The year 2010 started well for me. I attended my favorite dance party, That’s My Jam, in Brooklyn and spent the bulk of my evening dancing in a fantastic sandwich between two adorable creatures, making out, and listening to one of my favorite DJs, Tikka Masala, spin. The crowd was the exact antidote I needed to what in the past year has become my LA existence. It was diverse, chocked with queers of all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities and everyone seemed there to have no holds barred fun. It was everything I dreamed and hoped it would be in the three hundred and sixty five days which preceded it, as I trolled in and out of various West Hollywood & Long Beach “lesbian” parties, bitching and moaning about the oppressive conservatism that dominates the Los Angeles women’s party scene. This isn’t to say that in the innumerable parties I’ve attended in Los Angeles, I haven’t had a worthwhile moment…
No, it really is, I’m sorry Los Angeles, you really are growing unbearable, which is awkward because I have a lease and at least one faux-wife threatens to “hunt me down and destroy me” should I ever choose to leave here (i.e. her). In the past few months, two of my favorite parties, Booby Trap and Work It have moved from weekly staples, to monthly treats, leaving only the Betty to rely upon for a weekly dance party fun fix with a dance floor packed with at least a couple of hipster bois for eye candy if nothing else (if you can get past the Real L Word’s awkward reality TV production set up, a nuisance with which I’m still calculating my exact degree of irritation). There are numerous other parties and bars, but rare indeed is the time I’ve left Truck Stop, Panty Raid, Girlbar, Platinum, and the like remotely satisfied. This is all a matter of personal taste, and surely for many girls these parties are top of the heap. However, I’ve tired of familiar faces, remote drama, the abundance of unreasonable heels, shaved legs, models and entertainment professional types, and steep well drink prices in this scene to end all scenes. Rather than making enemies ripping into the parties that sustain me, I here choose to return to the initial and far less warring anxiety at the heart of this blog.
I had a great New Year’s Eve. I drank hard, danced hard, and went home with an amazing person with whom I had a really wonderful morning and the whole experience left me mighty optimistic about life in general. I’ve really searched far and wide within about a 30 mile radius of Los Angeles proper and I’ve come to the conclusion that girls just don’t come out that way here. Thus, I’m not really interested in girls who live here and thus, living in Los Angeles is stunting my growth. I would love to see said girl again, but said frustration is beside the point. I need quality sex. It’s good for me. I need to live somewhere there are girls I can connect with on that level, both seriously and casually. The bulk of the time I go out in Los Angeles, I fail to even do a double take and this is a real problem. I honestly feel kind of dead over here.
Drab nights and awkward mornings have taken their toll on me. This town really has some awesome DJs, but the crowd’s often a total bore, more concerned with image than living in the moment and a legitimate good time. My friends compliment this experience downing copious amounts of alcohol to sustain their interest in leaving the house, with talk of shoes rather than queer politics, aesthetics rather than heart. They’ve proved great friends to me, but they tend to misunderstand me, and while I understand their misstep in reasoning, I am neither Dane Cook nor a failed Shane McCutcheon. I enjoy relationships, but find monogamy limiting, crushing, and challenging, hate games, and would rather admit that I like sex and have it, than subject a total stranger to a series of dates to evaluate their worth. Generally speaking, it takes no such theatre to determine whether it’s a good idea or not to sleep with someone. In deviating from the mainstream here, I am an evolving queer in dire need of a supporting community, which I have yet to find in Hell-A. Ultimately, I feel that I’ve pawned my vag (and subsequently my heart and soul) for a walk-in closet, medium sized semi-private bathroom, back yard, terrace, reasonable rent and a central neighborhood and this trade has almost entirely worn on me. There is more to life and I've embraced it as much as I can, but the void is increasingly unacceptable. Sex matters and this town is a total bust for me.
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