Pop Life

The only rewarding aspect of being young and well connected in New York City is that you will always find a party to go to (or crash) any night of the week. Promoters take note, if you throw it, I will come. So much so that merely a month after arriving in New York, Friday and Saturday nights became a respite from my otherwise hectic weekly agenda. Every single night, I’d find a different party at a different spot. It kept the crowds moving from the East Village down to the Lower East Side, over on to Williamsburg and back over the bridge to Chelsea or Chinatown. And the week culminated on Sunday night with the biggest, most notorious party in all of Manhattan, or so I had heard.

I will never forget my first Sunday night at the Hiro Ballroom for the Cuckoo Club, the dance party at the Maritime Hotel in the Meatpacking District. Hosted by Amanda Lepore, the poster child/cover girl of the freakshow/fashionshow nightlife debaucheries that regained popularity in the 21st century with the release of the film, Party Monster, and her entourage of club-kid socialites, Hiro’s feels like being trapped in a David LaChapelle photoshoot. The longer you stayed, the slower time passed. Everyone wanted to be here, beautiful and young, dearly clutching on to the last night of the week. Because as soon as Monday rolled around, it meant a new cycle, more wrinkles and worries and the awareness that nothing lasts forever.

Amateur models, prolific porn stars and glowing go-go boys, tanned creatures mingling with the stylish creeps of the underworld: it’s a kaleidoscope of characters and here I am too, swimming in the dark. I’ve dragged a guy I met that Thursday at Splash, the frat boy frenzy that caters to young, Midwest transplants still carrying their college IDs and popping their collar.

There was no cover, but unless we wanted to wait in line, it was vital to schmooze with the snobby doorboy whom I had met a week prior at The Plumm in the West Village. As soon as we step, Frat Boy comments on how this is so not his scene. Which I always think it’s just a condescending way of saying that someone is not comfortable or secure in the environment. And I guess he had a point, this party is not for everyone, but removing themselves from the festivities so early in the night just doesn’t feel right to me. That’s so not my scene.

So he’s surprised when I tell him that I want to stay pass our first drink.

“I’ve got to get going, though,” Frat Boy says. “I have work in the morning… don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’m already out, it’s not like I’m going to stay here until dawn. If you want to go, just go. I’ll be fine.”

“By yourself? Isn’t that a little weird?”

“There’s a transsexual walking around topless and dancing by the bar. Trust me, I’ll be fine.”

Frat Boy takes off and I never see him again. But I don’t care. I order another drink and walk to the top of the stairs. From up so high, I can see the entire Japanese-inspired ballroom and the pool of men glistening under the bright red lights. Tonight I don’t have an agenda. I’m more of a spectator, observing from the sidelines. Perhaps I will dive in some other night. I finish my gin and tonic and head down towards the main entrance. It is getting late, and I do have to be at work at ten in the morning.

I decide that instead of trying to maneuver my way through the crowd, pushing and shoving my way out, I should take the route that leads through the elevated booths and out the other side. As I walk by, I notice a tall black guy with glitter on his face and wearing a tight leather jacket smoking a cigarette. Several people in the booths are, so I take my pack of Parliament lights out and light one.

I don’t remember exactly how it happened, I think I must have approached someone and started a stifling conversation, but next thing I know I’m sitting in one of the booths, talking to two tall guys, both at Columbia law school. Guys are lounging all around the booth, lurking almost. I take a look around, counter clockwise sitting down, it’s me, tall law student, tall law student #2, dark-haired hottie in a fedora, a baby-faced, blue-eyed boy with spiky, frosted hair, a fit black guy wearing a tank top and… wait, a minute. That baby face! Those blue eyes! The spiky, frosted hair! It’s former N’ Sync’er Lance Bass! What is he doing here? What am I doing sitting at his table?

But I can’t freak out and act like a teeny bopper fanatic, that would just diminish my luck and finesse that got me sitting almost next to a former pop star. Besides, when it comes to celebrities, I’ve learned it’s best to pretend you have no idea of their social magnitude. It’s all about keeping composure. Someone introduces me to Lance, and I manage not to bring up how I used to sing, “Tearin’ Up My Heart” in the shower when I was 13.

