Column IV: The Summer Vacation Myth
“Gen Z has no sense of direction and would be stupidly paralyzed without a GPS. Millennials prove, time and time again, that common sense is entirely optional when chasing a bag. And somehow, against all laws of nature, Baby Boomers are permitted to roam free on Tinder. Have we collectively opted out of sincere letters and long-awaited trips for love, trading them for Hinge swipes, Bumble taps, and the blue light of a FaceTime call”
I complained to my childhood bestie through the screen. “I am so fucking exhausted.”
June’s heat was fresh, thick, and unforgiving, yet I had moved through it unbothered. In the great theater of The City That Never Sleeps, there were five kingdoms to conquer, and I fully intended to rule them all. But world domination requires a staging ground.
Like any Gen-zers, early Millennials, or dying Boomers I had dreamed of a Bushwick loft, surrounded by the dizzying, quirky queer life in the world’s so-called capital of nightlife. Instead, I found myself misplaced in a bisexual Ridgewood. The energy in the streets was restless, and after a ridiculously crashed-out first week, I needed to plunge deep into the city's pulse.
I wanted the kind of nights that bled into mornings, the warmth of a mouth until dawn.
Myrtle Avenue hosted all the crimes of passion. The hottest bars, clubs, and lounges fought to have their name featured on a random girl’s tiktok, during her hangover replenishment. I was more worried about which delis had the best sub sandwich. Scared that my bright blue background fake would’ve got me caught up in the club. Only months away from no longer needing it.
Today, I had a freshly cleared check, a fresh high, and my favorite Fendi sunglasses. I glided through Venus day, Friday. With $500, I was feeling steamy so I enjoyed any store, cafe, bakery, smoke shop, or arcade within reach. I ran up her card with no worries nor a job, per usual.
Eventually I landed in what claimed to be a thrift shop. My hands moved expertly through Echo sweaters, Rock Revival jeans, and Polo skirts until I found the holy grail: a rocking, red and white Harley Davidson biker jacket. After making sexy eyes at the jacket for the fourth time, I claimed it. I carried it to the register, already envisioning how hot I would be as a NYC Biker Doll.
"I'll take a bag," I announced.
"Sure, but your card declined."
I lowered the Fendis. "$350? I thought this was a thrift store." The cashier offered nothing but a blank shrug. The audacity of gentrified Bushwick and this twink. I thought while scrambling through my venmo and paypal accounts.
“Do you all have a doll's discount? You know there is this big thing called Protect The Dolls….”
“Sorry girl, you either have it or not-”
"I’ll take care of it." A pink card slid over the counter, guided by a frosted French tip. It was Sarah, my favorite rich blonde from freshman undergrad, materializing like a patron saint of retail.
"I would love to. That jacket is fab. Only Sloane can completely fuck up a night in something like that." After an embrace and a brief catch-up, Sarah vanished into an Uber Black bound for JFK and Mykonos, leaving me fully jacketed and back on the pavement, with $48 to my name.
The evening sun caught my smile on the stroll home. This summer, I was putting my long legs on full display for the city's wicked eyes. I had always been long and lustrous, but now, the architecture of my body was shifting. I was growing hips that dipped and breasts that sat perfectly perched, and suddenly, the whole street cared about the complete package.
"Hey sexy, how are you? Aye, do you like to smoke?" The voice rumbled, towering above me.
My eyes scanned upward because this was such a terrible pick-up line. I thought I was a prize at this moment. A man on the street never gave me a compliment until my doll form began to manifest. Now, they couldn’t ignore me even if his wife and children were on their side.
As a natural young horny 20 year old, my mind got weak.
Oh shit, he’s huge. I need that. The man was herculean, hairy, and armed with a dangerous, wicked smile. I wanted to do some wicked things to him.
"Good news. I do. But only weed." I replied battling my eyes, the same way Sarah did to the basketball and soccer players at school.
He pulled a rolled joint and a matching green lighter from his hoodie. We didn't even make it to a second location. Up and down Myrtle Avenue, we engaged in the kind of hyper flirtatious, smoke blowing foreplay that makes a city sidewalk feel like a private room. Rubbing thighs, trading banter, caught in a fresh, freaky high. Staring into the amber light of Niko’s eyes, I realized the exhaustion of the apps didn't matter.
My summer had just officially begun.
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