The Nightlife Diaries: A Week of Mascara & Misandry, Wine & Sex
I'm only chronicling evenings because the day disinterests me.
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Like every fashion-crazed teen, I grew up *obsessed* with “it girls.”
Which means I grew up worshipping at the altar of the original Warhol superstar, the one and only: Edie Sedgwick.
My obsession with Edie, unsurprisingly, sent me cruising down the rabbit hole of Andy himself. I spent my sixteenth year furiously researching the Silver Factory and the Chelsea Hotel; the Velvet Underground and Lou Reed; the underbelly of downtown in the mid ‘60s, and the drug discos of the early ‘70s.
When I discovered the Andy Warhol Diaries, Andy’s dictated chronicles of his daily life, I became a shut-in until I devoured all 827 pages. I drank in the celebrity culture, the art, the drugs, the fashion, the music, the nightlife—like it was the last bottle of sparkling rosè in the desert.
I’ve always secretly wanted to take a stab at sharing my week diary-style, but the thought of recounting my days felt arduous, and honestly? Self-flagellating. I’m hard on myself about work, and how boring to write about the immense pressures of career and survival?
How boring for you to read about the immense pressures of career and survival?
We’re all rough on ourselves professionally and financially; it’s nothing new.
Beyond that, I’m just not creatively interested in the daytime.
Give me the night.
Give me the inky black sky and the taunting blood moon.
Wine-fueled spats and skimpy spaghetti straps.
Bad behavior on Hollywood Blvd.
I want nothing to do with art that involves fitness and business, health and sunlight, financial hardships, and boring errands.
So welcome to the Zara Barrie Nightlife Diaries!
At first, I feared you’d think I was narcissistic for thinking you’d even be interested in my evenings. Then I remembered how voyeuristic I am and how much I enjoy reading about the details of everyone’s and anyone’s life, and I can’t possibly be the only one. To think so would be narcissistic.
That being said, I’m honored to take you along with me on a humble week of my life, during the beatific and sinful month of June, after the dark and wild night has fallen.
Grab a glass of wine and adorn your body in your flashiest, most fabulously “gauche” attire, pretty please and thank you. Spritz yourself below the belt in a musky, shamelessly sexy fragrance and silence your notifications, we’re not spending the evening scrolling.
We’re going out, honey.
Friday, June 13th:
I slither into a long, skin-tight Skims dress and massive platform loafers. I wear mascara for the first time all month because of my corneal ulcer and feel pretty. My current brand of choice: Tartlette Tubing Mascara by Tarte.
I don’t feel pretty without mascara because I’m a terrible feminist. Lesbian. Woman. Person.
My fellow superficials will understand this: taking a break from makeup is harrowing but sort of nice. Because it resets your tolerance. It’s like taking a break from drinking after a long, boozy holiday season. By the end of December, it takes twice as much wine to feel a buzz. So you go dry for January, and when you get back to the Sauvignon Blanc in February, you only need *one* cute glass to get your rocks off.
I usually feel like no amount of mascara will ever fill the void, but today, four skimpy coats make me feel like a queen. Makes the last several weeks of feeling perpetually homely *almost* worth it.
I spray myself down with my favorite new fragrance: “More Sex” by Charlotte Tilbury. It’s musky and velvety and I think *extremely* sexy.
I clip my dog into his Burberry knockoff leash and collar and walk a mile to Jess and Michelle’s apartment, in my heavy platforms. The way the thick heels clip-clop down Sunset Boulevard reminds me of a horse.
Two different gay men on two different blocks compliment me on my bag, which is a muted metallic rainbow and covered in sparkly rhinestones.
I know it sounds like trash on a chain, but it somehow manages to be ~really~ chic. It’s by British high-street shoe designer Kurt Geiger, and I get more compliments on it than any of my Chanel bags could dream of. I’ve been wearing it all Pride season and will continue to do so for the rest of summer.
Two bottles of natural wine from Joan’s on Third poetically clank against each other as I clip-clop down Santa Monica Boulevard. The sun is setting; the sky looks like a swirly raspberry creamsicle.
I have my own set of keys to the girls’ apartment, so I twirl on in without knocking, lilting, “I have natural wine. Little Michelle, it’s the one you said you liked.”
I watch the girls finalize their primping and sip wine from one of the hot pink acrylic wine glasses I left at their apartment after our Dyke Day picnic.
I always leave *something* at their apartment: a clunky bangle, a white go-go boot, a loose prozac (which I’m considering tapering off, more on that later), a bra, a piece of art, dog food. They always text me saying, “You left a Zartifact here. I’ll bring it over later.” I’m never fussed. I’ve been sprinkling Zartifacts across the globe since birth. Strangely, I’m not possessive about my material objects. I’m as surprised as you are.
I leave Luka with Jess’s dog Kato, who my girlfriend thinks looks just like Justin Bieber. I think he looks like Justin Bieber if Justin Bieber rimmed his eyes with black kohl eyeliner.
