That’s why I cruised uptown to Morningside Castle for the Enchantment Under the Sea party, designed to replicate a senior prom from 1955. Thanks to being a freak in high school, I never went to my own prom— now I could finally twist the night away.

For those of you who’ve never been, Dances of Vice is a peripatetic costume ball for those who love elegant vintage wear and music from the past. This was their fourth anniversary, and welcoming us all in a mint taffeta dress was Shien Lee, elegant creator of the regular nightlife event that attracts vintage wear aficionados with a love for the past.

“How in the world did you get this great venue?” I asked her. The Gothic-style “castle” belongs to Union Theological Seminary, so enchantment was definitely in the air. As I walked in, Matthew Piazzi and the Debonairs were playing some atmospheric 1950s swing music.

The title Enchantment Under the Sea was lifted from the famous scene in Back to the Future in which Marty McFly’s parents exchange their first kiss while he plays Hendrix riffs and smashes his guitar for the stupefied bobbysocker teens. The blue-and-white-streamer-festooned room looked like it was peopled by the cast of Mad Men clad in brocaded party frocks, gloves, wide ties, sharkskin suits and twirling girls flung around by their dates.

DJ Michael T looked snazzy as a hep cat in cream suspenders, pink-and-white striped shirt and blond rockabilly ‘do. “Hey, lady in orange!” I called after a willowy, bespectacled woman mounting the staircase wearing a sherbet-colored dress so lovely I just had to take a picture. I discovered it was party thrower Larisa Fuchs, the Miss Scorpio of the Gemini & Scorpio events.

As the dreamy night came to a close, I ran into Remi Pann, an acquaintance who was heading over to Long Island City for Night Swimming at The Palms, a bash held in dumpster pools with party entrepreneur Kevin Balktick. And they had wheels!

But before we could burn some rubber, we were off to a rocky start.

“The tire’s flat!” he exclaimed. After waiting for AAA to show up, I decided to buzz off. Unlike my tortured prom years, I suddenly realized I didn’t need a partner to boogie. I had nothing to lose. I’d go dancing with myself.

Unlike some of my friends last week, I wasn’t in the Hamptons, Rome, Berlin or even Detroit. No, I was getting my jollies right on East 6th Street at funky little dive bar Eastern Bloc at a new weekly Thursday night party called My Chiffon is Wet. Well, I forgot to wear my chiffon sheath, but my nylon panties sure were damp. How could they not be? It was hot as blazes outside and I was dancing up a storm to DJ Paisley Dalton’s fun blend of vintage and new disco with some ’80s and ’90s tracks, seasoned with a couple of show tunes from Cabaret and The Wiz.

Seeing as I was on a budget, I was putting on the ritz in a $9.99 Goodwill turtleneck that fit me like a glove. No one cared about the price tag, because Eastern Bloc is a dark, packed, convivial hangout that’s been around since it took over the old Wonder bar in 2005. It’s a place with an edge, decorated in black and red and retro Soviet insignia, a taxidermist’s dream with a stuffed and mounted zebra and mountain lion over the bar and a rooster, a bear and a moose around the room, plus a stripper pole, disco ball and

a healthy array of friendly hotties. For example: the guest DJ of the night, sultry glamazon Nomi Ruiz, lead singer of Jessica 6 and former member of Hercules and Love Affair. She played her set with rapt concentration, though she smiled when I asked what she was up to. "We’re going on tour soon," she said.

The chiffon in the party’s title is a reference to the 1975 one hit wonder "Get Dancin’" by Disco Tex and His Sex- O-Lettes, typical of Dalton’s insouciant humor (he’s also editor of the arts blog Zeitgeist World). Originally from Detroit, he first started DJing in Berlin, then London and New York, where he began spinning at the Vandam party atGreenhouse and Amanda Lepore’s Big Top. He tends to dress impeccably, resembling a Capuchin monk with his distinctive shaved cap of hair. The host of the evening wasGugu, the new "it" boy fashionista in town, wearing a pink wig, ivory Victorian blouse and plenty of beads.

"It’s my first hosting gig in New York City," he told me proudly. I asked him what he thought the theme of the party was. "It’s about celebrating being gay and different, having fun and also about chiffon," he replied.

A stream of guests showed up throughout the night, including Gabriel Magdaleno and Contessa Stuto of IN*TANDEM Magazine and Kelly Armendariz from Splatterpool Artspace. Artist Santiago Felipe arrived right before closing, which was when I also befriended Jeanine Troisi, a nurse who had lost her glasses. Since I’d just lost my lipstick on the dance floor, I knew we’d have lots in common. We whirled around to one of the last songs Dalton played, that old Andrea True Connection disco ditty, "More More More," which goes "How do you like it/ How do you like it?" OK, I was stuck in New York City for the summer, but I dunno. I like it. 

