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Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death.
As I sit in my living room buzzing from the Circle K combo I had mixed through my night, I can feel the gutter water soak my ankles into prunes. The bottom half of my jeans is soaking wet. By 2:30 a.m., they had become an extra weight I had to lug through from Dovercourt to Ossington, on Dundas, and eventually down to Queen. Fuck my Value Village men's section jeans.
I cut them at J’s last Friday and since then people have been stepping on their ends and ripping them to shreds. It was worn at Community Wines, where I cosplayed being a white girl, and then eventually to this week; BIblical pilgrimage -- straight pride edition.
Now, to have a straight festival in the middle of what is meant to be the gayest month of the year in Toronto is bold. But, turn out is always high, and you can find me buried deep in some cheap or, if I’m lucky, free alcohol that I chug through as I roam the streets.
What made this year special was I had a plan; N's art show at 100% Silk and Cold Pod on Thursday, Hyperclub on Friday and Bambi’s on Saturday. Sunday was my day of contemplating my decisions and repenting for my sins. I’m writing this at 3 a.m. so I haven’t exactly repented just yet. Maybe I’ll go to the temple and pretend to pray while, in all honesty, I’m really just going for the free food.
To be honest, expectations are bullshit. Everything is bullshit. Everything is also made up, so what does any of this matter? But to be honest it was…okay.
On Thursday, I found myself way too blowed out, abusing the shit out of J’s bag, and high as shit by midnight. At some point, I went non-verbal. Gun to my head, if one of those TikTok street interviews came up to me and asked me “What gives you the ick in a man” I would’ve stood so still they’d probably think I was dead. I felt dead. Think of that scene in Twin Peaks when Laura Palmer is screaming in the red room and it's all backwards. That was literally what you could hear in my head.
Screaming into the void of an empty head that just, shocker, wanted more blow. Is it an addiction? No. It’s probably just idiocy and a need for social entertainment rather than addiction itself. Perhaps maybe it was boredom, but in reality, it was most likely just me trying to make the night feel infinite.
It was the official unofficial Charli XCX release party, and it was night one at Bambi’s. I was in the first bathroom to the right. I’d find myself in that bathroom throughout the weekend, doing the same thing. Keying blow into my nose while we discuss things that I can’t remember. Past things, men, future things, angry rants. Soon it would be 5 a.m. and I was watching the sunrise from an Uber on the way home from an after party.
Side note: Kill the after-party. Another side note: Slap me if you see me at another one.
That one bathroom stall, to the right, would be my strange companion throughout DoWest Fest weekend. It was Bambi’s every night.
The second night, I snuck in with the stamp I had from the night before. I bumped into D and J outside on my way home, and they convinced me to go in.
I danced for twenty minutes, cummitavly, before doing another bump in the first bathroom to the right.
I didn’t end up going to Hyperclub like I’d planned, my body ached from the night before and I could feel my toes bleed. I could actually hear the blood rushing around in my feet, or at least it felt like it. I heard the roller skaters were there and people were smoking inside.
“Let’s talk about where you were last night,” G messaged me, replying to my story. I was tired, I was slightly tweaking and A had given me a vibrator as a late birthday gift, so my night was booked out, and I was checked out.
It was like a night of rest before the big trek, which I never usually do. At most, I’m running on 4 hours of sleep and drunk by 5 p.m.
One thing is for sure about this weekend, the straggots were out.
The faux bisexual metrosexuals that pray on the bi-cock phenomena and the popularity of Challengers roamed the streets and prowled on the dancefloor. Seeking a third, or even a second, they don’t want to be your boyfriend's boyfriend like you’d hope they do. Instead, they want to just fuck you and your friend and then disappear into the fog machine and red lights that project off of Bambi’s concrete walls.
If it all plays out, you may get a call later on telling you they tested positive for an STI.
Straggot fest, straight pride, the last remnants of millennial joy, whatever you want to call it. But remember, we live for it.
On Saturday I’d find myself the drunkest. Two free Somersby’s, a margarita tower, one lime beer, three shots, one martini and a couple of drinks at Bambi’s sent me to transform into the panopticon of Dundas West. Every white DJ, a man in fitted trousers, and east-end indie-sleaze fanatic were dancing at Bambi’s. Last call was at 4 a.m. and everyone was squished to see Ron Morelli play alongside Sweater On Polo, Mikey Apples and Tony Price.
The music that night was this hedonistic 80s homoerotic sound that makes you think, damn maybe no lyrics music goes beyond “beep beep boop boop”. Maybe it actually makes you feel good. It’s horny music that fuels the fire under any gay, and at some point, the air did smell like poppers.
Side note #3: I remember passing M the bottle of poppers when someone hit me and it spilled all over my hand. A girl next to me asked if she could sniff it off my hands. I obliged. It was like I cut a line on my wrist, as her nose went from one end of my hand to the other. I’m sorry, I should’ve just passed you the bottle.
Dancing is a strong word for what everyone was doing. It was crammed and we all just conjoined and swayed slightly. One single move out of the natural flow of the conjoint and we were all fucked. I had shovelled so much k and blow that I didn’t feel a thing. K and I were in the bathroom, at times with others, keying to feel a buzz. Maybe I should’ve netty potted -- white people's unofficial waterboarding, but I guess waterboarding is a white thing re: Guantanamo Bay and the U.S. government using it as a method of torture-- my nose before we got there because nothing was going in.
Or maybe god was telling me to stop. I don’t know and it was too late, to be honest.
The music was good, it’s always good. It’s the only sound I can rely on to be good. And at times it doesn’t make sense because it defies everything I’d usually want. A slower bpm than I’m usually comfortable with and no lyrics. But it’s my favourite.
I’d sway around, hands in the air, sometimes my hair up, most times my hair down, guiding my dance moves. But I’d always end up in the bathroom.
I think the bathroom to the right, the first one to the right, is a weird sign from the universe that I should slow down. But also that this festival really means nothing. There is no meaning to it, there is no purpose but to have mindless fun. I won’t have that bathroom on Monday, or even Sunday to be real with you, but for that one weekend, I did.
I could sit in it and think, take a moment away or even just talk to my friends, even if we were getting high as shit. I just think it’s all so overwhelming sometimes and I rely on things like DoWest to be some life buffer that puts a pause on everything else. It’s just a festival, and a pretty straight and underwhelming one too. And I loved it weirdly enough.
Whatever, I should go to bed and dream about Anthony Bourdain telling me he’s never met anyone like me before. Or maybe even those dreams where I have a baby and I wake up crying because I lived a full life with it. What more is there to do but sleep right now, I guess? The party is done, and so am I.
Good night.