I scurried through South London drinking a Red Bull in search of the bar where I was meeting a gay guy I met on Twitter. His name was Ivan, and I hit him up after booking my flight to the UK and we soon had standing gay guy plans. I was thrilled.
Prior to landing in London, Ivan offered me two options: going to a house party, or going to Dalston Superstore, a gay bar I’ve heard people describe as the “Rosemont of East London.” I chose the party, figuring it would be a more culturally enriching experience. Besides, if the party sucked, I could always go to the club.
I was a bit anxious to meet Ivan. We didn’t know each other, and I was about to be entrenched in his friend group at the “gay guy house party,” which he described to me over WhatsApp. But, like a lot of my friendships, anonymity is easily overcome with alcohol and cigarettes - and made even easier when both parties are gay guys.
When I arrived at Cable Cafe, our pregame spot in Oval in South London, I was pleasantly surprised by a Jazz singer singing Christmas songs with London youths laughing and carrying on. I fought my way to the bar and ordered an old fashioned, and eventually took a seat at a checkerboard table. I held the two Uniqlo coats I brought with me on my lap and tried to look interesting and unbothered. I waited.
Ivan arrived and leaned against the wall across the table since there were no more chairs. As he stood there leering over me, I noted that he matched his pictures, and was very friendly, with a dash of gay coldness that I found familiar yet slightly intimidating. We talked about our jobs, our apartments, and our straight roommates. I was beginning to warm up.
“So what’s the vibe of this party going to be?” I asked between sips. Ivan quickly displayed a confused face–either perplexed by the question itself or confused why I had asked anything at all.
“Well…I guess I could say that some of the gays are sweet – but some are annoying.”
I wondered if I would ever describe a party in this way to a fellow gay guy traveler. Either way, I was intrigued by his potentially shady description of his friends. Ivan explained to me the gaggle of twinks I’d soon be meeting. I learned that they all went to Oxford. Ivan’s closest friend in attendance was Oliver, a Virgo who was in an open relationship while getting his PhD in Biochemistry.
As an uninvited foreigner I didn’t want to show up to a party empty handed, so we finished the round and went to Tesco’s. I bought cheap vodka and Ivan bought some lemonade. Ivan tried to convince me to bike to the party but I couldn’t work up the courage to bike drunk. I probably would’ve been fine but the Uber was only 10 pounds, and soon we were on our way.
Our Uber had a hard time finding the house. It was a cold night with a clear sky and full moon, and we were now in the deep suburbs of South London and I had to pee miserably. Ivan said that it wouldn’t make a good impression if I immediately asked to use their bathroom upon entering. Instead, I was to pee off to the side of the house, which is obviously much more posh. I agreed, but in hindsight being caught peeing on someone’s house rather than in their toilet might have gone worse.
Finally, we got inside the house which was very, very old and very, very massive. It was four stories with a large backyard, and a conservatory. There were only 15 or so people inside. To Ivan’s description, it was mostly gay guys with a few lesbians, NB’s, trans girls, and straight girls as well. Ivan walked straight up to Oliver, and the three of us started to talk. Oliver was wearing a tee shirt that said “Eurotrash” in big, rainbow bubble letters. I found him to be very handsome. He was just around my height and had brown hair, a prominent nose and narrow eyes.
Oliver made a snide comment about Ivan’s bitchiness, which came as a relief, since I had noticed it already and was slightly worried that it was just me. I joined in on the teasing and poked fun at Ivan as well to Oliver’s enjoyment. I began to take note of their relationship which had only begun a couple years prior, they also met on Twitter. I teased Ivan for not introducing me to anyone else at the party as the three of us stood in the corner.
Begrudgingly, Ivan took me to a few other gays. There was Pierce and Jack, a twink-for-twink couple who called themselves “shireboys.” I’m still confused about what that means. Both were blond and pretty, and very young looking. They were both in theatre. I finally met the host of the party, Lue, whose birthday it was. Ivan and I continued to drink our vodka and clear lemonade, until I started to desperately crave a cigarette.
I went up to someone who looked like they’d have a cigarette, and struck up a conversation. “You’re such an American asking everyone questions,” Ivan prodded.
I didn’t know this was something Americans did, but he appreciated my ability to converse with strangers. The guy who gave me cigarettes was a gay dude named Charlie, a half-American half-British fellow who also went to Oxford. I took the cigarette, and Ivan, Oliver and I split it outside under the full moon.
Despite my four hours of sleep, I was feeling great. We got cold and went back inside and dispersed through the house. I was pouring myself a drink with the last of our Tesco vodka when I noticed Ivan and Oliver had disappeared. I had a feeling they ran out to get more drinks or cigarettes, but I took the opportunity to explore the magnificent house on my own. I wandered all the way up the creaky stairs with the bannister under one hand, and my drink in the other. I was being naughty - peeking behind doors and staring at the photographs on the wall, taking it all in.
By this point I assumed Ivan and Oliver left the building for supplies. By the time I reached the fourth and final floor I stumbled into two fine arts majors lingering at the top of the stairs like Secret History characters. I mentioned to them the allure of the old home, arrogantly quoting Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space. I usually wouldn’t make such annoying comments, but they understood, of course.
“Have you seen the conservatory on the second floor?” asked the girl of the pair, whose name I learned was “Loveday”. Loveday and her unnamed male friend took me two stories down to the conservatory. The house was filled with well curated art and antiques, including a massive antique desk that looked like it weighed three tonnes. The office led into the conservatory, full of cacti and ferns, on a tiled floor. The room was freezing, and the plants looked slightly malnourished. I looked out the window to the full moon which was burnishing the smokers below. We left to return to our spot on the fourth floor. There was a bathroom, two bedrooms, and a large armchair nestled into a cranny.
We talked about Picasso and his dedication to creating as much artwork as possible, and Loveday asked me questions about the New York art market which I felt unequipped to answer. My brain function was deteriorating from the lack of sleep and alcohol. Ivan emerged from the staircase, and looked as if he felt he had interrupted something. To my luck, he was relinquishing me from the heavy subject matter of the conversation, and of course, had gotten more cigarettes and Buzzballz, which I was shocked to discover had crossed the Atlantic.
We returned to the main floor of the home, where more people had arrived. Everyone that I met looked like a vague English counterpart of someone I knew back home. My brain in this state was drawing parallels that weren’t really there and drunkeley, I admitted this observation to Ivan.
“So everyone here is just an uglier version of your friends with bad teeth?”
Outside, Ivan’s other bestie had arrived, Glyn. Glyn was fabulous, witty, and very fun to talk to. We all cackled as we got to know one another, and I took many blows about being American and being loud and being offensive, etc, etc. I asked if the r-word was making a resurgence in Europe like it was in New York. Thankfully it wasn’t. The night was getting more and more rambunctious, but I was thrilled to be in the company of so many interesting gays and happy to be drinking on PTO.
We got a bit chilly so we went back inside and a very sweet gay boy, named Josh, handed me the phone on aux and asked me to queue some songs. I immediately searched “Hillside Boys.” I clicked it by accident and it started playing, and everyone got excited. Ivan was socializing and I was standing right next to Oliver. He had become my personal favorite of the evening, and we got to know each other through comparing our two cities, talking about drag, and teasing each other.
We drew closer and started to makeout, falling through the crowd onto the sole sofa in the room. I can say confidently that he was the best kisser I’ve had all year.
It was almost four in the morning, and Ivan was ready to leave.
“Alright Oliver, it's time to say goodbye to your boyfriend.”
Ivan and I piled into the Uber, and to my luck Oliver joined as well, with another gay guy sitting in the front seat with the driver. We drove through South London, Oliver squeezing my hand, until we arrived at the first stop, my hostel in Whitechapel. I asked Oliver if I could go home with him. I even packed my contact carrier in case of an emergency fuck+sleepover situation. He declined my request. I forgot that he lived with his actual boyfriend. I stumbled up the stairs and took off my loud leather boots before entering so as to not disturb my three sleeping roommates, and went to bed, buzzing off cheap vodka and cigarettes.


