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An L.A. lesbian in New York

New York has always intimidated me. Maybe it’s the way people say “New Yorker” with the same mix of respect and distrust as “Dick Cheney,” or the immense amount of culture and coolness that oozes out of New York’s open gutters during every generation. After a lifetime in the deep South and three years immersed in sunny Los Angeles’s plastic-but usually quite pleasant-population, I decided to face my fears, With a little help from Caitlin, Cristi, and Ari, three of New York City’s most accomplished and attractive queers.

Caitlin, a talented chef from New Orleans, gave me a spot to crash at and a good ol’ fashion New Orleans welcome while blending in effortlessly to Bushwick’s creative thrall. Cristi, a rare model with no ego and lots of brains, gave me modeling pointers (which did not take), took me thrift shopping, and traded stories of the hot yet deeply irritating people we date. Ari, the model/director/writer you probably recognize from last season of The Real World, annoyed me with her lack of punctuality and then promptly charmed my attitude away by laughing at herself and telling salacious stories.

So here’s what happened.

“I want a girl to pick pumpkins with,” Cristi murmurs, pouting prettily.

“I want a girl without aspirations of becoming a DJ,” I respond, and our collective demands unravel.

“We could hibernate and do…. things.”

“We could read quietly next to each other.”

“She won’t have slept with any of my exes OR any of my exes other girlfriends”

“She’ll have hipbones that could whittle”

Even though we live on opposite sides of America, Cristi and I share a surprisingly wide web of lesbians who we either know or know of. We eat burgers (Cristi and I agree that burgers are the best thing on any given menu) and discuss the endless possibilities. New York girls sound cooler, smarter, and kinkier than LA girls, but everyone in NYC PROMISES me that NYC girls are the worst, so done with them, over it, and so on, complaints eerily similar to my groans over LA lesbians. I’m glad we all find each other so universally underwhelming. I’m glad we’ll always have mutual disappoint to bond over.

I came to New York from LA with a mission. That mission has nothing to do with this story. As the taxi lurched from JFK to Brooklyn, I gazed at the rising Sun and thought: “This could make for some funny shit.” Over the next three days, a concept formed: Three days, three girls, New York City, and me. What would I learn? Nothing, probably. But I would have fun.

Everyone agrees with varying degrees of enthusiasm and dismay that Bushwick is New York’s next neighborhood du jour, and I’d accidentally secured a crash pad smack in the middle of that entertaining prospect. Caitlin, a chill Cajun I had a brief but friendly fling with in New Orleans a couple years back, just moved into a densely occupied loft and generously invited me to stay.

In Bushwick, hipsters (they call themselves that and no one seems to have come up with a better term so hipster it is) fashion bedrooms from windowless cupboards and laugh in the face of overhead lighting fixtures. While settling into Caitlin’s apartment, I am stunned and grudgingly impressed to discover just one mirror: a small square dangling over the (sole) bathroom sink and barely illuminated by a fist size lamp perched precariously atop the toilet bowl. The first message I receive from New York City is clear: Come attractive or be ugly.

Friday begins with my typical travel strategy: wandering in circles. Eventually I tire of plodding around warehouses and map a walking route to Williamsburg. During the route, I rather keenly observe that there are a lot of unmarked warehouses in Bushwick, striking a blunt backdrop against the neighborhood’s many unmarked boutiques, coffee shops, and restaurants.

Cristi, a friend who, along with Ari, was featured on AfterEllen’s you met on AE’s 20 Out Models We Love hits me up and we realize that I’m two blocks from her place and do I want to come over a distract her from work? Yes. I live to distract people from work. I live for distractions in general. Within five minutes we’re splitting an afternoon tall boy (tall boys are best in the afternoon), flipping through striking photos of Cristi published in a glossy new book (as one does), and exchanging scathing dating commentary. I love Cristi. We never run out of people to talk about.

Cristi explains that the NYC lesbian scene’s greatest asset (living close to girls so close you can just pop outside and get laid) is also a great weakness. Brooklyn’s terrain is apparently littered with exes, who lurk forever on sidewalks like mangled bags of doritos. At least in LA you have to drive to a lesbian-geared event to run into exes, and even then are usually golden outside of West Hollywood. Cristi views Manhattan lesbian nights with the same mix of distress and disdain as I do. Lady Gaga? Smirnoff Bottle Service? GoGo Dancers? Flyers with the garish, dated aesthetic of a Tallahassee strip joint? Pass.