The word “vivisection” means
experimental surgery conducted on live animals and other organisms, and human
vivisection has been perpetrated as a form of torture. Ugh! Let’s face it, not
too appetizing. However, none of that violence was in evidence last week when I
attended the party called ViVisection. Even better, it was held at The Laugh Lounge on the Lower East Side. No,
there weren’t actually that many laughs, but there was plenty of fashion and
sexy scenesters.

A fashion show was being
held downstairs with models displaying lots of Summer Flesh, the subtitle of
this party. Many of the 10 or so contestants (who were both male and female
with all different body types), were decked out in black, but there were
definitely bright colors sprinkled in, accessorized by decorative face
markings, dyed dreads and eerie white contact lenses. The fashions were
supplied by the notorious evangelist of latex, the Baroness, as well as designer Isabelle Batz, who was showcasing her glitz and glam casualwear.

Little colorful hats were
provided by Venus Alers, who
makes headgear under the name Mad Hatter. She was in the show herself, wearing
a magenta wig with a flowered headdress and a black satin corset, accentuated
by exotic makeup. “My mother won,” she told me after the show was over. “Her
name’s Iris.” Like mother, like daughter. The two resembled one another, both
curvy figured, and the mother was wearing a similar outfit in black.

What’s always surprising in
the dark and goth scene is you’d expect people to be cold and standoffish, but
au contraire, wearing punk and vampire freak attire keeps ’em friendly. For
example, bubbly nightlife personality Lindsay Lowe, a judge, was decorated like a toy shop, in pinks
and yellows, with numerous child-like costume jewelry hanging from her every
surface.

“How do you decide what to
wear?” I asked the host and party producer, Vulcanus Lévi, a dandy who’s normally attired in a costume made of
peacock feathers when I see him at parties around town, in particular On Top at
Le Bain. Tonight was no
exception, but instead of his usual green and turquoise plumage, tonight he was
decked out in white feathers with white face makeup. “I wake up in the morning,
look in the mirror and recreate my dreams,” he told me with the hint of an
accent.

He was standing with Celso, another of the judges, who herself was dressed
elegantly in black. Party animal and performer Kayvon Zand was seated in the lounge, wearing black feathers and
one of the shades missing from his sunglasses. All in black with a chain
hanging from her nose, Kim De’ville
was speaking to her admirers in the lounge. Although the paintings were
impressionistic and fractured mixed media paintings, they matched her pose and
mood. “Happy birthday,” said a few friends coming by to kiss her.

After a
couple of gin and tonics, carefully stepping over the human carpet at the bar,
I said a few parting words to a woman dressed in Marie Antoinette drag, with a
white peruke wig and gold satin ensemble, who handed me her card. Her name was Lady
Zombie, a professional singer, model, dominatrix and writer. I read aloud her
fitting quote. “A dark, consuming passion burns eternally within the depths of
my eyes. Prepare to have your very life force rocked to its core.” I wasn’t
sure about my life force, but I definitely was thinking about buying some new
clothes.

The fringe of Times Square, where Warhol bought his wigs and frequented the coin-operated photo booth machines in the 42nd Street arcades for some of his fabulous portraits, was the location of the official book release party. If you haven’t seen the recently opened Yotel Hotel, a bright purple beacon that’s surely annoying its nearby neighbors, last week it also housed unusual denizens to complement the exterior light pollution.

"You’ve got to come to the book party," Columbia University sociologist Victor Corona cajoled me prior to the event, which he helped organize. "Everyone is going to be there!" Well, he wasn’t far wrong, and certainly Warhol was all about the social setting. But no, I didn’t see Holly Woodlawn, Joe Dallesandro, Jackie Curtis or Candy Darling (the latter two are of course deceased). But yes, Darian Darling was there and, while her hair is a shade darker than her namesake, she looked very Candy-like.

The night also included a preview of artist Conrad Ventur’s new series Warhol’s 13 Most Beautiful/Screen Tests Revisited, in which he featured 14 of the new breed of New York superstar, including performers and personalities such as Breedlove, Anna Copa Cabanna, Kelle Calco, Becka Diamond, Tommy Hottpants, Veronica Ibarra, Richard Kennedy, Ladyfag, Niki M’nray, Brian Newman, Jocelyn Saldana, Tyler Stone and Kayvon Zand. Does the new crew of cool match up to the Warhol superstars of yore? Both are mixed bags of superfreaks and party animals, so let’s see where they wind up. But the new kids on the block are heavily weighted toward the "filthy glamour" set and nary a socialite or poet in the bunch. Maybe that’s the now generation.