I slept past both my prepaid hostel breakfast and my prepaid reservation at Kensington Palace, which couldn’t be changed or refunded. It was already noon and although I was horrified at my tardiness, but I felt it made sense to get a lot of rest after my first night. I changed plans: I’d go to the Sir John Soane Museum and then wander around before it was time to attend a Sunday roast I was invited to by my friend Maxine.
I readied myself, relieved to find my roommates already gone for the day, and made my way to the Tower Hill Underground Station. I walked past the Tower of London and probably listened to the “Everything is Romantic” remix and “Can’t Be Sure” by the Sundays three times each. It was cloudy and 50 degrees which was perfect weather to walk in. My hangover crept in slowly. My head was throbbing but eventually I entered the museum.




Sir John Soane was an architect from the 18th century who can be classified as nothing else other than an absolute megalomaniac hoarder. Every square inch of his house was filled with antiquities, casts, paintings, weapons, sketches, and awards. It was beautiful but exemplified the classically colonizing behaviors of the Western man. I explored for about an hour, and got yelled at for trying to film a Snapchat video of the plaster casts of the Westminster Abbey sculptures in the “monk room.”
I still had a few hours to kill before I went to the Sunday roast. I somehow ended up in Covent Garden, which was insanely packed with Christmas tourists. I went into a NARS and put on some blush to correct my ghostly appearance and sprayed myself with some Diptyque, and washed my hands at an Aesop. Finally, it was time to go. Walking to the train I picked up a bottle of white wine, which made my head hurt just by looking at it, and began my long journey to Homerton on the other side of town.


