You'll Get Lost Regardless
A night out that started with a World Cup loss and ended on Toribio's dance floor at 3 a.m., re-enlightened
Friday, June 19 2026
Locations: Pig Beach, Cmon Everybody
DJ: Toribio
I didn’t start the night out alone, which often feels like a bit of a cheat code: warm yourself up with the company of a few good friends and linger long after they leave so you can understand what that night is really about.
One of my best friends, M, is Haitian, so obviously we needed to show up and show out for the game against Brazil. The only problem here was that 1) Brazil has made 23 World Cup appearances and Haiti only two and 2) we both love Brazil and Brazilian music, so ultimately this was an emotionally difficult game to watch.
I took the train to Astoria while the Scots were playing the Moroccans, 0-1. I got to the venue — a place called Pig Beach, which evoked the image of sweaty pigs rolling around in the sand, but obviously it was a barbecue place. I ran into M in line and once we were in, we found our way to a large backyard filled with at least 500 people — mostly Moroccans cheering their team on and Brazilians lingering by the tables to snatch a seat before the game, just like us. It was intimidating being the only Haiti supporters there, and while we found a few others we realized we could count them on our hands.
A group of old, wrinkly Brazilian women — the kind who very well might be racist because that’s definitely a problem in that country — moved up on us to steal the table we had already laid claim to politely by way of standing next to it and smiling at the Moroccan family who was currently inhabiting it. This pissed us off, so we proceeded to mumble under our breath, and luckily the other table we were standing next to was filled with South Asian women who overheard our conversation. After another friend joined us and I continued to rant about the Brazilians, to which she responded “Talk your shit!” — one of the South Asian girlies turned around and said “Wow, I love your vibe — do you want to sit here?”
Another two friends joined us and now we had a table. Two middle-aged Mexican men stood by us drinking beers and I told them how much I loved their team. I said I had a couple of ex-boyfriends who were Mexican, the most recent one being a psychopathic narcissist, and this actually didn’t surprise them.
M and the others grabbed us beers, and M pointed out that there were tons of hot Brazilian guys, but she saw the hottest inside and he was certainly gay, but incredible to look at. I was noticing the same, and the gorgeous women were a given and not surprising at all.
Haiti was playing terribly. Luckily the first goal scored was offside. But then the goalkeeper fucked up in a way the Mexican goalkeeper wouldn’t have, as in he stopped the ball the first time and it bounced back into the reach of the opponent, and instead of trying to prevent the second kick he sat down there hopelessly. The Brazilians erupted into cheers, and this happened two more times and while I usually love watching the game I started to feel sad for Haiti so I chose to talk to the girlies instead.
They informed me they were going to C’mon Everybody to meet up with the rest of the group after this, and while I hadn’t planned on going out I knew Toribio was playing that night and I love his sets. I decided I would go.
After Haiti lost, the Brazilians were in the best of moods. I think a lot of people there were Brazilian and the others, like M and me, huge fans of the culture and accepting of their futbol empire.
While we were getting up to leave, I noticed three Brazilian guys checking me out, and one of them was exceedingly hotter than his friends and honestly hotter than the average man. Strong jawline, perfect haircut, glasses, tattoos up the wazoo. He asked me to go over and I did. He said he liked my style and that I looked like Rihanna, and I laughed. I think what he meant was that I’m just as beautiful as her, which is true because we both have symmetrical faces and perfect smiles on account of our parents. He was still holding my hand as he said this, after a handshake meant to test out physical chemistry, and I let him. He said he lived in Southampton and owned a construction company, which to me translated to: We’re either fucking tonight or never seeing each other again. He asked for my Instagram and I said that was a juvenile request, and that I don’t give it out to strangers, so he took my number instead with no intention of ever reaching out to me again.
That’s OK; as I walked back to the girlies they were giddy with excitement for me because he was just that hot. Considering my ex-boyfriend was not just a terrible person but punching seriously above his weight, it occurred to me that the Brazilian guy was a perfect example of the type of man within my league and that I could continue to keep such high standards for myself. M then said with excitement: “THAT’S the gay guy I saw inside who I said was the hottest man in the world! Oh my God he’s NOT GAY!” We waited until we exited the location to fully freak out together, and I was holding my head even higher. I appreciated the boost.
