Night Report: Masculin Féminin @ the Club Hot Tub

on a gendered adventure into the top of the world

I was afraid to come here because last time, a security guard caught me yaking off the balcony. Too many mezcal negronis, too long a line for the bathrooms, not enough Colombian dew to pull myself together. But no one noticed, no one cared, they didn't even verify that I actually knew the DJ as I claimed. (Luckily I didn’t lie. This time.)

(How hard is it to get puke out of astroturf?)

Here’s what happened this time at one of my favorite places: People actually swam in the pool. I came alone and I felt alone. Melancholy and thoughtful and full of mezcal. I danced, I lamented, I yearned. I enjoyed the view and the ubiquitous disco ball light show. I dreamed a little. I spent too much money. I left too soon, though it felt too late.

L.B. is one of my favorite places because — why? When I was in undergrad, it felt like The Spot, where it was a flex if your fake got you through the notoriously strict door. The blacklights and free coat check never gets old. The view from the top is unmatched, and the open-air rooftop similarly enduring. The music is rarely disappointing and there are themed days for you to easily find your niche. The couches in the dark make for perfect sneaky links. The Meatpacking District around it is endlessly chic; nothing like cobblestones under your Uber to make you feel like a celebrity. It’s all about the vibes, the optics, yes, but in NYC especially this is a very visceral and real currency. It’s the kind of place you flex to people visiting from out of town to show them how cool we can be here.

This night, there are women around me. I can smell their perfume. I’m hoping they can’t smell me. They’re certainly not looking at me. I see them looking at the ripped dancers standing on the bar counter. I see them disregarding me. I’m remembering the unfortunate trope of female pain being a spectacle — so here, in spaces like these, I welcome pleasure being put on a pedestal. I don’t mind being unnoticed. Let them enjoy the bulging and tension of muscles beneath skin. Let me remain transparent, veiled by my apparent androgyny. Let us all marvel at the bravery of those who choose to swim amongst drunken dancers. The strawberry moon is gyrating, too, making a revolution behind the outstretched hand of the Statue of Liberty.

Desire is addicting, deifying. All flesh is intimate. We fill ourselves on the empty smoke of acquiring and achieving, but it does not nourish us. At least it does not fully quench my thirst. But I don’t know what I want: my nature or my desires. Is love actually a form of bloodthirsty pacifist envy? When we run our nails over the throat of the lover, aren’t we all thinking, at least for a second, how easy it would be to slit the skin?