OK, I’m done. I hope someone, somewhere, really learned from that and will plot their next EVENT accordingly. I hope you are inspired to change. Cristi and I hate the same places and date similarly debatable girls. Girls with artistic aspirations and large tattoos and lots of feelings they pretend not to have at first until starting and then never, ever, stopping. Girls with fancy cameras and cool names.

We have cool lives and jobs and friends but wish our relationships had more meaning, or a better meaning, or any meaning. We are not quite sure what meaning is, but will know her when we see her. In the meantime, Cristi has a million dates and I have a couple. New York lesbians struck me as more laid back about sexuality than LA lesbians, and have more interesting jobs. There’s only so long you can listen to a PA drone on about her directorial ambitions. Listening to Cristi detail a day spent hopping back and forth exuberantly for a Nine West Campaign is a glamorous breath of fresh air.

We eat more burgers at Five Leaves and simultaneously check out a surfer sexy boi with the sweetest smile and amazing Libra Rising tattoo, who I dub “Lords Of Dogtown.” If you’re reading this: yes, we were talking about you. New Yorkers love putting weird things on tasty things and pretending it’s better that way, so I sportingly nibble a burger topped with pineapple, fried egg, and beets. You had me until beets. Why the beets? Why? I crack jokes and dry observations until noticing that Cristi keeps giving me puzzled and slightly perturbed looks that last for a second too long.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re making fun of me.”

“No I’m not, I’m being nice to you.”

Cristi can’t tell when I’m serious, joking, or teasing. I can’t imagine why.

Evening falls, Cristi and I bid “bye,” and I slap on a tight RVN cocktail dress, Prada alligator wedges, and a couple oversized cocktail rings before getting hopelessly lost en route to Manhattan. In an hour, I am scheduled to deliver a “hilarious, yet touching” speech at a rehearsal dinner for my uber-glamazon boss’s extravagant wedding. After an 1 hour and 45 minutes of power walking/map staring/wild eyed dismay, I finally locate the (obviously unmarked) black awning that contains the entrance to Soho House. If you don’t know about Soho House (lucky you, you noble savage), it’s painfully posh, excruciatingly expensive, and strictly members only.

A couple years ago, fitting in with glittering horde of Patrick Bateman/ Serena Van Der Woodsen clones would have delighted me to no end. Being accepted by #thebeautifulpeople as one of their own is not without a certain thrill, and I enjoy my conversations with these elite aliens more than I thought. They really like my speech. I really like their hair. We all really like vodka. Then something snaps me out of my self-congratulating reverie and I’m reminded why these people, though delightful, are not my people. Scratch the surface of any given #beautifulperson and all you’ll find is vodka and a void.

Using Brooklyn as an excuse to leave early, I face resistance from a business bro with jutting cheekbones who has been cheerfully debating the merits of my imaginary boyfriend, Hunter S. Thompson. He drones on about The L Train’s terrifying and violent ways. With acquired patience, I school my expression into “respectful concentration” and practice maintaining eye contact until finally bidding “bye, bro” and practically skipping (not actually skipping, this is New York) to the L Train’s smelly depths.

New Yorkers hate each other almost as much as they hate non-New Yorkers. People from Manhattan and Brooklyn regularly expressed disdain, fear, and distrust of each other with an almost tribal sense of hereditary hatred. Wouldn’t it be fun (in a hypothetical sense, course, all human life is super duper sacred and so on) if the NYC instituted an annual Hunger Games/Battle Royale/Lord Of The Flies type event between the coolest residents of every Borough? Wouldn’t that be a marvelous time? Think of the outfits, if nothing else. And the jeers… Imagine the jeers.

Caitlin roars up on a lithe blue scooter and we clatter up the three flights of steel stairs without pausing for breath, tumbling into her cozy cell and lighting a series of joints as I extract myself from this chic straightjacket of a cocktail dress. With much dramatic moaning and groaning until the last leaden fold peels away and I’m standing in my underwear, arms wide, beaming with utter bliss as the industrial fan that dominates half of Caitlin’s bed cabinet propels a jet of cool air onto my sweaty bod for the first time all sweltering night.

Now that I’ve noticed the second too long look thing on Cristi, I realize Caitlin is doing it, too.

“You can’t tell either, can you?”

“What can’t I tell?”

“That I was joking. Just then. You looked at me like you were trying to figure out what I meant.”

“Oh! Yeah, no. No. You’re making fun of me, right?”

“No I’m being empathetic.”

“Are you sure?”

“YES.”

“Well if you say so.”

Ten minutes later, Caitlin and I screech through Bushwick’s dark but oddly festive allies in heady pursuit of booze and Morgan, Caitlin’s charismatic BFF who seems to know everyone in Bushwick. I try, then give up trying to pretend I’m hella cool and not having phenomenal damn time.

