A Night In SoHo (writes)
June 2, 2023. It’s a bustling late night in London. It’s my first time in Europe, but here in London, things feel oddly familiar. The familiarity of the West is noticeable and easy to identify. The recognition is ironic as I’ve been lost in the streets of New York’s “South of Houston” so many nights before this one. It’s a cool, brisk night, which I’m thankful for. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the touch of a brisk breeze. The cooler temperatures are a relief that Singapore refuses to gift me. My wife is asleep, but my search for sin isn’t a lonely one, my cameras accompany me to capture whatever sights might be seen. I start moving. It’s 11:30 PM, and there are blossoming lines outside of bars and clubs alike, full of eagerness, liquored spirits, and nervous wannabes. The smell of second-hand cigarette smoke is oddly life-giving. In between the bikes strolling by, and BMWs revving their engines, I miss the sounds of “Suavamente” flying past me, scurrying off before I can dance with the rhythm. The streets, lit by life, bright signs, and the full moon above, guide me. I feel like a wandering traveler, not quite sure what direction I’m headed or what I’m even searching for. I hear the nervous giggles and questions from couples on first dates, which might be their last as well. I point my iPhone camera to see what’s in front of me. Conversations circle me, speakers unaware of my brief residency in their fleeting voices. The camera sometimes feels like voyeurism, with some subjects hoping to be seen. There is a Blackness here I’ve missed, box braids and large gold earrings. A culture flows through the area, its presence welcoming. It's easy to slip into obvious invisibility. What my camera prevents me from having in the day, is easy to have at night. For some, the shyness of being in front of the lens disappears when the night time comes, whether it’s in a bedroom, or in this case, the street. Again, some hoping to be seen. Beautiful women are around, commanding the street, fully aware of the nervous men too afraid to step their way. I keep moving.
Passing by me, I hear “THIS IS SOHO, THE GAY AREA, EVERYBODY KNOWS EVERYBODY”, from a local guiding their clearly out-of-town friends. It’s the start of PRIDE month, and the queerness of SoHo is jubilant. Trans flags wave gently in the wind, and signs stating “respect our queer community” live in the window seals of bars. As I wander in a space that doesn’t belong to me, I can feel the looks from old queerness, curious if I know where I am…both literally and metaphorically. I can feel the questioning looks, wondering if I understand my own sexuality. It’s not a flirtatious curiosity… that would be the ego talking. Rather, the looks feel like pity, a fuller understanding of their own freedom, which heterosexuality robs from me. That’s not it either. Again, the ego speaks, projecting, my awareness of their freedom which I haven’t fully granted myself. They know who they are, and the mutual understanding of curiosity is whether I truly know who I am. I keep moving. Adult shoppes left and right, with bright inviting neon signs. I see the whips and chains Rihanna sang about, collars and leather masks for those looking to indulge, behave, and switch. I watch inebriated birthday girls wobble in lines, and out of clubs. I listen, hearing arguments about the depths of friendships over the years. I can feel the energy of “We’re gonna fuck up the nighhhhht” as drunk white women roll by me on a carriage, singing Beyoncé out of tune. I’ve missed this. Singapore doesn’t grant me the same stories to capture, or maybe I haven’t been able to find them yet. Stories are being told, and stories are being forgotten, all in the midst of stories being made. It’s well past midnight. Hugs are being given out, some signaling the disappointment of the end of the night. Others give deep hugs with loud greetings of “HEY” as the night is just beginning for others. I’m tired. I’m living in deceit, I’ve half convinced myself that the jet lag from the 13-hour flight has robbed my ability to keep going…truth is, I might not be built for the late-night venture, in this season. I’m still moving. I head back to the hotel, seeing tight dresses scream on the phone, as tears and running mascara paints upset faces. I’m almost to my bed. Security lets me into my hotel. I make my way on the elevator, feeling around for my key card. I soon find myself met by a couple entering the doors before they close. It’s a throuple really, as the woman holds a brown bag spotted with grease and a temptation of an oily, salty freshness whose specificity can only be attributed to the Golden Arches. The third floor is here, my night is done. I step off the elevator and hear “Hey, have a goodnight”.
Yeah, you too…