I got off the train just as the sun was setting at 3:45 PM. Homerton was very quaint and had a gorgeous church with celtic graves (like in the Everything is Romantic remix). I walked through the apartment complexes which resembled the ones I’d seen in British movies and television. I texted Maxine that I was there. This was my second time ever seeing Maxine. I met her at a literary function at Jean’s in NoHo where we bonded over a shared dislike of a certain straight man in the NYC literary microsphere, and shared many many drinks and cigarettes.
Our bond was so strong that she felt comfortable inviting me to her friend's Sunday Roast when I told her I’d be in London. I was expecting something casual: sitting on the floor with paper plates full of gravy while a sports game was on the telly. It couldn’t have been more elaborate. I entered the apartment and handed the bottle of wine I bought to the host, Bryony. A cute dog was sniffing me up and down as Maxine led me to the dining room. To my surprise, I found nine Brits gathered around a complete, candlelit table setting, with an open spot just for me.
They looked ready to eat and I was afraid I kept them waiting, which apparently I did. I was offered a negroni and suddenly my hangover went away and I was back to heavily drinking. It was a bit awkward at first, not only because I didn’t know anyone else there, but also because I barely knew Maxine. Things picked up once Bryony started handing out plates.
We had yorkshire puddings, pork, brussel sprouts, cheesy leeks, potatoes, carrots, cabbage, and quince, all smothered in gravy. The company was lovely. Bryony sat next to me, and on my other side was Maxine. Next to Bryony was her boyfriend, who was very handsome and funny. Next to him were two gay guys, both gorgeous, who were apparently in a relationship that was “on the rocks” to quote Maxine. Next to them were a couple, one was a doctor. We talked a lot that night, especially once Maxine left since she wasn’t feeling well, but encouraged me to stay on with her friends.


I got emotional at the warmth of this apartment and the hospitality of the host, even though they didn’t know me at all. I experienced a bit of British iciness but quickly learned how to navigate it by toning down my usual raunchiness and dialing up my wit. The whole evening encouraged me to host some of my own dinner parties even though I only have five or so chairs in my house but I think I could make it work.
I didn’t want to overstay my welcome, especially since Maxine had left, so I ventured to my next destination via bus, sitting in the second level in the front seat, which is apparently where all the tourists sit. The buses in London move so quickly, and I enjoyed the scenery of Hackney on my south toward White Chapel, listening to the Sundays and vibrating off of wine and negronis.
I was going to my friend Sabine’s friend’s band’s show. The band, Blousey, was playing last in a lineup of three indie-rock bands at George’s Tavern: a classic dive in Whitechapel with a spacious smoking section. I arrived a bit hesitant–I knew Luca from when he visited Sabine in New York and I was actually supposed to stay with him in London, but ended up opting for the hostel instead.
I arrived and found the crowd to be straight-leaning, which is absolutely fine, but the type of straight alternative people that I find intimidating, or hard to approach. I lurked around and sipped my Guinness after hugging and saying hi to Luca and watched the first band, which were all wearing cowboy hats and singing about Colorado Springs, so I assumed they were American. I learned later that no one in the band was American.
Although I could talk to Luca at any moment, he was busy selling merch and socializing with his bandmates and fans. I approached a girl with a newsie hat on with a pink fringed bob coming out, her name was Rosie.
“Do you know Sabine?”
I was live texting Sabine during the show, and she was encouraging me to meet her friends that were there.
“No I don’t.”
Awkwardly I explained the situation to her and learned she was playing saxophone in Luca’s band tonight, but that it was her first time performing with them. She was really nice and we ended up chatting all night, and she rolled me a cigarette, which I desperately needed after that painful introduction.
We went outside and we were chatting with some more punk band type people. I noticed a guy with bleached blonde hair and black sideburns, wearing eyeliner and a knit sweater with jewelry. We were all engaged in a group conversation but I couldn’t help but notice the major fuck-me eyes he was sending me. I knew I had to be careful as this function was certainly bisexual territory.
I texted Sabine and described him.
“He’s the drummer! And he’s bi too ;)”
I was confused, as this guy was not telling me he was the drummer in Luca’s band. I learned that there was another bleach blonde bisexual who was in Luca’s band. Sabine had no idea who this guy was. I should’ve talked to him more but like I previously noted, I was feeling socially anxious (clap if you feel bad for me).
Rosie and I needed more beer so we stood by the bar, half-watching the second band, which was a bit more punk than the first. Another bleach blonde approached, this one with short hair, wearing a suit a la The Dare, but with a long black leather trench coat. He had very Lucky Blue Smith vibes but also Anwar Hadid and also Troye Sivan: truly gorgeous.
Rosie introduced us briefly before he was recognized by another one of his friends. Rosie tells me that he’s straight, which was no surprise at all considered how he was speaking. Later, I got into another conversation with him and he told me about the time he got called a f*gg*t. I told him first and foremost to be flattered, and second that I wasn’t surprised given his heightened style, and by the fact that he was a model with a lithe frame and pretty face. He clarified that he was 100% straight, rather defensively, which annoyed me so I started talking to someone else.
I don’t know what made that night so off-putting. The queer-baiting straight guys, my odd reasoning for being there, or the fake American band, but once Blousey finally got on stage I was happily surprised by how good they were. We even moshed when they performed their latest single. And I do love a good mosh. Someone had a container of leftover roast (it was Sunday after all) and it got launched into the air after being tackled by a mosh-going girl.
The roast landed amidst the crowd, but was not noticeable enough to stop the mosh. So before we knew it, we were slipping and sliding on potatoes, pork, carrots, and sprouts while the screaming portion of the song started. There was something very guitar-hero going on, but it was slightly disgusting as well.


