I attended a party at the 'Museum of Sex' for New Year’s. As the clock stuck midnight I was eating brownies with a gaggle of drag queens and looking at the mating habits of chimpanzees, which are disgusting btw. Gives a whole new meaning to ‘f***ing like an animal’. But, amidst all that and in a long while, I was tranquil and happy.

My night wasn’t supposed to be this way. After work I went for yoga as a fitting peaceful retreat to the upheaval that was the year gone by. But as I stepped out of the class and into the awning of my apartment, it became apparent that I couldn’t stay there. My neighbors were hosting a party. As usual failing to invite me. Now feel free to accuse me of vile, acerbic diatribe but this wasn’t just any other night. This was the entire humanity flooding the air waves and social media streams with merriment. The thumping music and laughter emanating from the walls and floorboard would’ve never let me cry myself to sleep. So I looked at all my options which weren’t very many to begin with. There, however, was this invitation from a friend whose friend’s friend’s friend happened to host a party at the Museum of Sex. It sounded so outside my comfort zone that I was intrigued.

“I pictured hedonism. I pictured debauchery.
I guess, I pictured a porn set rather than a party. ”

I arrived at the venue before my friend as she was running late. Ideally, I would’ve wanted to enter alongside her so as to not feel like a desperado looking for his slow jam at midnight. But I couldn’t wait outside in the cold with snot running down my nose and pockets running out of kleenex to wipe it off. I drummed up some courage and entered only to find another brown guy of my ilk standing before me. Cue a sort of contorted smile from him that meant we had an understanding. I never quite knew what that understanding was but it was palpable. He even had the same getup as mine, replete with a peacoat and a scarf around the neck. I was missing his fabulous beard and he was missing my height. No guesses who came out on top there. It gave me a smug satisfaction which would be shattered later in the night when he was buying shots for a girl with ringing cries of b***jobs. Make a case for another broadside here but I guess every wishful future of the incoming year is rendered moot when set against the basest desires in the present.

But enough brooding. Soon I was inside and so hot under the collar that it made my skin burn. I then did what every lone guy at a club would do and made a beeline for the bathroom with eyes constantly on my phone.

“A guy in a gothic garb stood ahead of me.
To whom I blurted, ‘And who, dear sir, are you supposed to be’.
Wrong choice of words you see.
He was being himself.
Young, wild and free.”

Apparently, he always liked to cover himself in furs and line his eyes with mascara.

And so here I was, in a restroom at a museum completely out of my depth and planning to bolt. Then I glanced my reflection in the mirror which painted a striking silhouette, if I may indulge myself. As someone would later point in the night, ‘I looked disgustingly handsome’. I also realized, for better or worse, that no one knew me here. So with a final flourish through my hair and a breathe deep enough to summon up the longest utterance of Om, I went out and ordered myself a litchi infused vodka. And then again. And again. One more.

Fast forward a few drinks and I was beginning to take in my surroundings. There were the tall friendly drag queens with fabulous makeup and hair. There were the girls in nothing but pasties on their chests and fur hat on their heads gyrating to the music. There were, what i took to be strippers with padded out bottoms and tattoos doing the same gyrations but on a podium. On one corner, I observed a group of older ladies who looked like at some point in their hay day, were the groupies of rockstars but had now fallen on hard times. Karma may or may not be a bitch, but age definitely is. Whatever grows must succumb. But do the leaves really have to wither and shrivel before they fall apart.

Soon the friend arrived and along with her, some innocuous looking brownies which I devoured with glee. And from here on my memory is a bit hazy, some parts may be my imagination but whats a curry without a handful of relish and what’s a story without a sprinkling of fetish.

So one moment, I was hanging off of giant stone penises jutting out of a climbing wall. And another moment, I was competing in a game of racing golden phalluses. As a victor, I had to spank the other contestants with a leather whip. Talk about whooping the ass both literally and figuratively. The Chinese tourist took the meek lashing with great trepidation while the native New Yorker next to me took it with delight. Culture clash between the Orient and the Occident has never been sexier. Then somehow I ended up on the dance floor. I am not sure what sort of movements I espoused but they, regrettably, managed to grab the attention of a black dude in drag who commended my sense of style. I, unfortunately, made the mistake of saying I love black. It was in reference to my clothing preference and not the choice of partners. But too late for that as I barely evaded his attempt for a lean-in. Still the the heady mix of flattering remarks and alcohol gave me enough confidence to ask the fur-hat girl for her number to which she obliged. Only to never return my text. Ever.

I somehow made it back to my apartment tired but elated.

People ring in the New Year with all sorts of hopes and aspirations. They celebrate the past and make resolutions for the future. I am not one of those people. I forget the past and my resolutions tend to materialize over the course of time. Nonetheless, I did start my year in a territory completely unfamiliar and if that’s a prelude for things to come then I will embrace them with open arms. Here’s to a 2015 filled with travels and a better bank-balance.