Navigating the Nightlife Divide

The Party Scene Through the Eyes of a Trans Woman

Downtown Iowa City alleyway.

It’s Friday night. The weekend. Everyone—everyone—at least, all the cool boys and girls, are going out to the bars, functions, and frat houses to get shitfaced despite being under 21.

Tyler prepares for his night first by spraying Jean Paul Gaultier’s Le Male Elixir Parfum, which his dad bought for him as a Christmas gift. He then pops a mint to clean his teeth and he rummages through his hamper to find a shirt for the night. He can’t decide if Brittany would like the striped golf shirt or the v-neck t-shirt better. V-neck t-shirt. His reasoning is that the neckline almost goes past his nipples. He pulls it on and he’s ready for a fun night downtown!

Sylva prepares for her night first by bending backward in the shower to shave her entire body. Only a few knicks. This is an everything shower, and men tell her she has to be spotless (no, she doesn’t owe anyone femininity, but men will find any chance they’re given to call a woman a man). She hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, so the flush-out is quick and she’s snatched as fuck because men like women who don’t have regular GI function and who do have pencil waists. Once out of the shower, she picks out an outfit, but before she can do that, she texts her friends to confirm where they’re going tonight so that she can gauge the chances of a man deciding to get froggy and then claim that she was asking for it. Her friends take too long to respond, so she plays it safe: a top that hides her shoulders well and some skinny jeans. She pulls trig one last time before she shoves her testicles into her scrotum so that she can fit into the jeans. Last, she coats her jaw with orange color corrector so no one clocks her five o’clock shadow. She spends fifteen minutes blending her face and then she’s ready for a fun night downtown!

Tyler gets halfway to Mark’s—his buddy’s—house before he realizes he left his phone in his dorm. He only realizes he forgot because it’s a little muddy and he wants a flashlight to see the ground because he’d hate to stain his white Air Forces. He pauses and contemplates turning around. Nah! Wait. He turns around. Jessica, that one girl from Foundations of Economics, might want to exchange snaps. No way he’d miss that chance. He’s been eyeing “that piece” for a minute. Tyler returns home, grabs his phone and an extra condom for safe measure, and resumes his journey.

He walks through the door of Mark’s place, a downstairs duplex. Rob Zavalia, the student body president lives upstairs, but they share their kegs all the same. Rob’s cool, don’t worry. As Tyler walks in, Mark, Brandon, John, Chad, Parker, and so on shout the usual “Tylerrrrrr” and dap him up as soon as they see him. An Angry Orchard is placed in Tyler’s hand and they begin their pregame with beer pong and bets.

Sylva is still at home. She texted the group chat, suggesting they could possibly by some small chance perhaps pregame at her apartment despite the original plan being to meet at Margot’s boyfriend’s place, closer to downtown. She only gets a text back from Naveah, who lives up the road. She shows up at Sylva’s apartment within a few minutes. They do not pregame but head straight for Margot’s. Margot, Margot’s boyfriend, Ja’Niyah, Tessanne, and Yoyo are already there. They’ve made some vodka crans and are planning out their route for the night.

Tyler and his buddies don’t have to plan out their route. They go straight to the frat house where they’re all pledged. This is the first stop of the night. Inside, there is a one-to-four ratio of men-to-women (all with vaginas) because men in fraternities are too insecure in their masculinity to be confident that the first three women (all with vaginas) they talk to in a night will be willing to engage in basic human interaction with them. They don’t realize that the women only go to frat parties to steal alcohol and various household objects. Boys like Tyler and Mark and Brandon and John and Chad and Parker and nobody gives a fuck blame their lack of social skills on women (vagina not necessary) because women are just so damn unreasonable and can’t hold a conversation to save their life and they let their emotion cloud logic and some other dumbass excuse. In reality, a man approaching a woman (with a vagina), giving her a backhanded compliment about her ass without realizing he commented on her weight, being surprised when she’s not interested in speaking to him, and then calling her a derogatory term is not the woman being unreasonable. Regardless, he still views her as an object whose one purpose is to procreate (women with uteri procreate).

Emphasis on Uterus. Boys like Tyler prefer women with all-natural, all-American vaginas. That’s why Margot and her boyfriend enter the same house as Tyler without the rest of the group. The first stop of the night for Sylva, Naveah, Ja’Niyah, Tessanne, and Yoyo was Margot’s boyfriend’s frat house, much to the protest of Sylva. When Margot’s boyfriend suggested stopping by the party, Margot got excited and insisted they go together. Sylva became nervous. “I thought we were going to Peter’s first.” Peter, a friend of Sylva’s who she met in a Cinema class freshman year, is throwing a party tonight. He invited her, she promised she’d be there, and the rest of the group agreed it could be fun for a little while. However, it's no close competition for Margot when choosing between some cinema nerd’s house party and a frat party. Sylva refuses to go to frat parties. This is because frat boys have an uncomfortable obsession with judging women’s bodies, and they have a knack for noticing unusual traits in women, such as an Adam’s apple. (Because whose business is a woman’s body but a random man’s?) Sylva is the only woman in the group with an Adam’s apple, and frat boys don’t like women with Adam’s apples. This is because—remember—frat boys like women with uteri, and—remember—to them, a woman who lacks an all-natural, all-American vagina is not a woman.