Apparently that summer, Lance was doing a stint in some Broadway show and was a common sight all over New York at various gay parties and other events. So it wasn’t that glorious that I ended up “hanging out” with him.

It gets to be almost 3:30 a.m., I’m running out of conversation topics with the group and I still have to work the next morning. At this point, Lance has stood up and is now lingering close by, dancing in place with a few other guys. I say my goodbyes to all and go down to where Lance is standing.

He’s just standing there, not talking or anything, so I go up to him to say goodbye. Even though I’ve just met him, I act like we’ve been friends since… we were both in the Mickey Mouse Club. I’m not a bit intimidated, so I give him a hug and make sure to inhale deeply when I get up close to his neck. He smells like baby powder.

So it’s true what they say: you should always aim for the moon, no matter how many plastic surgeries she has gone through. Even if you miss, you’ll still soar with former pop stars.

[Photos courtesy of OUT.com]

The Husband Hunter

I grab all the papers and stuff them in the glossy navy blue folder they gave me at the orientation an hour earlier. My hotel room is clean and spacious but nothing to brag about. I have a great view of 7th Avenue. New York is misty today. I scramble to the restroom, fix my hair and take the small bottle of Burberry cologne I bought just for the occasion. I spray it a few inches in front of me and walk right into the floating fragrance with force, feeling the small particles land on my blazer and lime green tie. It matches my Kenneth Cole watch.  Shit! I’m already late for the first meeting, so I rush out my room and down to the lobby to the main conference room.

The room is crowded with college boys all wearing black blazers. I walk in with confidence, a trait I’m certain all these men possess. Minutes before anyone takes the podium, I take a seat towards the back, perfect location to scope out the entire room. I open my folder, and read on one of the papers that the first thing on the itinerary is welcoming remarks by some hotshot at Lehman Brothers. Welcome to OUBC, Out for Undergraduate Business Conference—a two-day networking seminar in the heart of New York for all those overachieving, Ivy-league educated gay undergrads in the country.

How the hell did I get here? I was waitlisted at Princeton, my G.P.A. is dismal, I went to an overcrowded public school in California, and my creative writing major is not exactly the shortest route to i-banking or consulting. Damn, not even accounting.

I had first heard about OUBC two months earlier from a cute NYU boy I was drunkenly flirting with at Phoenix. He thought it would be a great opportunity to meet recruiters, network and hopefully land a golden internship at one of the big banks. He had intentions of becoming a high-rolling, i-banker. I had intentions of marrying one.

So this conference was perfect. Imagine the contacts I’d make? Dozens of put-together gay guys vying to be one step ahead in the competitive world of finance. And I would be the midst of it all, in the same hotel, undercover, trying to get them under the covers.

I got my resume together, highlighting my short experience at a national business publication and exaggerating my desire to enroll in an MBA program. And two months later, here I am, sitting at the Sheraton Hotel’s conference room in New York, listening a power lesbian give advice on how to keep in touch with recruiters, format a resume and informing us of the perks of joining the LGBT network at a firm. Apparently, there are many. Rumor has it that the gay network at Boston Consulting Group sent all their gay associates to Paris…

But instead of taking notes on how to secure a lucrative future career, I was surveying the room and taking notes on potential lifemates. If he raised his hand and kept asking questions? Too eager, next! If his tie is tied in an Onassis knot? Too flamboyant, next! If he has spiked his hair with pounds of product? He’s a lesbian, next!

Next thing on the itinerary, we break up into small groups and we’re given a business problem. We’re expected to work together and come up with a profitable solution. Bottom line: I don’t give a shit, so instead I volunteer to be the note-taker and agree with absolutely everything this Columbia undergrad, who has imposed his leadership, has to say. That’s perhaps the best way to deal with an Ivy leaguer: sit back, pretend like he’s correct and let him blow you. Yes, oftentimes they are right, but the way they go about it is so obnoxious. Columbia is cute, but I could tell he would be controlling in the long run. Next!

