Bacteria, Burlesque, and Bathhouse Baptisms.
- Lucy Geldziler
- 6 days ago
- 9 min read
The last couple of weeks were full of headaches, eye bags, blistered ankles, and minimal regret. The consequences have got to be my least favorite part of my actions, but not enough to prevent me from doing it all again. Let this be a testament to that.
Tuesday, May 12th
Torture, a friend of mine and frontwoman of the band Torture and the Desert Spiders, has a Tuesday residency at Baker Falls on Allen Street called “Torture Tuesday” and invited me to read poetry at one.
She said the theme for this one was “Beach goth vs. Southern gothic” and we were to dress as one of the two, but I had no idea what a “beach goth” was, so instead of enlightening myself, I decided to lean into my closet full of Southern Gothic-adjacent outfits.
As I was getting ready in my room to head Downtown for a poetry reading I have at Torture Tuesday, like any intelligent adult would do while already running late, I managed to lock myself out of my bedroom.
In a panic, my roommate called our super (because my phone was inside my room), and before he got there, we managed to victoriously break into my room using her old school ID. Now running even later than before, I put on my collared Wednesday-esque dress, browsed my Google Docs folders and notes app to decide what I’d be reading that night, and headed Downtown.
Once there, Torture introduces all of the performers and goes through the lineup. I was overwhelmed by the talent—which is rather threatening because I was toward the end of the lineup. Izzy—who writes for Office Magazine—was right before me.
This is bittersweet—bitter because she’s incredibly talented, but sweet because if there is anything I may have been second-guessing reading because I may have found it “too edgy,” I no longer had to worry about because she will always have me beat in that regard.
Sharing my writing with people is far more vulnerable to me than being naked. If there was a layer of skin beneath my own skin that was uglier than anything you’d ever seen, and everybody was staring and pointing and laughing at you, that’s how sharing your writing feels—regardless of whether it’s good or bad.
I could have been fully sober and taken off every article of clothing in my body in front of that crowd and smiled and felt less stripped-down than sharing words I had written.
After listening to and watching everyone else’s performances, my friend Valley texts me to come sit over by her.
We’re trying to figure out our next move when we remember our friends’ dance group’s show in the West Village.
Valley and I call a car to head over to our friends’ Burlesque show at Zinc bar, and upon arrival, we each paid the entry fee—only to find out that the G-Strings were not performing at their Tuesday residency because they were performing at the MoMA that night.
The woman next to us complains and asks for a refund, which is issued. We were then offered the same refund, but took a look around and instead decided to stay and order a drink. The owner then told us that he also had a back-up burlesque performance.
When we made our way into the area with the stage, a jazz musician wearing a top hat graced us with his vocals and piano skills. Two girls dressed in burlesque showgirl outfits made their way into the room and made their way around the room, moving sensually, but were much more tame than any of the G-Strings.
I waited for them to start performing their dance routine, which never came. I guess that was the performance—hence why we began to refer to them as “The B-Strings.”
Valley and I made friends with the owner of the bar and his son, who kindly bought us drinks and was eventually (easily) persuaded into letting us perform on stage.
By this point, my roommate and her good friend Anthony had joined us at Zinc bar and were there to witness us chaotically and semi-drunkenly dancing to a jazz performance. I may be biased, but I do think we put on more of a show than the B-Strings that night. At least we were on stage.
I ended up at Paul’s Baby Grand later “for a nightcap”— which ended up as an hour of me dancing on the speaker next to the DJ booth if you know, you know.
All roads lead to Paul’s (including my roommate’s birthday party 3 years prior, when I got kicked out for drunkenly tearing down a painting on the wall while dancing on an elevated surface).
Kate, my roommate, drove us home as I reflected on my outing—which started with the intent to go to nothing but my 8:30 poetry reading and quickly transformed into an impromptu dance performance on stage at a dance bar and a visit to my favorite elevated surface in all of Lower Manhattan.
I left with sweaty hair, a high BAC, and a full heart.
Wednesday, May 13th
It was the day of the launch party of the new Bathhouse, and all through the town, there were whispers of guest list (or lack thereof) and desires of wetness (not a euphemism, but if the shoe fits…).
Matt Weinberger and Mark Hunter (The Cobra Snake) were on photo duty, and Orson was on the decks (3 names crucial to have at the top of your NYC nightlife index.
Matt and Mark were in charge of the list (and naturally, everything’s less exciting when it’s all-inviting).
The new location was opening in Boerum Hill (on Atlantic Avenue). The party started at 5, and I got there around 6, changed into my bathing suit, left my belongings in a locker, and headed into the main pool area. I saw familiar faces behind familiar flashes, greeted Matt and Mark, and then went to go find the rest of my friends.
I was thrilled to see my friends Emily, Katie, and Brandi, and immediately asked Brandi where she’d gotten the glass of wine in her hand. I then grabbed a complimentary glass of wine from the bar/cafe area, took a dip in the pool, and headed to the sauna—where I did my best to make out the faces and silhouettes of more people despite the steam.
A man with an afro and a towel around his waist brushed shoulders with me on his way out of the sauna, and without hesitation, I whipped my head around to do a double-take. I lean in to Brandi and Matt and ask, “Am I seeing things because of the fog or was that just Eric Andre?” They confirm that it was, in fact, him, and I was not having sauna-induced hallucinations.