So, the first stop for Sylva, Naveah, Ja’Niyah, Tessanne, and Yoyo is Peter’s place. Peter is ecstatic to see Sylva when she walks in the door. Sylva introduces her friends.

“Well, we’re having a Super Smash Bros. tournament upstairs if you ladies want to join!” Peter says.

“Right…” Sylva says. She turns to the other women, hoping they’re not too regretful of listening to Sylva’s suggestion for once. In order to convince her friends that she’s one of the girls, and that she’s just as fun as everyone else, she has to prove that through constant satisfactory activity planning. “Shots?”

“In the kitchen. Around the corner.”

“Thanks.” Sylva forms the best sympathetic smile she can. “See you upstairs.”

Peter runs back upstairs.

The women turn the corner and are met with a small crowd of even more women who have all found their home for the night beside the “bar,” a makeshift table lined with any bottle of alcohol and strange juice combination an irresponsible college student could think up. It’s perfect.

After having no luck with convincing (convincing) women to have sex with them at the frat party, Tyler, Mark, Brandon, John, Chad, and Parker head to their next stop, The End Zone. They wait in a half-hour line, then present the bouncer with their fake IDs at the door. The bouncer isn’t as stupid as they believe he is, but he lets all of them inside. They pay twenty dollars for cover. Their faces of relief (because they can’t believe the bouncer was too stupid to notice their IDs were fake) drop as soon as they step inside. They witness the horror before their very eyes: it’s a mere one-to-one ratio—a sausage fest. How can they have any chance of sleeping with a woman tonight if the odds don’t lean in their favor like a dick with erectile dysfunction? They’re going to have to step up their game big-time if they want to have a chance at some poontang. So, they each order a drink and stand along the wall in silence—along with every other man in the room—like the cast of King of the Hill while they wait for a woman to approach them.

“Hey, Peter,” Sylva says. “Your… smashing brothers skills are impressive, but I think we’re gonna… head out. Thanks for inviting us!”

Peter does a poor job of masking his gloom with a smile. “Thanks for coming, ladies!” He leans into Sylva for a hug. She pretends not to notice. The group darts out of there.

“So, Sapphire, anyone?” Sylva says as they walk from Peter’s house to downtown. “The drag show started a few minutes ago.” Sapphire is the city’s only gay bar and the one Sylva frequents most often. Sylva knows the other girls don’t enjoy drag shows. Cishet women like to claim they enjoy drag, but what they really mean is that they follow Trixie Mattel on TikTok and they might have seen an episode or two of Season 7 of Drag Race and then they call it a day. They won’t tell Sylva this—oftentimes they won’t even admit it to themselves—but they have to try hard to force themselves to not mention how strange they find the art form.

“Oh, yeah,” Yoyo says. She’s trying not to be rude. “I think they’re also doing one-dollar pints at End Zone.”

Sylva can’t get into The End Zone. She’s tried before. She waited until after she turned twenty-one and everything, but the bouncer didn’t even bother to ask for her ID. He just turned her away before she had the chance to pull it out. She has tried to explain this to Yoyo before, that the bouncers can always tell, and that it’s never just one bad bouncer. Yoyo refuses to understand, however; saying things like, “What, is this the 1960s, or something? Isn’t that stuff like, illegal nowadays?” If only Yoyo would do a modicum of research, she would discover that it is just fine and dandy for a bouncer or a teacher or a landlord or an employer or a doctor or a judge to discriminate on the basis of queerness in the majority of states and that, yes, these realities still exist despite 1960 being over half a century ago. Sylva knows this because her work has posted a “Know Your Rights” poster right above the urinal in the employee bathroom. The “Discrimination” section is eye-level, so she is reminded that her human rights are not recognized by the state every time she stands to pee.

So Sylva, Naveah, Ja’Niyah, and Tessanne find themselves headed toward the alley where Sapphire is located while Yoyo heads to The End Zone. There is no line or cover. The bouncer (a twink in a skirt who couldn’t stop anything—from a fly to a man with an assault rifle—from getting in) recognizes Sylva and greets her with a hearty “Hey, girl!” followed by a kiss on the cheek as he puts a wristband on her.