Before we leave, Jess shows me a video of Kato canoodling with her sister’s dog, and I feel very jealous on Luka’s behalf. “Don’t worry. You’re cuter,” I whisper into Luka’s ear after kissing him goodbye.
“It’s not personal, Kato just likes big dogs,” Jess assures. Which feels personal considering Luka can not help that he’s built like a dainty fawn in the form of a lawn fairy.
We go to our local yocal, La Boheme, for dinner. It’s just up the block, and it’s a parking lot turned into a magical bohemian garden with amazing spicy margs and meatballs, neither of which I order. I get my usual: a burger with truffle fries extra side of garlic aioli, and a New Zealand Sauvie B, pretty please.
By the end of dinner we’re a bit loose on wine and little Michelle is pissed at Jess and I. This is a regular occurrence, and I look forward to getting reprimanded by her. We order an uber and she teeters in her stilettos and tiny shorts and tells us off: We’re Going to Miss the entire fucking Party. It ends at midnight.
It ends at one, I assure her.
She insists that I’m wrong, I’m thinking of the younger party, this one is for “the olds,” no one will probably even *be* there by the time we get to whatever hotel in Hollywood the party takes place at.
I throw my arm dramatically over her shoulder, and she begrudgingly softens.
On the way there, I start to panic about running into a woman who worked very hard to break me during a time when I was already hanging on by a thread.
Little Michelle tells me that no one would dare fuck with me, so long as I’m with her. Little Michelle is right. She’s five feet tall, but only a masochist would dare cross her. She’s a tough motherfucker wrapped up in a very, tiny very tan, very pretty, very teal-eyed, very high-heeled package.
Still, I hold my breath as we catwalk into the lobby.
I scan the crowd. It’s comprised mostly of well-dressed lesbians in their mid to late forties, though it’s hard to tell in LA, where everyone looks a decade younger than their genetic age. I’m always impressed by not just the youthful skin but the fashion of the LA dyke. As a dyke myself, I’m allowed to say this: Lesbians are one of the least stylish demographics in the entire world. Yes, some break the mold, but not many. And the ones who do are *mostly* in Los Angeles (sorry, New York. You’re good at other things).
I sip a Sauv at the bar and actually talk to people who aren’t Jess and Michelle for once. The crowd is friendly and refreshingly not cliquey.
After about three hours, Jess emerges: I lost little Michelle, she says. But look at her location, she’s headed to Westwood.
What the fuck is she doing heading to Westwood? We both fret that maybe she’s been abducted? But who knows? The girl is very mysterious.
Jess and I Uber back to their apartment to let the dogs out around 1 a.m. Little Michelle twirls through the door at about 1:20 a.m., giggling and grinning and blissfully unaware that she’s sent two Jewish women with doomed thinking into cardiac arrest. Turns out she was just bored at the party and wanted to go to (god knows why) Barney’s Beanery in WeHo but accidentally put in the address of their Westwood location. Our friend Melody, also a WeHo girl, comes over, visibly buzzed and holding a burger. She’s wearing a tie and informs us that women hit on her whenever she wears the outfit. She looks very gay in it, I can see why.
I eat the burger, it’s divine.
My second burger of the night, but not my last of the weekend.
I go home, cleanse and moisturize, and sleep with Luka tucked between my legs, air conditioner on full blast.
Saturday, June 14th:
Jess and Michelle, and I had a big day: we went to the No Kings protest in Weho and then to Gracias Madre for margs (they get Skinny and I get full fat) and then to Zinque for lunch (I eat another burger) and then to the Abby and then to Revolver, where I learned how to play “corn hole” for the first time. The whole ordeal results in a 25k step count. We’re all obsessed with tracking our steps. Provides a falsified sense of control, I suspect, but who really knows?
By 5 p.m., we’re all exhausted, so we decide it’s best to stay in. I order enough sushi to cater a sizable party, and we sit on their couch and watch Long Island Princesses whilst stuffing our faces. I take off my skinny jeans (I am not ashamed) and wear little sleep shorts that belong to Jess and her long socks. “I’m in Jess drag,” I keep saying to no one in particular.
I’ve done 25k steps, but I still want more. I squeeze back into my skinny jeans and walk home alone with my dog at 11 p.m. The streets are quiet and eerie, and I’m reminded for the millionth time that WeHo is not New York.
Sunday, June 15th:
In the early evening, I start to pack for my trip to Florida the following morning. I’m a fastidious packer. You will never see a more artfully packed suitcase than one packed by moi.
The irony is that whenever I get to where I’m going, if I don’t unpack right away, the suitcase will be in mass upheaval, clothes will be dramatically strewn across the room, in a way that’s so theatrical it borders on camp.
What can I say? I’m an all-or-nothing kind of gal. (And also textbook ADHD).