After the show, the crowd funneled into the smoking section. Luca and Rosie were preoccupied greeting their fans so I sat a bit aways from them and tried to look sexy with my Guinness. I ended up talking to a British girl and a French girl, who were both lovely. They rolled me a cigarette, of course, and we got to talking. Mostly about what music venues the French girl should go to when she visits New York, and I happily filled out her notes app with suggestions.
I rejoined Blousey and was talking to some Irish groupies, who were on the prowl for some Sunday coke. The girls were crass and hilarious, and I matched their craziness and started to finally feel like someone at this gig had matched my freak when all of the sudden an entire pint of beer was flung in my direction, soaking my entire coat and my black Dickies. I turned around to face the culprit - the violinist of Blousey. She felt terrible, and explained the photographer made her do it for a photo. This was typical male photographer behavior, so she was not to blame.
Regardless, my only coat and one of only three pants I packed on this trip were soaking in beer, and it was cold outside. It really pissed me off. I tried to ignore it but I used the opportunity to Irish exit because I realized I did not want to go to any afters with these people. I walked past the Irish girls digging into an ATM for their dealer.
I walked home through Whitechapel, listening to nothing but the clip clopping of my leather boots against the cobblestones. Socially, I was completely drained from interacting with so many new people and explaining to them why I was in England in the middle of December on a solo vacation. Luckily, my coworker and bestie Kaira was arriving the following morning, and I couldn’t have felt more relief to be around someone I actually knew.


The rest of my trip proved to be slightly less eventful than these first two days in London. Kaira and I had a couple days in London together where we spent our time going to galleries and museums and eating fine meals. I put myself in timeout for smoking so many cigarettes but Kaira’s friend Arese had a Juul that I hit after our shared meal at Dishoom. Nobody’s perfect.




On my last night in London, Kaira and I said our goodbyes until the New Year - she was travelling with her family through the holidays. I got on the tube and headed west to South Kensington. I was meeting Oliver for a goodbye date. He proposed the Polish Club - a very lavish interior near Imperial University. I got inside and realized I was sorely underdressed in the company of fancy Poles. Oliver and I stumbled in and we both realized that it was full. We wouldn’t be able to get a table, or even a seat at the bar. The Christmas tree was beautiful.
We walked and reminisced about our night the weekend prior and I picked his brain about his PhD program and what grad school was like. We relocated a few stops away on the train to a wine bar in Covent Garden, right off the Temple stop. We sat down and I ordered a fish and chips while he more or less watched me eat it as we split a bottle of wine. He wasn’t hungry but I had to eat - there was no food in Whitechapel near my hostel and everything closed at six fucking PM. Our date was lovely, and I was pleased to know that our connection persisted through sobriety and a full night's rest.
After the wine bar we walked to Waterloo Bridge and looked over the river and to the skyline in front of us. It was a quiet, cold Tuesday night. I realized how many bridges there were and how quickly you could cross them. If we were on either the Brooklyn Bridge or Williamsburg Bridge at this hour, we’d be blasted with debilitating arctic air and miles away from land and hundreds of feet in the air. Up to this moment, London had felt like a baffling urban wilderness – sometimes pocketed with kind strangers with hand-rolled cigs and puddings but also laden with deli-less street corners and cold airborne beers on your back. Here with Oliver, though, London shrunk, just a little, as we kissed for the last time.
cigarettes?!?!?!