Inside the bar, Sylva leads the other women downstairs, where the bar is since they share the building with another bar upstairs, and through the crowd to get a good view of the “stage,” which isn’t even an elevated platform, but rather a sectioned off corner of the floor since the ceiling is too low for an actual stage.

After a mere ten minutes of watching the show, Tessanne caves. She pokes Sylva on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m getting hot and it’s a little too crowded in here, I’m going to step outside for a second.” And she never returns.

Ja’Niyah is next. She manages to make it half an hour. “Hey, I’m getting a little tired and I have work in the morning. I think I’m gonna head home.” And there she goes.

So Sylva and Neveah are left to themselves to watch the remaining hour of the drag show.

It doesn’t take long for a middle-aged man to squeeze his way through the crowd to talk to Sylva. “Me and my husband have some extra room in our bed tonight,” he says. Sylva chooses not to respond, but Neveah scares the man off with just a dirty look.

Next in line, another man approaches Sylva, this one much younger, and—believe it or not—conventionally attractive.

“Hey! You’re beautiful!” he says.

Naveah has yet to pounce.

“Uh, thank you,” Sylva says. She doesn’t know how else to respond.

“I’m, like, obsessed with you.”

“Oh—”

“Like, I would never have a chance with a girl like you.”

“Well—”

“You’re so hot and so out of my league and like so perfect in every way.”

“Um—”

“I think I see you in here a lot.”

“Oh—”

“So, yeah. Uh, anyways, yeah, um, you know, I’m not, like, gay, but I would totally let you date me if you keep it on the down-low.”

“What the fuck,” Neveah says.

Neveah then spends the next ten minutes yelling at the man to learn what heterosexuality is, that Sylva is a real woman, that he needs to show some respect, and so on. Sylva doesn’t say a word for the entire duration of the berating. Instead, she maintains a blank stare of astonishment as Neveah once again speaks on her behalf.

Tyler, Mark, Brandon, John, Chad, and Parker abandon The End Zone because the women there are being way too damn stingy with their poontang. They decide their next stop is Pulse, a dance bar, where they’re sure to have far more luck compared to the sports bar atmosphere of The End Zone.

After another half-hour line, foolish bouncer, and twenty-dollar cover, they return to their routine of ordering a drink and standing around until a woman decides to approach them. They can’t believe women could be so selfish as to not want to have sex with each of them the moment they walk through the door.

So they ditch Pulse and go to Whiskey Cowgirl. Another line, another bouncer, another cover, more drinks, but no luck. So they go to O’Connor’s: Line, bouncer, cover, drinks, no poontang. The Train Station: Line, bouncer, cover, drinks, stingy, selfish women. Hollander’s: Line, bouncer, cover, drinks, one girl bumped into Parker by accident, but still no coitus. And so on.

By now it hits midnight and the men, plastered from so many drinks at each bar, decide that tonight just isn’t the night, so it’s time to head home. They say their goodbyes, trade daps, and each of them go their separate ways to walk home alone in the dark.

After the drag show, and only a few drinks in, Sylva and Neveah decide they’re done for the night. Sylva lights a cigarette and they head home. On the way there, they pass The Pit, the emo bar, as it’s referred to. If one can get over the aura of smoke and vapor, the alleyway outside the bar is the best spot to make some extra money selling cigarettes to freshmen. Plus, the chance that the people there will assault Sylva for one senseless reason or another is much lower than at most bars. Sylva figures she could get a few quick sales in before they end their night for good.

Sylva and Naveah’s journey becomes endangered, however, when a stumbling frat boy is en route to pass them. Of all the people who dare to spew hate to a transgender person’s face, an inebriated frat boy who understands the power his privilege grants him is at the top of the list.

As Tyler stumbles home by himself, he passes The Pit, his least favorite bar because he struggles to inhale the cloud of cigarette smoke whenever he passes it. Growing up, seeing a smoker was a rarity for him, so as an adult, he looks down upon anyone who is enough of a lowlife to smoke cigarettes. Tyler holds his breath as he passes The Pit, then takes a hit of his mango-flavored vape once he gets out of range.

That’s when he sees his last chance at scoring tonight: two girls who are en route to pass him. But he’s got to play it cool.

“Sup, ladies,” he says as they approach each other.

The two women don’t say anything and instead plan to continue walking, so Tyler stops in the middle of their path in order to force them to also stop. He believes this is the method, females love acts of confidence, he tells himself.

Neveah grabs Sylva’s arm and clutches it tight. Sylva doesn’t respond to Neveah’s communication nor does she say anything to Tyler; instead, she holds her cigarette up to offer the frat boy a drag. Free of charge. This man is not Sylva’s target demographic for her cigarette-selling business. She’s afraid of what he might do if she has the balls to say, “two dollars” as she hands it to him. Tyler hesitates, then takes it out of her fingers. Neveah’s grip tightens.

