As we skip the sprawling line and get the good kind of profiled (“You two are going to Basement, right?), my heart beats a little faster. We’re heading into Madonna’s Club Confessions, a celebration of her now No. 1 album and 15th album Club Confessions II and speaking of sanctification, or maybe it’s just the queen in an angelic wig, the vibes are giving heaven. So, here we stand, in a room so queer I feel the urge to give a land acknowledgment for myself and all the semi-straights taking up space. I do my best. I dance so hard I rip a tear in my see-through Victoria's Secret dress. I air-kiss, cheek-kiss, and actually kiss friends and acquaintances. I shake my ass, respectfully, when Fcukers take the stage, as is my birthright as a New York City dirtbag. I succumb to the free drink tickets. I spot my favorite niche celebrities in the VIP: Kim Petras, Myha'la, and Richie Shazam. I have another Absolut vodka soda that tastes nothing like the one I ordered the round before. I dance with my friend Eduardo between the blurry photos we take on our phones.
Madonna takes the stage with Stuart Price. I inhale deeply — the same air as Madonna. "Are you hot?" Mother scolds from her DJ tower. "Take your clothes off!" she adds with a smile, each of us howling back in her direction. We all look around, making eye contact in the agreement of our bliss. In the words of "Danceteria": "Everyone here is a work of art."

























