The Search for Gay Pride

Hotties, check. Girls in tank tops grinding on the dance floor, check. Butchies in beaters posing for pictures, check. Chicks from New Jersey lip-locked against chain link fences, check. Drag queens holding out keys with cocaine, check. Whispering, wrestling, waiting in lines. Six-dollar beers. Crowds.Teenage boys in ballet shirts. Pizza ‘n port-o-potties. Golf girls, high schoolers, chicks with visors and tattoos. Flashing lights, flirting, gigantic speakers, rain. Twinks in banana hammocks, New York City Police, tit-sweat and tents. The ghost of the ex, longing looks. That girl. Transgendered folk educating about legal rights. Volunteers. The girls who dance really, really good. The Latin flavor. The heat, the subways, the walking. Check, check, check.

Welcome to New York City Pride Weekend.

On Friday night, I walked into the village to get my finger on the pulse of the weekend, starting at the place where gay pride was born, The Stonewall Inn. The Inn managed to pack a decently mixed crowd, but the upstairs girl party asked for a $15 cover and didn’t deliver on much: a bar, non-descript dance music and a helping of women doing a good job of mixing, but all waiting for a party to start. I even chatted with a cutie from Belgium, out on her own and seemingly looking for her proverbial ticket to The Amazing Pride Weekend.

When I left to go to the Cubby Hole, she followed, but when there was no air conditioning, and no Amazing Pride, she left. The Hole was festive as usual, full of friendlyish people, but everyone seemed to be looking for something better. I hung out, I imbibed, I polled the people I spoke to... a tough girl musician from Albuquerque, a group of tall folks from Amsterdam, a lean dancer from Norway, the girls who gave me the cigarette that I thought I wanted but didn’t: Who had been where? Was anything going off? Nothing. I got the sense that trying to chase the parties of Pride Weekend was going to feel like a New Year's Eve folly: spend too much time searching for something better, and you will have spent all your time, well, searching. I planted myself on a stool and enjoyed what the Cubby Hole is best for, random conversation, all-the-while receiving texts from Belgian Girl. She wanted to talk more sometime about that fascinating subject that we almost talked about. What was my sign? Did I live alone?

When the gates went down at the Hole, I trekked over cobblestone to the now-glossy Meat Packing District, and submerged into a delicious, oblivious 4 a.m. crab cake sandwich, also known as The Last Meal Ever at the famous and closing Florent restaurant. The old-fashioned menu board now presented Florent's farewell — the words corresponding to the five stages of grief. The letters at the bottom of the board read “All you have is now.” Oh, Florent.

On Saturday, I hopped the F train, met up with photographer Megan Ghiroli and went to a fantastic girly pride BBQ in Park Slope. Beer pong and burgers occurred, but when skies began to downpour, we opted to wait out the rain (and miss the Dyke March), eat funny brownies and play Balderdash inside the host's living room (which remains one of my best memories of the weekend). When the rain subsided, Ghiroli, myself and a nameless comrade jumped on the F train that mistakenly turned itself into the G train, and left us somewhere deep inside Brooklyn, forcing us to navigate a new way to Rapture, the post-Dyke March dance on Pier 54. Belgian Girl and I exchanged 27 texts trying to coordinate plans. My phone battery proclaimed death. Megan had to make more copies of photo releases.

After traversing the city, covering miles, searching for a copy machine and risking life across the West Side Highway, we arrived at Rapture, which could only be described as a lesbian state fair — impressive in size, but vibe deficient. We immediately lost our nameless comrade who “couldn’t deal,” and some girl tried to stick her tongue in my mouth when we posed for a photo together. Finally, after an hour of looking for each other, Belgian Girl and I met up by the port-o-potties and chatted for a bit, but when she began to look longingly past my shoulder at a group of drunk girls giving each other piggy back rides, I realized that she was still shopping for Amazing Pride. Megan and I picked up a different comrade and, once again, we set off. Destination — the LAID party hosted by Sarah FM at The Knitting Factory, sans Belgian.

You gotta respect anyone who goes out of pocket to throw parties just because they want to go to them and have fun, AND donate the door proceeds to a cool and worthy cause (rightrides.org). I walked in, found the BBQ Balderdash girls, put down my bag and got a groove on. The music was great, the girls dancing next to me were definitely going to go home and have sex (even if I wasn’t) — in other words, LAID was a real party. And when (superhot) DJ Bianca threw The Gossip’s “Listen Up” under the needle, I knew I didn’t need to keep party hopping to find the elusive Amazing Pride. It had found me. (And for the record, Belgian Girl, I hope it found you, too.)