The Yotel is a starkly nouveautrying-to-be-retro elegant space with free computers everywhere, so it was the perfect setting for the new brand of underground—although the party took place in the fourth-floor lounge area. The screen test victims were there along with the crazy costumed club kids and a sprinkling of Warholite blasts from the past: Bebe Buell, Penelope Palmer and Miestorm Serpent, the latter who used to go-go dance at Studio 54. Surrounded by a bevy of dancers and nightlife glitterati, Breedlove took the mike and gave a rousing performance of his songs "I’m Doing OK By Me" and "Love on the Telephone."

Sadly, I missed the Talero organic open tequila bar, but it was just as well since the last one I went to resulted in an altercation with a security guard—and bumps on my head. As I was leaving, I bumped into the author, Kiedrowski. "Andy is everywhere," he said. Yes, years after his demise, Warhol has become like God, hovering over bars, churches, restaurants and street corners all around his beloved New York City. His fame was not instant—but infinite.

The Rock Beach party was being sponsored by JellyNYC and since, unlike most of New York, I’d never ventured over to the wildly popular shows put on by Jelly at McCarren Park Pool, here was my chance to experience one of their parties.

When we arrived at the field, the music was already blasting, apparently the second band in the lineup. "What did we miss?" I asked organizer Alex Kane. "I don’t know. Right now it’s Janka Nabay and the Bubu Band, though." Nabay is from Sierra Leone and one of the bestknown performers of bubu, a 500-year-old tradition in his country.

There weren’t a shitload of people on hand, but that just made it easier for us to grab a cup of beer and chill out on the pavement. Lots of the cute boys and girls were in bikinis and cut-offs, lounging on blankets, but me and my friend Gugu started dancing wildly in front of the stage. Not only were we were getting rays and burning calories, already we were having fun. He wore a ridiculously flashy gold top and a crazy pair of platform boots without heels. "Love those shoes!" was one of the popular refrains of the day. Toward the end of his set, Naby shouted, "Thanks for dancing out there," gesturing toward us.

I guess being in the fresh ocean air made people friendlier, because over the course of the day, whether playing dodgeball, swimming or enjoying the sunset, we chatted with several complete strangers who were enjoying the music and the outdoors. Eventually we had to head home, but Kane had told me that for some upcoming shows, partygoers will be able to camp out. Now I’ve gotta find someone willing to share a sleeping bag. 

The Licker License invitation described the videos as a "sensually grotesque observation of the female experience as seen through an antifeminist/feminist show." I still don’t know what that means and I’m not sure about grotesque, but there were some arresting moments. Kathleen Daniels’ film was a cartoonish sequence of distorted characters, some of whom flew through the air. Then there was McCarthy’s video depicting breasts being surgically probed in some sort of surgical ritual. The tits belonged to Genesis Breyer P-Orridge who had arrived and was nestled on a chair in the center of the room. "Genesis, what’s happening?" The platinum-haired British rocker, sporting a denim vest, smiled and said, "Have you seen my film? It played Tribeca Film Festival and BAM. I’m off to Los Angeles next."

Before I could invite myself along, we all raced inside when it was announced No Bra was ready to perform. Susanne Oberbeck’s singing is reminiscent of Nico and is accompanied by a similar droning. My friend Mari perked up when Oberbeck launched into her hit "Munchausen," which is about a pissing contest. "Really? I once organized a radical picnic with Kathleen Hanna/ Really? I was born with only one leg/ Really? I was cremated once," go the undermining lyrics. Then there was the line about Nina Hagen making pizza out of dead cats, a colorful image but not exactly typical holiday fare. Still, I’d take it over hot dogs and fireworks any time. 

Last Tuesday night, in a penthouse at the Gansevoort Park Avenue Hotel, Lepore hosted the first night of a new weekly party she’s doing with Kenny Kenny and Joey Israel. Since the lady herself had requested my presence—via an all-caps email, no less—I threw on my high heels and went. When I arrived, it was obvious that all of New York nightlife had shown up; no less than Joey Arias took to the stage around 1 a.m. to perform an impromptu song. Unfortunately, due to a snafu with the management, the rooftop never opened and Kenny Kenny stormed out and quit.

