confessions

I used to think I was chill. Open-minded. A “do whatever you want” kind of girl. And for the most part, I am—until it’s 12:47 a.m., the bar is finally buzzing, the DJ has figured out the room, my third tequila soda has hit just right, and someone suggests we all go outside to smoke weed. That’s when I feel it: the vibe slipping through my fingers like condensation down a glass.

Let me get one thing straight: I didn’t know he was married until his phone rang in the morning and a picture of his “wifey” popped up on his screen.

She was tall—like, model tall—with a thick curtain of dark hair down her back and the kind of posture that made everyone else in the club look like they were slouching through life. She was wearing a black dress that looked simple until you realized it fit her like it had been negotiated directly with her body.

It started the way all bad decisions do: with a plastic cup of spiked cider and a dress code I ignored. Somewhere between my second drink and a tray of suspiciously festive meatballs, Santa Claus walked in.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that the city runs on proximity and confidence. If you stand close enough to the fire long enough, eventually you stop feeling the heat—and sometimes the fire starts talking to you like you belong there.

Clubbing has always been about connection. The way I see it, there are three main reasons we go out to the club: To connect with the music, to connect with the energy of everyone around us, and to reconnect with our friends, soaking in the present moment. But phones kill connection. They take us out of the moment, they separate us and they’re just plain rude.

It’s December 2023, my very first time going out in Los Angeles. Fresh from the Midwest, and owning very minimal “going out tops,” I showed up in platform Doc Martens and a corset top a little too tight for proper lung function, and jeans that were more practical than fashionable.

I swear I wasn’t planning on becoming that person—the one who lets some older guy at the bar bankroll their night. I always thought I had too much pride, too much feminist backbone, too much… I don’t know, self-respect? But pride melts fast when the cocktails are $18 and the night is young.