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]

“C’mon, come with me,” my roommate implores in an almost whiny voice while leaning over me. I turn over, keep my eyes shut, mumble for her to leave me alone and pull my covers over my head. Not getting the immediate reaction she was hoping for, my little Badgerista begins shaking my shoulders. She’s always such an unrelentess force when it comes to getting what she wants. “C’mon, c’mon,” she goes on. Her voice is particularly annoying to me, while I lay caught between naptime and real time. “You know it’s gonna be fun.”

Is Badgerista trying to guilt trip me now? Actually, I know it's going to be no fun. A bunch of pretentious college kids thinking it’s appropriate to act stupid because they’re wasted? No thanks. But she has been excited about this party for days, ever since she got the Facebook invite and noticed that her crush had RSVP’d “Maybe.” This blasé response gave Badgerista enough motivation to get all dolled up on a Friday night and drag her tired, groggy best friend with her by whatever means possible.

It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a college party. The past six months have been spent in Madrid, far, far away from fraternities, keg stands and beer pong. And ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been in this funky mood. Like Madrid was maybe too much for me to process in such a short time. And it doesn’t help that all I do with my free time is sleep.

“It would be nice to go out and have a drink,” I sit up and say, rubbing my eyes and scratching my head.

“Yes! I promise it’ll be a blast,” Badgerista says all giddy as she skips out of my room and into the restroom.

“So if I had said ‘no,’ you would have just gone without me?” I ask loud enough so she can hear me. I'm surprised at how awake I am. Her giddy must be contagious.

“Oh no! I knew I would convince you,” she says walking back into my room with a blow dryer in her hand. She is wearing a pair of navy blue skinny jeans topped with an embroided maroon blouse. It’ll be fun to be her wingman tonight and help her out in the boy department.

“And shower! There might be cute guys there tonight.” After all, she always looks out for me.

As we arrive to the front door of the apartment where much revelry is to be expected, I see a thin girl with dangling earrings standing in front of a table with a money box. Cover?

“It’s a fundraiser!” Thin girl shouts over Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” blasting inside. I look back at Badgerista and give her this look to make sure she understands that she owes me. “College feminists are putting on The Vagina Monologues,” thin girl continues as if trying to convince us of the worthy cause. I hold up my index finger indicating the need for one sec, turn around, grab Badgerista and move us out the way so that we can discuss.

“Are you sure this is the party?” I ask still holding on to her shoulders. “I think it’s a lesbian party…”

“Yeah, yeah, this is it! C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” Badgerista spits a little, and I reconsider having taken those shots of vodka before stepping out of our apartment. Badgerista seems super eager to mingle with the vaginas… but at least her boy crush will be easy to spot. So on we go to the feminist, theater, lesbian party. And I think, "Didn't really need that shower."

The small apartment has an unused chimney adorned with blue twinkle lights and the wooden floor is sticky with spilt beer. It’s crowded and hot in the living room, even though it’s February in Chicago and the windows are wide open. The body heat is stronger than the weather.

Much to my surprise, it's not really a feminist/theater/lesbian party. From first impression, it looks like quite the assorted crowd. Later I find out that much of the social diversity that night can be attributed to the fact that one of the most popular actresses in school had just been cast in The Vagina Monologues, and she had used all of her party prowess to make the fundraiser a huge success.

Badgerista and I walk towards the kitchen after tossing down our coats. She keeps an eye out for her crush while I keep an eye out for the free alcohol. After we pour ourselves a red cup of jungle juice each, Badgerista has to use the ladies room because her bladder doesn't know the concept of patience. I head out the back door to the alley so I can smoke a cigarette.

The smokers’ circle in the alley is being entertained by no other than “The Drunkest Girl at the Party,” whom I, of course, have the privilege of knowing personally. We lived in the same dorm, right next to each other, freshman year. She doesn't come off as your typical feminist per se, but she is producing the show.

“Hey! You’re here!” She shouts in my general direction.

“Yup…” I say, unwilling to match her enthusiasm. “Anyone got a light?”