The plan for after dinner is a laid back cocktail social that the organizers had planned for us in order to relax a bit after a day full of bullshit. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. But since I heard that the year before, all of the participants had gotten wasted and ended up at one of the sponsor’s West Village townhouse engaging in questionable activities, this year, you had to carry a special red sticker on your name tag to get alcoholic beverages. Only the organizers had them.

After my second diet coke, I can’t bear the dry spell any longer. The only thing worse than being forced to make small talk with wannabe bankers is having to do it sober. On my way to the restroom, I notice that one of the organizers had left his name tag on a small table right outside the room, the name tag with the red sticker! Cautious not to get caught, I grab the tag and dash towards the restroom. I slowly peel the red sticker from the organizer’s tag and stick it right on mine. After smoothing it out a bit, I leave the restroom and head towards the bar.

After I order a gin and tonic without much of a fuss, a participant with long, sandy hair and green eyes looks at me and asks, “You’re an organizer! Oh man, this whole time I thought you were an undergrad. Where do you work?”

“Uh, actually, I’m not really an organizer,” I say as I start walking away not to draw the attention of the organizers that were mingling a few feet away from us.

The boy follows me, so I have to continue the explanation.

“I just stole the red sticker from a tag I found outside,” I say. “C’mon! Is it really that hard to figure out a way to get some gin around here?”

He laughs and takes a sip of my drink. Shortly after, I learn that the boy goes to Princeton and his family lives in the Upper East Side so he’s not staying at the hotel. He has just gotten back from studying abroad in Argentina, and really has no interest in being an i-banker, but his father a principal at McKinsey, made him come.

“I really just want to work for a non-profit,” Princeton confesses, “I feel like all this will still be useful.”

“Well, now that we’re being honest: I don’t want to go into banking either. The long hours, the pressure, I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I want to be a writer,” I say with a bit of an attitude. “Don’t worry, I’m fully prepared to be starving and living in a shithole in the Lower East Side for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, it’s so infuriating to see all these people, all these guys, doing this for the money. That’s really the only reason anyone goes into banking: the money! I’d rather enjoy my life. So are you writing a story about the conference then?”

“Yeah, you could say that…”

“Alright, don’t worry. You’re secret is safe with me, I’m not going to out you.”

“Haha, well I heard during dinner that there are two straight guys here passing as gay, just to get the connections. Them two over there…”

“Haha, someone should really say something. It can be a public inning,” Princeton says, but before I can continue the repartee, his phone vibrates.

“Oh listen, I’m about to go meet my dealer downstairs, you want to come down with me?”

“Sure, you want to smoke up in my room upstairs?”

And just like that, I find myself smoking pot with a nice, down-to-earth Princeton boy whose dreams of helping the world outweigh the need to stuff his wallet. As I take hit after hit of the poorly rolled joint, I imagine my future as his trophy husband.

Inhale. His parents, progressive and supportive, would find me a breath of fresh air in their stuffy Upper East Side existence. I’d delight the elegant crowds at the galas and fundraisers and they’d be ok with me staying at home working on my novel. Once it sold, we’d take all the money and sail around the Greek isles for weeks, drinking champagne, getting tanned and inviting a boy or two to join us after dark.

Every morning before another draining day at the office, I’d have his coffee ready just the way he liked it, and I would make sure to have dinner reservations made before he got home. I’d iron his shirts and give him foot rubs on the weekends and take our dog, a husky named London, to the vet. We’d live below 14th Street because he would never really be able to get the hip out of me. And that’s what he’d love about me. Exhale.

Meant to Be

My face after I get off the phone causes Sunny D some concern.

“What’s going on? Who was that?” he asks but I don’t have the time to answer him. There are a million little thoughts preoccupying my mind right now. I leave him in my room, dash out of the apartment and head down taking elevator to the lobby of our building. We have an unannounced guest.

I open the front door and let her in, wearing grey linen pants that flare down to her high heels, a navy cami under a white ruffled blouse.

She takes off her large, dark brown sunglasses to reveal her green eyes. Like a gypsy’s eyes I’ve always thought. She has a new haircut too. Her jet-black hair is less voluminous and cut right above her shoulders with sharp bangs hanging right down to her eyelashes. Even when flying cross-country, my mother doesn’t understand the concept of dressing casual.

