Sex EDge: How to Survive a Gay Circuit Party
There's a watershed moment exactly 30 minutes into "The Matrix" that every gay man should experience at least once.
Looking to escape his humdrum existence in the film, a tall dark and thirty-something Keanu Reeves is presented with two types of weekend plans: A "blue pill," which would keep him sleepwalking through life, believing "whatever you want to believe," and blithely unaware of the sexy and psychedelic underworld that exists outside of his normal 9-to-5 routine. Or a "red pill" which—to paraphrase a bit—sends him into a k-hole where he must defeat a dom top called Agent Smith to save the world.
Somewhere between coming out and our first time going out, gay life becomes a matter of knowing when to take the proverbial blue versus red pill. Too much of one or the other isn't healthy. Yet when in most cities you can shut yourself away with work, laundry and home cooking when you need balance, the temptation to metaphorically fall into a hole lurks around every corner in New York. Happy hours in Hell's Kitchen, scum parties in the Village, any night at the Eagle—fighting your inner gay FOMO becomes a full-time job.
So when a friend offered me his extra ticket to Planet Pride last month, after I swore I'd be spending weekends at home indefinitely, I considered it a cosmic sign that I should go out and, to quote "The Matrix," see "how far the rabbit hole goes" in celebration of Pride Month.
Don't Overthink It
By the time the weather warms and Pride Month rolls around, most gay New Yorkers are ready to get out and feel something, anything—even if it's numbness. Factor in a summer smokepocalypse, a Supreme Court hell-bent on dismantling civil liberties, and a city crawling with European tourists, and everyone's itching for an escape by the end of June. For a certain subset of gay men with a proclivity for recreational drugs, darkrooms and dancefloors, that escape is usually a circuit party.
Of all the queer spaces that have sold out and gone mainstream with cringey corporate marketing campaigns, circuit parties are the last frontier. After all, sexing and drugging until 6 a.m. is still sexing and drugging no matter how you spin it. So when circuit parties like Planet Pride, Wrecked, Battle Hymn, Horse Meat Disco and Allegria all pass through New York one after another during Pride Month, gays fly in from all over the world to be who they've always wanted to be: someone else. If you're lucky, someone sexier.
In my experience, there's the type of gay man you'd expect to find at a circuit party—muscled, plucked, pretty—and then there is everyone else. Generally, I fall into the category of everyone else.
"Don't overthink it. Just have fun," advised Jay, an IT professional, after I told him that I am spending Pride weekend hopping around circuit parties. "There will be lots of hot guys with great bodies but most of them are insecure and self-conscious, too."
When you're under the influence and surrounded by nearly naked men, you have to take control of the situation, explained Matty, a bartender who works in the Village who was recently a bleached blonde. We had a few dates.
"I would say pace," he texted me. "Always start with half the pill," he said. "Find a spot on the dance floor where you and the group will stay all night so it's always easy to find others. Make sure there's a landmark."
Michael, who works in corporate marketing and is always out of the country for a man, had a more conventional approach. He warned, "Don't expect full conversations with people, and don't take drugs from strangers."
Be Ready for Anything
Whenever a gay cultural event approaches—rather it be a Beyoncé concert or Taylor Swift—the air buzzes with anticipation. Every year, the weekend of the Pride parade in New York becomes such an occasion, and the Planet Pride party is its centerpiece. Turning over in the mind are the usual questions, such as, Should I go? Who do I know that's going? And at least one that is bound to creep in later in the night, such as, Am I going to get laid?
If you've been to one circuit party you realize fairly quickly that they are all a facsimile of another. Make no mistake, partying from dawn till dusk, and then till dawn again, takes logistical skill to be sure you're having a good time and don't end up out of sync with the rest of the room—or worse, sober. So the night before Planet Pride, I phoned a friend.
In his early thirties, single, and conspicuously gay, Tuna had recently quit his job, gotten fired from said job, and found a new job all within a span of two weeks. "I feel like I'm gonna be surrounded by men who I left with emotional trauma and a possible STI," he said, about going to Planet Pride at the last minute. But after some prodding, which included fronting the money for his ticket, I convinced him it was worth it.
Other than always knowing the latest drug or pill to take and being one of the most punctual people I know, Tuna was also one of the most sexually liberated. He could charm anyone's pants down, and I've watched him work on married Indian Uber drivers on at least two occasions. True to form, he arrived at my apartment the next afternoon an hour and a half before we needed to be at the party at 6 p.m.
"I need a little pick me up," he said as he walked in. He started emptying his bag on my kitchen counter to find the high he wanted.
I douched and told him I won't be eating or taking any pills until we make it to the second party of the night.
"Why?" he said.
"Because you have to be ready for anything."
Another Planet
Every year, Planet Pride is hosted at the Brooklyn Mirage and takes over the Avant Gardner complex. Twelve hours. Six parties. Three stages. Outside of Madison Square Garden, it's the only venue large enough to hold thousands of screaming and dancing gays. What's more is that the Avant Gardner complex is tucked away on the east side of Brooklyn, far from the usual gay haunts, so Planet Pride truly feels like being on another planet. Phones don't work, which means Grindr doesn't work. And no one can hear or understand each other over the music. So there is really nothing you can do but dance.
For attire, everyone usually dresses up in some interpretation of intergalactic gay. I was going for dad-of-five-at-a-summer-picnic with too-short shorts. As we walked in, we saw sexy space cadets, Daddies with angel wings, demon twinks, and surprisingly more than a few people I already knew. After meeting up with an editor friend, we ran into another friend of a friend who works for Nickelodeon that I will call Nick. He was also recently bleach blond.
"What are you doing here!" I asked, stating the obvious.
Surprised to learn he was there alone, I told him, "You have to stay with us." And soon, after some more introductions, we had a group, a meeting spot on the dancefloor (stage-left) and something to say to each other every 20 minutes.
"Do you want another drink?"
Everyone took their first pill.
Is it Love or the Drugs?
Somewhere between my first and my fifth $25 cocktail, the hours of the night began to violently lurch forward. The music in every room began to sound the same. Although celebrity appearances, including Icona Pop, Kim Petras, Adam Lambert, Amanda Lepore, and Joel Kim Booster (coming out of the bathroom), brought momentary bursts of energy, we had a schedule to keep and friends waiting at the next stop.
"Do you want to get food?" Tuna asked, somewhere between two to three pills in.
Wanting to maintain my versatility into the evening, I declined. So we decided to go meet more friends at the next party, Wrecked & Carry at the Knockdown Center.
Wrecked didn't end until 6 a.m., but we were sufficiently wrecked by 3 a.m. When we arrived to the Knockdown Center, Nick went looking for friends outside, and Tuna went wandering around the darkroom. After a few slightly less expensive drinks, we eventually decided to peel off and work our way home. The only pill I wanted was an aspirin.
In the end, I didn't make it to any of the after parties, or the clothing optional party ending at 9 a.m. that I bought tickets for when I was feeling more optimistic. I decided, as much as you can prepare yourself for an adventurous night out, it's even more important to know when it's time to leave the party and come home.
The next day, I wasn't hungover or didn't feel like I had missed something by not staying out to the bitter end. I did however have a renewed sense of pride over just how much fun our community can be when we are together.
When a guy I hardly knew texted me "love you" at 5 a.m. the next morning. I already knew where he was and what he was probably doing. I went back to sleep and thought, "Me too."