“Oh here you go,” she lights my parliament. “So what have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Just got back from Madrid…”

“Oh yeah! So was it everything you ever imagined and so much more? Are you going to do that whole ‘coming back from study abroad’ speech about how being in that foreign country for, like, half a year totally changed your life?” She says so mockingly that I almost take her seriously.

But all I can be when it comes to Madrid is earnest, so I say, “Yeah, actually. It did.”

“I love reading all those stupid study abroad blogs," she ignores my genuine response and goes back to the mock show. "You think you’re the only person that’s ever gone to a different country and had culture shock? And it’s culture shock about the dumbest things, like, ‘Oh, you can order beer at McDonalds?’ Fucking get over it!” She shuts up for a minute, perhaps afraid that she might come off bitter if she keeps going. I happen to know that just earlier in the school year, her plans to study abroad in Prague had been scrapped due to a dismal GPA. “Did you start a blog while in Madrid?” She asks in a more serious tone.

“No… but I did write a lot. I started a journal. I know, it sounds cheesy… but some of the things, I just had to write down,” I notice that the circle begins to lose interest in what I have to say. So I stop. I save my best stories for an attentive audience. I stomp out my cigarette and walk back inside. I make my way through the crowd of people mingling in the kitchen, refill my jungle juice and go back to the living room looking for Badgerista. She’s probably still waiting in line to use the restroom. It's almost midnight, and the dance party has already gotten started. The tipsy underclassmen grind and groove in the dark, moving in slow and out of order patterns as if submerged in water. The blue twinkle lights shine on.

Through all the commotion, I notice a boy swimming in his own world towards the back of the room. The boy with a face like an indie singer. A face I’ve never seen before: thin pink lips, wavy brown hair and bushy eyebrows above eyes the color of dark chocolate melting under a heat lamp. He is dancing with his girl friends completely unaware of his allure. Wearing Bermuda shorts, a sky blue thrift shop tee and tan sandals, he’s not at all concerned with concept of matching. I like his spectrum. His wrists are wrapped halfway up his forearms in a disharmony of hues. A heavy metal watch on one wrist, a thick black leather wristband on the other, mingled with orange, lime green and plum rubber bracelets and thin threads and loose bands from summer camps gone by. Around his glistening forehead, a cherry-colored bandana soaks up the light sweat caused by him bobbling and bouncing to the beat. The rest of the room suddenly turns black and white, while he is sharp in Technicolor. And I vividly remember thinking in that moment, “That’s the boy I should be with.”

“Ah, isn’t he super cute?” Badgerista asks interrupting my daydream and joining in on the adoration brigade.

“I think he might be…”

“Gay! Yeah, a girl waiting behind me in line for the restroom told me. Right before she headed out the door to try to pee in the front yard.”

“Wow, you had quite the adventure…” I say handing over my cup of jungle juice offering for her to take a sip. “So what’s this guy’s story?”

“He just transferred from some school in North Carolina,” she says after drinking from my cup and handing it back to me. “According to the girl, he’s kind of shy, doesn't but gets really silly when he drinks. And he has all the girls here swooning over him tonight. He doesn't have many guy friends. You should go talk to him.”

“To a complete stranger? And what am I going to say to exactly?”

“Isn’t that what you do to guys in Boystown? Figure it out!” She says implying I should have more game.

“Haha, don’t pretend like you know what I do in Boystown. Besides, this is different. Completely different.”

Right at that moment, “The Drunkest Girl at the Party” stumbles in to the living room, turns off the speakers and slurs in a loud voice, “Ok guys! Party’s over! Cops are here! Everyone out through the back. Come on. It’s over.”

Badgerista and I grab our coats from the pile that’s accumulated by the chimney and make our way out.

I didn’t get to talk to the Boy in Color that night. And after weeks of not seeing him around, I gave up. But my memory of him that night never faded.

It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year, when I was moving in to my new student house on the off-campus party block, that I saw him again. Moving in next door.