“Where are you two coming from?” Tyler says. He then goes into a coughing fit but tries to act like nothing is amiss.

“Just, uh, Sapphire,” Sylva says. She didn’t want to admit it to him, afraid of what idea he might get.

“Where?”

“Sapphire.”

“Never heard of it.”

“The… gay bar?”

Tyler laughs. “What you two doing there, then?” That’s when he notices, and his smile drops. “Oh, no, I mean, uh, like, no, like, it’s cool. No, it’s cool. I don’t even care. Do what you want as long as it doesn’t affect me, you know?” He laughs again, this time it’s forced.

Sylva searches for the words to respond.

Neveah, infuriated by Tyler, tries to save them.  “We were just—”

“Wait a minute!” The man’s face drops again and he looks at Sylva in astonishment. “You didn’t think I was going to beat you up, did you?”

Sylva hides her confusion. She is at a loss for words.

“You really thought I was going to beat you up?”

Sylva did not think Tyler was going to beat her up.

“I would never do that, bro. You’re one of the good ones. For a second there, I couldn’t tell you were a tranny.”

“We were just heading home,” Neveah says, her voice sharp. She grabs Sylva’s arm and tries to direct them past the man.

Tyler panics because at least Neveah is still an option for some poontang. “Woah, woah! Where you going?”

“I already told you.”

“But we’re in the middle of a conversation!”

“We’re really tired,” Sylva says. She lets out a nervous laugh, trying to diffuse Neveah’s rage out of fear of what Neveah may do to Tyler.

Tyler doesn’t hear Sylva. “So, why you two going to a gay bar? Why not go to, like, a more, like, popular bar?”

“I would… love to,” Sylva says.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Neveah says and she forces Sylva to continue walking.

Tyler gets excited, but he’s still staring at Neveah. “Then we should go!” he says to Neveah. Neveah has stopped giving Tyler the privilege of her attention.

“You two probably fucking each other anyways,” Tyler shouts after Neveah and Sylva make good distance from him. He flicks the cigarette at them and it lands a couple feet in front of him.

“Dude. What were you thinking?!” Neveah says once Tyler is out of hearing range. She has yet to let go of Sylva’s arm.

The two pass in front of The Pit.

“I—” Sylva begins, eyeing the front of the building. She still wants to make some extra money.

“I can’t believe you would let a man—mind you—a man—an M, A, N—speak to you like that!”

“I didn’t—” She turns her head as Neveah leads them past the bar. She struggles to keep up with Neveah’s invigorated pace.

“I mean, what would you do without me?! Do you think I’ll be there to save you from every hostile man you encounter?”

“No—”

“If you want to be a girl so bad you have to learn how to stand up for yourself once in a while—”

“What?”

Neveah releases Sylva’s arm once she realizes what she said.

“I’m sorry.”

Sylva doesn’t care how sorry Neveah is. If she had the chance, Sylva wouldn’t let a man treat her like a second-class human, but it’s not as simple as gaining some confidence and telling a man off. Cishet men view all women as targets, but they view transgender women as challenges. They feel entitled to test how much of a “woman” she might be. And men know that she loses in every scenario: fighting back, letting him have his way, or letting her friend take the lead for her. Either he has his way with her, he convinces himself that she’ll never be—by his definition—a real woman (because, of course, self-defense is not very womanly), or she gets scolded on how she lets men do whatever they want to her.

Cishet women are not off the hook, however. Like the vast majority of men, the vast majority of women hate queer people. Women, however, are much better at hiding it, often from themselves. Some of those women even convince themselves that they don’t hate queer people. She does this by picking a transgender woman or a gay man and treating them like her child as a way of convincing herself that she is supportive, and an ally, and she understands what they’re going through. Despite all this, she will never be able to squash that subliminal feeling that it’s all a performance hidden behind a veil to boost her perception of her self-worth. To cishet women, queer people are a tool for her to use to convince the rest of the world that she is of a superior moral standing than everyone else.

So Neveah stands frozen while Sylva walks off alone. Neveah knows it’s too late for her to explain herself. Sylva sees beyond the veil. She always knew it was there, but chose to give Neveah the benefit of the doubt. But Neveah still can’t see her own veil. She is still convinced that she is an ally, that she just slipped up, that Sylva is being unreasonable, and needs to deal with the fact that someone’s going to misgender her from time to time.

Cisgender people believe that that’s all transgender people want: to be referred to by the correct pronouns no matter how well they pass or not. By that reasoning, trans acceptance is black or white, a yes or no, the decision to tolerate or to not tolerate. The reality is that it’s much simpler than that: it’s to be considered real people.

“Are you sure you’re okay to make it to your apartment from here?” Neveah says.

Sylva doesn’t respond because someone once told her that she never stands up for herself.