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There I was in a harness, a jockstrap and a gold cape, waiting alone in 20-degree weather to enter the dungeon. I had taken a chance and spent a mint on a Lyft to Bushwick for a sensual dance party—a no-phones, costume-mandatory rager replete with snakes, strippers and S&M.
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And even in this ostensibly liberated sexual environment, I felt myself shrinking in the face of a familiar loneliness. Why didn’t I belong? As always, the answer was right there, making out in front of me. I was persona non grata because I showed up single. Like the aliens in They Live, the monogamists have been in NYC this whole time, planning to take it for themselves. And like Rowdy Roddy Piper in They Live, I have too late uncovered an invasion that’s been underway for years.
For some reason, these fit, happy and horny couples are everywhere: holding hands on subways, looking to play on sex apps and, apparently, strapping each other into bondage wear for sex parties. Shouldn’t they be at home, binge-watching a “serious” show like Breaking Bad, which you would only watch at this point because you have nothing better to do? And why do they even need to go out at all, given that they have sex on demand? Their outside presence only makes it harder for the rest of us. They’re violating a natural order of NYC: The lonely singletons get to party, and the happy couples get to cuddle. They’ve found one another; their party should be over.
I can’t stop these people from going out in public, but I can ask for compassion. While being spanked by a dungeon master, I’d prefer not to be reminded that I have nobody to hold my hand.