Then, on Saturday night at the Highline Ballroom, Lepore celebrated the release of her new album, I…Amanda Lepore. At the club, the room was arranged more cozily than usual, with couches in a semi-circle, the VIP sections on each side. On the bill were The Ones, Jonté, Bishi, Roxy Cottontail, Deluka and Neon Glitz, as well as hosts Joey Arias and Ana Matronic, and DJs Jon Jon Battles and Bill Coleman. Guests included Susanne Bartsch and Pat Field. Getting into the VIP section was a must, since the inhabitants included Courtney Love in a basic black dress and not too much makeup—nice of her to not upstage the woman of the hour. Also in the pack were photographersDavid La Chapelle, Marco Ovando and Karl Giant, whose photos were blended into a series of videos projected onto a screen. La Chapelle mounted the stage and dedicated a poem to Lepore, his muse for the past 10 years.

Lepore finally appeared, carried aloft by a bevy of male dancers—in jackets but no pants—singing her song "My Way." The platinum blond didn’t just stand around looking pretty, but made her way through her other numbers, like "Champagne," "I Know What Boys Want," "Cotton Candy," "Marilyn" and "My Hair Looks Fierce."

"I don’t know much about clothes but my hair looks fierce," she sang. She had a point, since she often wears as little clothing as possible. To break up the performances, her long-time collaborator Cazwell performed "Get My Money Back," "I Seen Beyoncé at Burger King" and "All Over My Face."

Taking a breather from all of the excitement, a friend of mine found Love smoking a cigarette outside of the club. Playing dumb, he asked if she was living in New York these days. "I’ve lived here for two and a half years, but no one believes it with my L.A. attitude," she said. "I live with my gay. I can’t be without my gay."

That was a feeling that pervaded the entire evening. 

I arrived at the self-service, coin-operated washing machine establishment to find it bathed in a soft pink light. A sexy blond was applying body paint and glitter and a couple of well-built young men were preening for her in the window where a sign proclaimed: "The Laundromat That Never Sleeps." The place was already jumping at 11 and it kept getting more and more crowded—eventually a line formed out the door. "May I ask you a few questions?" asked a guy with a video camera on the sidewalk out front. "Are you here to wash your clothes or dance?" he said to me. "Both!" Of course, I had bags and bags of dirty laundry in my hellhole apartment, but carrying them onto the subway seemed excessive.

At $75 a ticket, I figured the bash better be more fun than clean—and it was. Yes, one draw was the open bar with bottomless glasses filled by super hunky bartenders clad only in white terry cloth towels. It was the look of the place, the pink lighting, the good-looking crowd dancing in between the bank of washing machines and the kick-ass music by DJs Juan Maclean and Justin Miller. "Come on over here, I want to take your photo," said a striking woman with a huge camera. It was Ventikon, billed as the evening’s "eccentric photographer." She was pleasantly kooky, wearing a headdress of low-fat milk cartons as she dragged out a big frame made out of a collage of Tide detergent boxes to use for her pictures. It was touching to see what appeared to be the owners of the Laundromat in the backroom, with shelves of detergent and other paraphernalia. I waved at them but they never came out to boogie with the rest of us.

The Dirty Disco party "designer" was a tall young man called Adam Aleksander, who greeted everyone in his retro mustard jacket. Aleksander set me up at an ironing board in the front where I spent the rest of the night dancing with a can of starch and a Black and Decker steam iron. "Your shirt looks dirty, you need a wash and a press," I shouted at performance artist Sequinette, who had arrived with a tight lavender shirt that had a little gravy stain in the center of her bust. "I’d sure like to get into your laundry," I said. Maybe she didn’t hear me. She smiled but politely refused to remove her shirt.

Although you might think the event caters only to a fringe group, I bumped into a lot of my friends there. “I love leather, and I think this event is one of the sexiest of the year,” photographer Rob Ordonez told me. He and his friend, fashion designer Geary Marcello, are regulars and were dressed in typical Folsom Street attire, with matching spiked dog collars, leather straps, face piercings and tattoos.

When I arrived around 3 p.m., the block was crammed with mostly men, a few women (some in leather) and drag queens. And one living blow-up doll: A person encased in a latex mask covering his entire face, who was also wearing black latex—with balloons for tits. I pushed my way through the crowd looking for the press table on the other side of the block and thought about getting a beer ticket for $5 because it was starting to get hot (in more ways than one).

As I expected from photos I’d seen from previous Folsoms, some men were semi-nude and consisted of all different body types, ages and colors. Some wore leather chaps with ample ass hanging out, some wore other bondagetype fashion (harnesses being the most common) and some were just wearing average, everyday clothing. What made the day fun was the sense of adventure and friendliness of the crowd.