In our early 20s, Caitlin and I bonded while sulking and fucking but mostly flailing our way through New Orleans’ exhilarating post-Katrina renaissance. Neither of us were actively doing, or even thinking about doing, something with our lives. Now, three years and a million little character-shaping experiences later, we careen through night positively howling with laughter at my imitation of the Banker-Bro’s passionate warnings.

If Los Angeles is a dreamy float atop the clear, temperature-regulated shallows, New York is one hell of a plunge into some glacial abyss. Life in LA has a surreal, sort of immaterial quality to it: the idle perfection, the idol worship, the make believe making we’re all dying to get in on. I’m that perfect type of buzzed when it all feels real, but better than real, and with a luminous sepia filter. For some reason we can’t stop laughing. Isn’t it obvious that I’m invincible? How could he not tell?

Ari is late. Like Cristi, Ari Fitz and I share a dark, irreverent attitude and initially bonded over dating dramz. She clearly did not get the memo that I’m the only one allowed to be late. Whenever someone annoys me, I vaguely allude to writing about the experience.

“How late are you going to be?”

“Like, actually?”

“Yes. Actually.”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“YOU set the time. I’m totally writing about this.”

Ari pauses. I can hear her envisioning the droves of disappointed fans, the scandal, the PR nightmare one emotional lesbian writer could cause. She is taking my half-hearted threat way too seriously.

“You love me! Now I remember I gotta be careful with you, you’re press, what can I even tell you…”

My eyes almost roll out of my skull and into an artisanal beer.

“You are not famous. No one cares. Get over yourself and get on the subway.”

Baffled silence.

Friends: this is how I will treat you. No matter how famous you are/think you are. Always and forever. “Wow. You know, my head was getting a little big.”

“You’re welcome. Now I’ll just go wander listlessly through the alleys of Bushwick, trying to find my friends. No idea where they are, or where I am, but I’m sure it’s safe. What could possibly go wrong?” “Oh God a lot could happen. Now I feel bad.”

I smile.

“Good. Text me when you get off the L at Morgan and I’ll let you know where the night has taken me.” Bushwick is quietly bustling with stylish and rowdy young residents, and the short walk to my friend’s restaurant is crisp and pleasant. By the time Ari shows up to Dear Bushwick looking forgivably handsome in a sheer black lace shirt, black jeans, and broad panama hat, I’m perched at the bar chatting happily with a group of Caitlin’s friends. Four of us are from the South and that’s enough for a Southerner to feel real comfy.

Ari walks in and looks stunned to find me, not sobbing quietly on a bench, but happily ensconced in my own kind.

“Everyone,” I say chummily, “This is Ari.”

“Hiiii Ari,” calls the crowd.

She regains composure quickly enough to retort “What is this, Cheers?” and we order a strangely delicious dish topped with pickled strawberries. Ari is terribly charming and I am terribly clever, so our conversation rapidly sprints from topic to anecdote to joke to revelation and back again. Her sex life is far more exotic than mine, but I know more about monarchies, so we’re basically the same level of cool. Ari is bi coastal and single, so she easily breaks down the differences.

“New York girls are definitely kinker. LA girls talk about being kinky more, but NY not only have more sex, they do way crazier sex stuff. It’s actually kind of intimidating because you never know what to expect. The cutest, sweetest little thing might take you home and then get super scary, super fast.”

Awesome. We compare notes and find similar conclusions:

  • New York girls have better style. They care, but not too much.
  • LA girls either don’t care, or care too much.
  • LA girls are nicer. I disagree with this, because every girl in New York was super nice to me, but I was only there for three days so I’ll trust Ari/Cisti on that.
  • New Yorkers are more independent.
  • LA girls have better bodies.
Aside from salad tossing, which is getting big in NYC but has yet to reach LA, there are no further sexual revelations. Girls are pretty much the same. After the restaurant, we walk a bit, and then sit companionably on the stoop of my friend’s apartment.

“I think I’m supposed to learn something,” I tell her, “but I don’t know what. What have you learned?”

Ari giggles. “Learned from what?”

“LA girls. New York girls. Something profound, yet humorous. And relatable. Everything must be summed into a relatable point. With gifs, if possible, but I can add those later.”

She contemplates the question.

“I don’t know. But next time either of us fuck a girl, let’s make sure to look long and hard for that life lesson.”

“That is an excellent idea.” And we sit for a little while longer, enjoying the night.

You should find Chloe on Tumblr and Twitter.

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