towards momentary bodily freedom. If I knew him well, I would tell him that during his set, I was grateful for my life and that I needed to feel that. 

The guilt had exited further out of the building with each track transition and the music felt like an arctic breeze, like I had traveled to Iceland, Longyearbyen and Oslo all in a matter of seconds. Each person I met felt like a new city and a new world. We stood there with a sense of gratitude for our own reality that was personalized and perfect for each of us that night. I looked at Noah, Patty and Delaney as they danced their last dances of the night and felt grateful to know them. 

But now… it was time for a 4th location. One of the most authentically sweet and intriguing girls I've met in New York, who I rarely see (Chrissy), Noah and I got into an Uber and left. 

I had fallen in love with Chrissy that night because she offered a level of authentic kindness that I believe the world lacks. She was a Southern Belle and a kind soul. When we arrived at Location 4, I was confused as to why I even went, so maybe this is where my metaphors and allegories become less biblical and romanticized… I still loved every moment, though. As you can imagine, a fourth location isn’t exactly healthy, though it can be quite fun. We arrived at a club with a massive backyard with tented areas and firepits; If you live in New York, I don’t need to specify, you know what I’m talking about. 

 

Anyways, 30 of us piled into one and began chatting. We were sitting on the benches, lying on the ground and indulging in whatever undle was there. I watched as the vials, crushers and keys circled the room, moving from limp wrists to soft effeminate manicured hands; to dykey grasps. It looked like an ornate burning man full of people wearing Anna Bolina and Telfar. It felt like home to a lot of them, their own little cracked-out slice of heaven, lol. But realistically, just glamorous hell. Maybe, we had shifted the narrative on gay people going to hell by making hell into heaven and making home into a poorly heated tent in industrial Queens. It was special, I would recommend it.

I watched one of my sexiest friends, a version of present-day Greyson Chance, drift off on a dose. I kept singing to myself “heavennnnn couldn’t waiiiiiittt for youuuuu” by Beyonce as people shoved limes into his mouth. I guess citrus wakes people up from a hardcore dose? People ran to him and cradled him; people who you often don’t see the humanity in actually have hearts of gold. People who have been shaped into something that even they themselves may take issue with. 

Sadly, we are all a product of our surroundings, and that can be a good or bad thing depending on privilege and perspective. I saw a room full of twinks, lesbians, they/thems, dolls and most importantly, I saw beauty. I saw hurt walk out as resilience walked in, even though I felt somewhat ignored - I felt as if I was a secret agent or an undercover journalist making notes of my surroundings. I felt invisible at the fourth location, everyone was sectioned off into their own little conversations that I couldn’t manage to join, and yet it still felt as if I was on stage in some theatre production - somewhat of a nonperson, yet a single stroke of the night as a painting. I saw a glimmer of self-made religion in the eyes of every person there.

I think whether or not we’re posting on Instagram about the issues in the USA or whatever, a lot of people are scared. A lot of us are terrified for our friends, families, neighbours and selves. Which leaves me completely puzzled as to why I saw so much hope in everyone’s demeanour. Maybe it was the drugs or the music or the escapism, and yes, maybe escapism isn’t always the best answer - In fact, it isn’t, but it felt necessary. I obviously hope that we all find time to take baths, write poems, eat meals, and relax- BUT I also will never undermine the power of queening out with some undles. I will say this, though, in defence of glamorizing/romanticizing undle use.

1. You should NOT be carrying without drinking water and eating.

2. You SHOULD only be doing undles in moderation. 

3. You SHOULD be taking care of your health first and foremost……… 

Okay, now that that’s out of the way. I can go back to romanticizing my personal experience that night lol. As you may have already guessed, I learned a lot from this carry. I felt and saw so much. I lived many lives, all of which were sacred. I saw trans women braid each other's hair and then cuddling platonically. I saw gay guys take care of each other, I saw the effects of ostracization being shattered; I saw it with my own eyes. 

Two of the most jaw-dropping trans people I’ve ever seen walked around the inside of the club, standing tall in outfits that were incomparable to anything I had ever seen. They intimidated me with their beauty, but I played slide with both of them still; it felt like rewriting childhood trauma and blessing each other with a healing potion of sorts.

I saw myself in the mirror 0 times that night and that was shockingly ok with me despite usually having consistent dysphoria… I probably had a bit of stubble and my overdrawn lip liner was probably gone with the wind. Truthfully, my lip lining skills only look acceptable for about an hour each day but I didn’t give a fuck that night. There were shirtless men kissing, cuddling and feeling each other’s cocks 15 feet away, no one was looking at me, God I love faggots. 

I finished a halfsy of bundle and was walking on sunshine. I walked over to my friend Conn and indulged in the peace that she effortlessly provides to me, like I always do.

 ‘She omits the heat of the Sacramento sun’; 

(As I said in a poem that I wrote about her earlier this month)

 I then looked to my right and saw the anxiety in Noah’s heart be washed away by the fact that her humor and presence are so widely beloved. Noah has an essence of comedic reference that is unmatched. She can unintentionally command a room with nothing more than facial expressions and minimal words, lighting up the space so effortlessly, even though I knew that she’d been hurting just like the rest of us. I looked to my left and saw Patty with some of her new friends. I then had to cast aside my jealousy to focus on the fact that I truly believe those new friends of hers are lucky to even know her. Even though we fight, she’s my sister, my plug, my family, and honestly, an innovator… I definitely annoy her a lot, though. Still, I treasured her being there. I treasured everyone who was there and savored every moment. Nightlife will continue to influence my writing and I want this particular piece to be a love letter to the queer/trans people I know; I mean it as such. Girl, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, “there is a light and it never goes out”... There is a bump at the end of the rainbow, whatever.

To finish off my #talesofacarry, all I can say is that I successfully shifted the narrative of my own nightlife and drug use that night and unlocked versions of myself that I had thought to be extinct. Versions of myself that I pray to meet again. I felt like I was alive and drenched with love, even while sitting in perfect silence. I saw people cry to each other, hug it out, do a bump, do a dose, keep dancing and abandon their pain for glamour and a higher power -  lust, love, heaven, a prolonged 18-hour mass. I saw the face of god in each and every person’s dilated pupils, and I felt hope for not only myself, but for all of us. <3