Our Uber driver arrived after the Empower one canceled on M and I had to send her a link to the complaint form. Our sharp, incredibly sexy dancer friend sat in the front and asked if she could play music; he handed her his phone and she happily took it and opened YouTube. When she pulled up J.Lo’s “Get on the Floor” we squealed because we could see he had already watched the full music video before. He sped and nodded along while we screamed the lyrics with the windows down. I think he was having the best ride of his life. After that I requested Enrique Iglesias’ “Tonight I’m Fucking You” and that seemed to really knock our socks off, and the song ended right as we pulled up to M’s apartment.
We stopped for beers and a chaser. I’d already had a Stella at Pig Beach and drank half of our dancer friend’s mango-flavored beer which she didn’t really like because she doesn’t like sweet things. At the apartment we drank Peronis while M and another friend got ready, drinking Casamigos with lemonade. (I can’t use their initials to differentiate because everyone’s name started with M.) Dancer friend and I cracked open our bottles and talked about Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which she got her diagnosis for and which I suspect I might have. We compared symptoms and she explained that while a blood test would confirm, everything I was doing for my body to offset symptoms was a telltale sign that I had it, and since there’s no cure, the doctor would simply tell me to do everything I was already doing.
I messaged Toribio and told him I was a writer and asked if I could get on the guest list. It was just C’mon Everybody so it wasn’t a huge deal, but he responded: “U’ll get lost regardless of writing. U on.” I was thrilled.
M played one more song before the Uber arrived and it was “I Don’t Care” by Michel Martelly. She explained this was a track all Haitians knew and that they all played at their parties, and that the singer might have been involved with the assassination of the president. I shook my ass and then when it was over, we hopped into an XL where we sang more — “Lollipop” by Lil Wayne, Pitbull’s “I Know You Want Me” and a few more.
No one checked anyone’s ticket and no one even asked for my name. We got in. The rest of the group was outside smoking though, having arrived there a couple of hours earlier. I kept telling all the friends about the “guest list” and felt like a little kid or fangirl because I thought it was so cool, but I was tipsy and so it made sense that I was giddy and had gotten what I’d asked for. Plus, I was still riding the high from the Brazilian dude.
Inside, a few more pals were scattered. One of my friends told me she’d gotten broken up with earlier that day. Our friend who’d been there the whole time asked her to sit in the booth and chat, and with a regretful smile on my face I said I was going to go dance. I made a mental note to reach out to her in the morning.
Most of the group prefers music with words, while some of us are neurodivergent enough to indulge most in the freedom that lyric-less music provides. But this meant that mostly everyone was getting ready to leave while I was only getting started. I wasn’t sad about this, and it didn’t surprise me, because everyone was being chatty and restless and I am a dance floor purist and don’t expect anyone else to be.
Toribio was wearing a shirt that said HOOD CLOSED TO GENTRIFIERS, which I hoped and imagined was making a few people either amused or uncomfortable. Es verdad, you know. He played a remix of Kendrick Lamar's "DNA," which was soulful as much as it was hard. His set was just that — soulful — and mostly a mix of house and disco, the kind of music that makes your shoulders wiggle and your hips turn and your limbs roll like waves. My joints felt loose and my muscles like that of a centipede.
At some point, as the dance floor started to clear and left only the most dedicated dancers, a handsome gay man came round with a 12-inch platter of fruit arranged by color. Strawberries, red grapes, orange slices, lemon slices, pineapple, mango, kiwis, green grapes … I popped a few grapes in my mouth and felt a boost of energy.
I ended up dancing alone for another hour, and was reminded of how important it is to surrender to the music. Yes, sometimes you just don’t fuck with the DJ, or it’s not the vibe you’re looking for. But ultimately losing yourself to the music is a metaphor for how we surrender control in life — oftentimes you can find yourself enjoying it more if you just let go. I’d learned how to do that thanks to techno, and ketamine, and could do it sober or stoned or tipsy or fucked.
Toribio was making me sweat with re-enlightenment, which is exactly what I wanted. Once he started playing his last track, I exited the dance floor and gulped down five cups of water while a woman watched me with a smile. When I walked outside, the handsome gay man with the fruit was holding a nearly empty platter out for a few hungry individuals. I watched them chat for a bit, and when I was ready I hopped on an electric bike at three in the morning and made my way home, feeling sexy and blissed out.