The stage shows were emceed by porn star personalities Mike Dreyden (who later participated in the most unique pie-eating contest ever conceived) and Will Clark. Sassy drag queen Peppermint performed and—although there were some wellplaced taunts from the average-looking gawkers on the High Line—it was a feelgood day.

My friend, nightlife photographer Teague Clements, seemed to have a great time. “It was a veritable cornucopia of sexual freedom: leather daddies with their lovers, lesbian doms with their boi slaves, muscular bears walking hand-in-hand,” he said. “And every now and then, people just… kissing. And yes, there were straight folks, too.”

But of course, kink was the theme.

International Mr. Bootblack 2011 was at his station cleaning and polishing people’s boots, with soap, polish and his tongue. T.E.S. (The Eulenspiegel Society) held flogging demonstrations and random guys were lashing volunteers. And yes, a few guys were actually wearing leather and latex dog masks.

Try as I might, I didn’t see any real public sex, although I’m told things can get racier as the fest ends and attendees enter the nearby Eagle bar. New York’s Folsom Street East is tame compared to its namesake in San Francisco and its sister event, Up Your Alley, which is known for its hard-core sex. The Folsom events in general are to support sexual freedom as a political act, but New York City has always been more prudish about public displays.

With the street fair being held near the High Line, when new luxury condos encroaching closer every day, you’d think the neighborhood would be outraged by the near-nudity. In general, onlookers seemed more curious—and even amused. According to Clements, when he left the fair accompanied by two friends and their slaves tied head-to-foot in rope bondage, “There was no drama, just looks and double takes on the street. But no stupid comments or confrontations.”

Cougar Perry, who’s writing a book about her experiences battling breast cancer, was enthusiastic. “It’s my first time at Folsom Street East. Many people thought I was a FTM trans man,” she explained. “I told them I was trans by default and that I am a breast cancer patient. I showed them my chemo port and my nippleless chest under my leather harness. People were fascinated, impressed and amazed! I actually made some new sweet, leather daddy friends. I had a blast!” As for me, it seemed like a typical street fair, complete with overpriced tchotchkes—just with the addition of lots of bare skin, jock straps, fetish wear, harnesses and pony hooves. My only regret was missing the infamous pie-eating contest in which guys have their butts smeared with cream pie and then have it lapped off by the eager tongues of their male teammates. For once, no one was worrying about calories. 

One-thirty-ish was just the right time to arrive at Brian Rafferty and Shawn Paul Mazur’s bash, called This Is New York Fucking City. Jake Resnicow of the

Matinée Group, the creators the World’s Biggest Party, was co-producing the party. "This is the city we live in, the city we love, the greatest city in the world," Rafferty wrote on the flier. Since the party was also his birthday celebration, I’ll cut him some slack. A former host at Mr. Black’s, Rafferty—along with Mazur—is also throwing a new weekly party at Juliet called Kings. Until now, the duo has been best known for the popular Griffin Sundays in the Meatpacking District, on break for the summer.

I didn’t know them, but I recognized popular "door bitch" Roze Black stationed by the entrance, all glammed up in a sequined black dress. Once inside the basement lair, the first person I saw was Birdy Presents sitting on the couch, elegantly attired in a black satin hooded number. "Here, have my drink. I don’t need it anymore," she said, handing me a Sea Breeze. Then, the outrageous hostess Demanda Dahling came over, her face painted white and a gold star gleaming on her forehead, to join in a drink. Nearby in the darkness, I heard someone mutter apologetically, "Sorry, I’m in a K hole right now."

I certainly wasn’t. I dragged my energetic self out to where DJ Theresa was playing hardcore unst unst house music. The dance floor was packed with built guys, some shirtless. The light show was flashing, the go-go boys were shaking it and the disco ball was glowing. This was like a circuit party with a few chicks and trannies thrown in. But the boys were more interested in rock hard pecs than my 36 double Cs, so after a few dances with myself, I sashayed off around the corner to Club 57.

At 3 a.m., the downstairs was empty.

On my way to the balcony, I noticed Cherie Lily, celebrity trainer and Mrs. Andrew W.K. walking by, but then was distracted by a glitzy entourage pushing through the crowd. "Don’t move," security guards barked. "What the heck’s going on?" I asked. "That was Lil’ Kim," promoter King Ralphy said. Little did I know the rapper had just performed with Amanda Lepore. Now this, I thought, is New York Fucking City.