It was simple to get in that night. A friend of a friend tipped me off, told me they were doing masks and ermine cloaks. The only added complication was the campaign badge, a chintzy blue-and-white pin advertising CUOMO FOR MAYOR. With a reference picture I had on hand the reconstruction was doable in time.

That night I carefully packed the mask and cloak in a gym bag, pocketed the pin, and took a taxi to Chelsea. We passed by masked cloaked figures walking on the crowded streets towards the same destination. Before I exited the taxi I made sure to don the apparel. The driver said nothing, paid no heed.
The hotel stood amongst its peers, unassuming in its luxury. This street was quiet; stray pedestrians would notice the procession of masked men and women entering the building, process this information, and carry on with their day. I quickly moved to join the silent parade.

We flowed into a large elevator. Someone hit a floor button but could not see which one. The doors closed. People began rummaging through pockets and bags, pulling out blue-and-white pins and affixing them to their cloaks. I imitated, then waited. The elevator began moving, quickly and silently. My heart beat with an urgent firmness. Fabric shifted and brushed up against fabric. Someone adjusted their mask, brushing the plastic against an occluded beard and producing a hollow scratching sound. I stood still as I could, matching the mood of the elevator - excited? Scared? Reverent? At the very least: uneasy.
The doors opened at floor 23. We exited as a mass into a dim lobby. There was the sound of music, fuzzy at the edges but distinct in a general pounding of bass. A red carpet led to a darkened doorframe; beside it was a man wearing a mask in the shape of a fox. Beside the fox-man was a large circular wooden table covered with shot glasses containing some sort of fizzy blue drink. The group, well-organized inside and out, lined up and one-by-one drank a shot before being ushered inwards. I hesitated, but decided I had come too far to turn back. I downed the shot.

My next coherent memory is waking up fully dressed, maskless and cloakless, in a hotel room. I have recovered a few scenes through a combination of self-hypnosis and counterconditioning. This represents the entirety of what I can share.

I was standing in a half-circle, watching an enormous screen playing clips from the news of Israeli bombings of Gaza. Most people were openly masturbating.

A room of writhing bodies, moaning. Overlapping voices at different times proclaiming the single sentence: “I am a Cuomosexual and I love it.” Someone touched my shoulder, leaned in close, whispered in my ear: “You’re a Cuomosexual, aren’t you?”

On a small step, a person crying. “Don’t worry,” says another, “I’m sure Trump will kill him.”

A giant cake of Zohran Mamdani, torn to shreds and eaten with bare hands.