From the Basement of the Griffin to the Top of the Standard

Ayesha Adamo performing with Liquid Diet at The Griffin

Chelsea boys are serious about Sundays. Clad in their Marc Jacobs best, there’s no doubt about it: in certain downtown circles Sunday is far from being a day of rest. And this past Sunday was no different—except that the crowd at The Griffin was treated to a performance by Liquid Diet (think Whore’s Mascara 2.0), and I was there in my backup-dancing shoes to be a part of it.

Griffin on a Sunday is a crazy dance party. The place was already packed and roaring when I showed up at 9PM. The DJ played it big, as though it was the main floor of the old Roxy, and for once, it was like nothing in New York had changed…ever!

I was guided to the basement where the lovelies of Liquid Diet were warming up for the show. We powdered, we glossed, went over the choreo one last time, and when we got upstairs, we danced! While some of you surely remember me as the dancer and sometimes-backup-singer in Whore’s Mascara, Liquid Diet is a whole new showdown. Gone are the days of Tiffany Superstar, the itchy prostitute that Whore’s Mascara rescued from the Port Authority, as the electropop folklore goes. In Liquid Diet, I’m working the hormonal-tween-trina angle. We even dared to do a little partnering lift high up on the banquettes. Great show, great crowd.

Jack, my partner in dance, was skeptical about my plans to continue the evening around the corner at Le Bain because I was wearing shorts and sneakers. I was pretty confident about the shorts and sneakers, but admittedly, the dual hair scrunchies I was sporting did give me pause. But the bottle service at Griffin replaced pause with valour, and now, these scrunchies have boldly gone where no scrunchies have gone before: the top of The Standard. Ah—the little scrunchies that did!

Best thing about Griffin Sundays? Gay boys are all great dancers and they’re not going to molest you in the process. They understand the concept of giving others space for real dancing. Best thing about Le Bain in general? Even though the boys will molest you in the process, they will have French accents, skinny jeans, and nice teeth…as well as just the right amount of sexy facial hair—sort of like George Michael during the Faith years (though he would probably prefer the other party). At Le Bain, you’ll never have a situation with The Situation, though you might have a situation with a jet-setting Algerian part-time model…and somehow that’s kind of ok.

But back to George Michael, did I mention that one of the songs we performed with Liquid Diet that night was a fantastic remake of Father Figure? Pretty much the sexiest song ever. For a while, both my Mom and I had crushes on George Michael. Multi-generational magnetism: you can’t fight that. It’s some serious mojo. The man I’ve been looking for all my life is embodied in that song, and while he may not be embodied in this glass room at Le Bain, I tell you earnestly: there is good facial hair to be found here and that’s something at least.

Facial hair aside, I very much enjoyed speaking Chinese with a charming guy who asked if I was in roller derby (it’s the outfit). And yet, certain other boys were more aggressive in their approach, creating the need to run and hide…but where? That’s when you know it’s time to hit the ladies’ room.

Everybody talks about the bathrooms in this place and you know I’m one to follow the pack. Floor to ceiling glass with a view of the Empire State skyline and a sheer drop to the streets that once smelled of entrails from actual meat packing. There’s also this freaky little bit of space between the glass and the floor. No one ever mentions that. But everybody says the bathrooms are amazing. True. Except every time I ask myself the totally obvious question: what if I were on LSD? Doesn’t anyone else ask themselves this? Because, I mean, not so much next door at the Boom Boom Room, but Le Bain really tends to play some pretty decent music…decent enough to consider LSD. It’s not like you’d be interrupted by having to hear Jay-Z’s voice every half-hour. Or Lady Gaga’s. Now that’s a bad trip waiting to happen. So every time I, like, wonder if they’ve ever had this problem, because when I’m in there, I just want to attach myself to the window…you know, just get like all up next to it like a fish pressed up on the bowl…because I’ve been waiting all night to finally get some quality alone time with the window. So hot…and I’m not even high. But just imagine if I were! It could be so…confusing, you know? Perhaps it already is.

At 3AM, I decide that I absolutely have to tear myself away from the beautiful man from Malta who has some sweet swing dance moves, a Polo shirt, and a wildly fun French gay friend who bit my leg. Cruising up the West Side Highway to my uptown lair, I could even entertain some Jay-Z at this point, but it’s almost better with just the sound of the cars.

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