We get to the parking lot just a few blocks away from LBC (it’s always such a hassle to find parking in that area), and DJ Dreamboat unlocks the doors to his navy blue Grand Vitara. As soon as I get comfortable in the passenger seat, I lean over and kiss him softly, with my mouth almost closed, on his lips while caressing the back of his neck with my left hand. He puts the keys in the ignition, starts the engine and speeds off towards his apartment on the Gold Coast.

In the car, I start playing with the radio dial and browsing the stations until I get to 96.3, Chicago’s #1 Hit Music Station. I turn up the volume. He looks at me and smiles in somewhat disbelief. Here I am, tipsy and dancing around to some horrendous ringtone rap blasting out of the car speakers.

We get to his apartment and I notice that his living room is clean and big, not very crowded, just the essentials: a flat screen TV and black leather sofa and a media stand full of old CDs. He offers me a Diet Coke and then drags me to his room to show me his equipment. After all, that is the reason I’m there to begin with.

He turns on his DJ stand next to his bed and goes over to his speakers and starts playing LCD Soundsystem really loud.

“Uh… are you going to wake up your neighbors?” I ask.       

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “If you want to learn, you have to learn at full volume.”

I accept his answer like the good student that I am and walk over to where he is standing by the DJ stand. He hands me a pair of headphones and stands right behind me, letting me in front. He puts his hand on mine, forcefully adjusting my fingers to where they should be on the turntable. He instructs me to listen to the beat, try to follow it and spin it with my hands. As the song keeps playing and I keep trying to spin, all I can think about is him getting closer. I feel his belt buckle up against my lower back and his breath on my neck. That's it: lesson is over.

I turn around, grab him by his waist and guide him to his bed. I climb on top of him and start making out with him. He closes his eyes and puts his head back, so I start licking his neck. LCD is still playing really loud. I notice that his windows are vibrating. He sits up and puts his hands on my shoulders.

“I thought you came here to learn how to spin,” he asks with a smile. And then I stop for a minute and think.

“You’re right,” I say to this guy I've just met, this guy I don’t really know anything about, but now I'm on top of on his bed listening to his windows vibrate. “I better get back to my party.”

“Wait… haha, you just got here,” he says and grabs my wrist trying to prevent me from climbing off him.

“I gotta go,” I say kind of winking but not offering any excuses.

“Ok,” he understands. “Let me know whenever you want to continue your lesson.”

“I will, thanks,” I say and take a last sip of the Diet Coke and walk out.

I check my phone and see 3 missed calls from my best friend and a text: “Where did you go? We’re at Moxie!” So I find the nearest cab and head back up towards Addison.

“What happened to you?!” The interrogation begins as soon as I walk in to the bar and up to my group of friends who decided that the 3-hour open bar that I’d planned had not been enough.

“I met a boy at LBC,” I say.

“Oh a boy…” My friend suggests with a suspicious look.

“A DJ,” I clarify, “and we went back to his place…”

“And you guys didn’t hook up? What are you doing here?”

“We kissed. And what do you mean, 'what am I doing here?' It’s my birthday after party! Besides, one-night stands are for 20-year olds,” I say trying to act mockingly mature.

“Well, look at you,” my friend says with a smile and trying to match my condescending tone.

And then, another text: “My neighbor just came by to complain about the noise. You were right; it was too loud. I guess next time we’re going to have to be a little bit more quiet. Happy bday Boy Toy.”

Featuring "All My Friends" (Radio Edit) - LCD Soundsystem

[Spin Me Right Round Like a Record (Part I)]

After a few drinks out in the balcony, Chico Rock and his friends are ready to hit the city, and he wants me to join them. So I go back to my room through our connecting balconies. I take off my flip-flops, put socks on and my black shoes and change my shirt. I dash to my closet and get my jacket. It might rain tonight.

When I get back, I learn that the girls are not coming out with us; they have some birthday party in Salamanca to go to. So it’s just going to be me, Chico Rock and his friend, who has not spoken a single word to me the whole entire night. He feels threatened, I can tell. And I like it.

We get ready to leave the house, and Chico Rock whispers for us to be quiet going down the stairs and out the front door. He lives with his parents and older brother and they’re usually asleep by this time, I gather.