The heat eventually became too much for me to bear any longer, and I am left with no choice but to dip in the pool.
Orson played club bangers while Crackhead Barney (iykyk) ran around yelling, approaching random people, and recording videos on her phone (despite the fact that phones are not authorized inside of Bathhouse and are to be left in lockers).
Matt begins taking photos of everyone in the pool—myself included. Eric Andre glances over, comes up to Matt, puts his hand out, gesturing for Matt to give him his digital camera so he can take a photo, and says to Matt, “Now you do a sexy pose like the one she just did.” and points to and looks at me. I’m playing it cool. I’m doing my best to play it cool. I’m so chill about this right now. I’m the most chill girl in the world, right? I, like, barely even noticed he said that.
He took a photo of Matt, handed him back the camera, came closer to me, pulled me in, and whispered in my ear, “That was some OnlyFans shit.” I look at him and let out a half-chuckle (because I’m soooo chill and composed about this all). I don’t have an Onlyfans, but it’s somewhat comforting to know that if I did, Eric Andre would potentially be interested in subscribing (and he dated Emily Ratajkowski, so his standards must be high). But I’m, like, really chill and don’t even care. I basically forgot he even said that.
Shortly thereafter, we were all instructed to go into the other sauna for a ceremony. This one is supposedly the largest sauna in the United States. I’m not sure if I believe that or not—although it did fit comfortably for the 50+ people at this party.
A couple men with large gongs (again—not a euphemism) banged them continuously in a ritualistic manner as they moved throughout the sauna. A few others whipped around and fanned everyone with heated towels, unnecessary in my opinion due to the already unbearable heat. I think it was enough for me to sweat out all my sins from the past couple of weeks.
I was born-again in the Boerum Hill Bathhouse sauna (though the pool water I took a dip in after was anything but holy).
The owner of Bathhouse thanked everybody for being there and gave a speech, saying things that were probably of some significance, but I was already tuned out—partially because of the heat, and partially because Crackhead Barney was running around shouting things that I was more interested in dedicating my attention to.
It cleared out, and we retreated to the locker rooms to change back into our clothes and gather our belongings. In the locker room, I couldn’t help but be overcome with a sense of nostalgia.
Seeing that many sweaty, naked women changing in a locker room while chugging water bottles, wiping their dripping sweat with towels, and changing back into their street clothes made me feel like I was at high school track practice again.
I'm the oldest I’ve ever been (which will always be true), but all of the life I’m living now will one day be nothing but a recollection triggered by a sensation or an image so simple as a sweaty towel in a locker room.
Saturday, May 16th
It was the first Club Chlorine of the season, and for me, that’s a bigger deal than for most.
Those words might mean next to nothing to you, but to me, they’re straight out of the bible. It was Memorial Day Weekend, which meant the Le Bain pool was opening (yes, that means two pool parties in one week), and I was ready to be born again and blessed by the holy water that is the most infamous pool in NYC.
People too cowardly to dip their toes in love to claim that you’ll get an STD from the Le Bain pool, but I’m sure those are the same people in denial of the fact that their partner cheated on them. Surely—that’s where their STD came from.
Club Chlorine isn’t just chaos in a supposedly bacteria-infested Petri dish of a pool—but a recurring concert with some of New York’s best emerging talent. This time, we had Malice K, GG Magree, and Casablanca Drivers all performing live above the Le Bain pool—and Orson, Sid Simons, and Blue Velvette on the decks.
I showed up about an hour after the start time, but still managed to be the first one in the pool. My friends sometimes joke that I’m the “Le Bain mascot.” Last summer, a framed photo of me from Club Chlorine was on the wall next to the elevator at Le Bain.
I wish I had asked for one for my room.
On my way up the elevator this time, the employee operating it turns to me and asks, “Is this your first time here?” I laugh.
“No. I love this place.”
“Did you know this is the same elevator Jay-Z got beat up in?” He asks. Surprisingly enough, I actually had no idea until then that the very elevator I stood in was a piece of New York history.
I saw my friend Gabby once inside, and she was brave enough to join me in the pool. Slowly but surely, the pool began to fill up, and the performances began.
A rock-and-roll concert in a pool is nothing short of a recipe for chaos (my favorite type). Malice K lit a cigarette during his performance, took a hit, and flicked it in the Le Bain pool, which quickly became the communal pool cigarette. All the eye makeup I had put on earlier that night ended up streaming down my face after enough head-bobbing, hair whipping, falling off people’s shoulders into the water, and a group whirlpool with a surprising amount of motion.
Someone kissed another man’s wife. One woman opted for a European-style swimsuit and freed the nips (as she should), and a girl standing above the pool holding a bottle poured straight tequila into my mouth from above.
Call it gross all you want, but that was probably the cleanest day of the entire year to hop in the pool. It was the opening, not yet changed by all the grit and grime and unidentifiable bodily fluids.
Some head-bobbed till dawn—with the changing hue of Manhattan’s skyline looking back at and mocking all the hedonists who still dared be out that late, but to a true party animal, the idea of dawn is nothing but a challenge.
This is a love letter to sweaty summer nights, impromptu performances, the dance floor (which is sometimes not a floor but a pool or a speaker), and the city that never fails to keep me on my toes (and my stilettos).
I’ve lived a lot of lives, but this is definitely my favorite life I’ve ever lived.
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