“You don’t think I’d surprise you,” my mother says in her Spanish accent almost with a chuckle. She gets her tenses confused, rarely utilizing the past tense. Appropriate for a woman that has taught me to live always in the present. Mom has managed to not only surprise me by hopping on a plane on a whim and coming to visit me in New York, but she’s also surprised herself. She loves her newly rediscovered adventurous side. Reminds her of the days she’d used to go out to dance clubs in Guadalajara all night and come home at dawn. A past she couldn’t cling on to anymore.

I hug her then ask, “What are you doing here?” I try to make it sound like I’m delighted to see her, but secretly I’m also terrified.

“Few days off from work, I think, I’ll go to New York,” she says as we take the elevator back up to my floor. She has already checked into a hotel two blocks south of the Empire State Building so she’s only carrying her thick leather purse.

“Wait right here,” I say when we get to my door, “the apartment is a little messy.”

“Messier than your room back home?”

“Much messier!”

I run back into my apartment, close the door behind me keeping my mother at a safe distance. I actually consider locking the door, but then Sunny D comes out of my room and asks, “What’s going on?”

“My mom. She’s here! Hurry, go put on your pants!” Sunny D gives me the “oh my” look and turns back into the room. “And hide the pot! And the lube! And… can you make my bed?”

My mom knocks on the door. I let her in and introduce her to Sunny D, who is now, thank God, wearing pants.

“This is my friend. He also lives here. With me. Well not with me… but in this apartment. He’s my roommate! That’s why he is here too. He lives in that room. So he’s here.”

Extending his hand, Sunny D says, “Hi” in a perfect pitch for parental approval. My mom shakes his hand and smiles gleefully. She judges people instantly. And so far, I can tell she likes him. I give her a tour of my small apartment. She walks into my room, takes a quick look around and the looks at me with somewhat disappointed.

“Mijo! Your bed!”

Fast-forward to two hours later and my mom goes from merely liking to adoring Sunny D. They are sitting on the couch, watching the episode of Sex and the City where the girls go to L.A. and Charlotte realizes that her marriage is a “fake Fendi!”

They’re eating popcorn mixed in with M&M’s, a treat I was certain my mother would have second thoughts about but is not enjoying copiously like a 7-year-old pudgy kid at a carnival. She has gotten adventurous, I think, as I lounge on the other couch flipping through the pages of a magazine and watching them snuggle up on the couch like gal pals. Sunny D is making her gasp. He’s making her giggle. I knew the kid had charm, but my mom has built-in reservations. Reservations he blew away effortlessly like fan blowing through confetti.

St. Mark’s Place, the Met and Mamma Mia later, the weekend ends and my mom has to get ready to go back to California. As we wait outside her hotel for her cab, we share a cigarette and she looks at me and tells me a story of when I was a young boy growing up in Mexico.

“You know, ever since you were like 5 or 6, you wanted to live in New York City,” she says. “Do you remember?” I nod and take a drag of our cig.

“All on your own you come up with it. I never talk to you about New York or what it means to live here. To most people in Guadalajara, New York City is too far for a dream even. So who knows how you got the idea about it, but this is where you wanted to be. And it’s the first thing you do, after your graduation, you came straight out here. I came to visit because I was afraid too. It’s a big city and you’re too young. But you surprised me. You found a job and a place to live… and a boyfriend,” she says referring to Sunny D, and I blush.

“It’s true, and it happened so fast. I can tell you love to live here. This is where you were meant to be.”

My mom stomps out the cigarette, and we notice her cab pulling up. I give her a hug, and she steps in. We wave goodbye.

The entire time my mom spent with Sunny D and me, I tried desperately to keep our relationship a secret (whatever type of relationship we had). I would flinch whenever he came close to hugging me, and would give him a look whenever his details about our New York lives got too intimate. Eventually he got the hint. But the whole time, my mom knew exactly what was going on.

As her cab drives away, I think, she’s right. She’s always been right. This is where I’m meant to be.