I try hard not to make a sound, but it’s the Bacardi shortly before midnight that causes me to giggle at even the slightest distraction. This tipsy, even a subtle touch from a cute boy can make me lose my composure.

We get on the Metro and get off in Chueca. Our first stop is Rick’s, a discrete gay bar a few blocks away. It doesn’t take me very long to realize that the Mediterranean décor and photos of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman hanging on the walls play up an allusion to Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca.

Chico Rock gets me a drink and hands it to me, then begins dancing to some trashy Spanish pop song. I take a minute and just look at him dancing slowly in front of me. I like the way he moves, controlled sways in one direction then the next, like a drunken rockstar on stage. It’s enticing. All I want is to dance up against him.

“Que haces aqui?” (What are you doing here?) his friend asks in a cold and condescending tone, disrupting my fantasy. It’s obvious that he is not very pleased that I have intruded on their boys’ night out.

“Estoy estudiando por unos meses,” (I’m studying for a few months) I’m short with him. It’s a defense mechanism, or maybe the thrill of the competition, that prompts me to blatantly treat him with indifference.

“Pero, tio, que no eres Latino? Sabes Español perfectamente.” (But, man, aren’t you Latino? You know Spanish perfectly).

“Eso no quiere decir que no pueda aprendar algo nuevo,” (That doesn’t mean I can’t learn something new) I say without looking at him. My sight is still fixated on Chico Rock. I down my drink, put the glass down on the bar and drag him to the small dancefloor a few steps in front of us, leaving sour-faced friend by himself.

What follows are a few minutes of getting up close and personal, of me getting so close to him that I can feel his breath on my neck.

“Oye, chico rebelde sabe bailar!” (Hey, rebel boy can dance!) Chico Rock yells to his friend, making sure he doesn’t feel left out. They have already given me a nickname, Rebelde, stemming from the time my ancestors beat the crap out of the Spaniards in the Latin American revolutions of decades ago (with the help of the French, let’s not ignore some historic justice here).

I don’t really know what to make of these two guys and their past. Obviously, there is some territory being contested, and we’re all looking to conquer. But the exact details of their friendship (or more) remain unclear. They’re both being intentionally vague whenever I ask.

Their night out turns into a night tour of real Madrid, not found in any gringo guidebook. I’m in the passenger seat; Chico Rock is my guide.

So after hitting some other bars, we end up at an infamous sex club not too far away. There are no signs and only locals know what lies behind the heavy metal door. I’m pretty wasted at this point, but I reject the thought of any frisky business going down. Despite my impulsive and often reckless behavior, I know how to take care of myself, and having a threesome, maybe even an orgy, in public with complete strangers does not sound that appetizing for this romantic. But would I say no to having a peek inside the underworld?

Look but don’t touch, Rebelde.

My vision is blurry, and it doesn’t help that the place is pitch black. Even after my eyes adjust, all I can make out are silhouettes walking slowly from one back room to the next—a Laberinto de Pasiones, Almodóvar would say. In the first room, an erotic film is being projected onto a blank wall. It flickers on and off. In the next room, the soft red lighting helps me notice that along opposite walls, there are booths with thick, red velvet curtains to conceal what's going on inside. But I can still figure it out. Noises can often tell a fully story, especially this dark.

Finally we get to the very back room. A chandelier shines some light on maybe 12 or 15 bodies, touching and moaning, laying on a giant circular table, and a crowd of spectators gathered to watch the intimate exploits and ecstasy.

We decide that, for us, showtime is over; time to wake up. It’s pouring when we leave the club, and the street lights are so bright compared to the dungeon we just walked out of that it takes a few minutes for our eyes to adjust back to reality.

Chico Rock guides me to the nearest Metro stop and tells me how to get home. And right before I run down the stairs to the station, he grabs my face and kisses me as we’re getting drenched—the beginning of a beautiful friendship (or more).

But as I wait for my train, I remember that Chico Rock lives right next door. Why aren’t we taking the same train home? Why isn’t he coming with me? Where is he spending the rest of the night?

[Noise Complaints (Part I)]