My suitcase is black with red roses all over it. I bought it on Amazon. It’s Betsey Johnson and a fab price, and I never have to worry about confusing suitcases. I couldn’t recommend it more. It garners lots of compliments, especially when I pair it with the matching travel bag, which I also bought on Amazon. The travel bag only looks cute paired with the suitcase, so I feel like a real dick once I check my luggage.
After I gorgeously tuck tiny little crop tops and ziplocked bikinis and blue jellies (amazing Amazon knock-offs of the $900 ones by the Row—so last season but still hot), I shower and exfoliate my gams with a brown sugar scrub
I walk to Jess and Little Michelle’s for Sunday dinner. New Yorkers are very traditional; the family always eats together on a Sunday. Little Michelle makes her signature poke bowls. We gossip about what’s happening in the lives of our New York friends and tell each other we love each other nine thousand times because we’re sentimental girlies despite our Tri-State harshness.
Little Michelle gives me an edible on the way out, and it hits me hard on the walk home. I put on Lana and crank up the volume. The palm trees sway in the nighttime breeze and a crackhead tells me I’m beautiful. I thank him and listen to “Chemtrails Over the Country Club” on repeat the whole way home.
I get in bed, fully aware that it’s 11 p.m. and I have to be at 4 a.m. to catch my flight to Florida. Still, I put on the Alex Cooper documentary and weep, high as a kite. I’m inspired by her relentless ambition. I decide that former athletes (she was a D1 soccer player) will always be more successful than the rest of us because they’ve got innately competitive spirits and unparalleled discipline. Athletes know how to win, I think to myself before falling asleep, Luka between my legs, as usual.
Monday, June 16th
In the evening, I have a layover in Charlotte, and I’m starving. I find a shockingly chic sushi bar and sit at the bar with Luka. I order a glass of sauv (the nine ounce, not the six) and a spicy tuna roll. A waitress comes up to me and informs me that a gentleman would like to buy me my glass of wine, but not to worry because he isn’t going to bother me, he swears.
We both cackle, and I tell her to tell this mystery man I say thank you.
I call my girlfriend and tell her a mystery man paid for my wine, and she’s uninterested in the antidote, and instead wants to talk about where we’re going for dinner the following Friday (she’s meeting me in Florida). I tell her I’ve been dreaming of the “quattro formaggi” penne from Cafe Epicure, and she says she’s been dreaming of it too. I miss her viscerally and it’s making me sort of crazy.
“Are you even excited to see me?” I accuse, because lately I’ve been getting in my own way, because the grief has been in high gear.
“I can’t wait to see you!” my girlfriend promises, not even remotely annoyed by anxious attachment.
I calm down and wait for the check. Mystery man has picked up the whole thing, turns out. Right before I head to my gate, he approaches me and gives me his card. He’s not even a little creepy, and he has a sweet, southern gentleman’s drawl. He’s polite and brief, and I say thank you and goodnight. I wonder which single friend I could set him up with, but draw a blank.
My friends are either gay or taken.
I sit on the plane, amazed at how good the airport sushi was. I realize, as we take off, this is the second time this week a ~mystery man~ has paid for my drink. I decide it’s surely because I’m wearing glasses, due to my corneal ulcer. Men have a kink for glasses.
I crack open “Veronica” by Mary Gaitskill and read instead of work because my attention is scattered. My dad picks me up at the airport, and it’s 9:00 p.m., but the air is dense with tropical heat, and I can’t wait to take off my black skinny jeans, black Dr. Marten boots, black long-sleeve leotard, and black underwire bra.
My mother has cooked a gorgeous meal from the fabulous cookbook, Jerusalem, my favorite. Her hair is growing in now that she’s halted chemo, and she’s getting her sparkle back. I can tell by the way she bosses us all around at the dinner table, reprimanding us for not eating it right away, it’s going to get cold, don’t be bloody daft.
Everything would be in its right place if only my brother were here. I cry myself to sleep, Luka curled into a tiny ball on the pillow over my head.
Tuesday, June 17th:
I record my latest MASCARA LESBIAN article in the early evening and then hop in the shower. I’m ecstatic because tonight is the night. I get to wear contact lenses for the first time in over a month, my optometrist has approved.
I keep saying “oncologist” instead of “optometrist” accidentally, which makes everyone uncomfortable, myself included. Sort of. I do think it’s mostly funny. In the morose way my brother and I love.
I feel bright-eyed in my lenses and really play up the lashes and eyeliner. I wear my new denim jumpsuit by Show Me Your Mumu, the one I bought a few weeks back when feeling very depressed and empty.
I haven’t worn it yet, but I like it. I look like my father in the 1970s with my gold chains shining on my lightly tanned chest and my platform shoes covered by the bell-bottom finish.
We go to my Aunt Frances and her boyfriend John’s house for his 80th birthday party. Eduardo is my date. He looks polished and dapper, and radiant as ever. It’s golden hour, and his smooth forehead gleams like a freshly polished marble coffee table. My mother asks him if he’s just had Botox. He confirms he did indeed just get his “bow” last week. I tell him I’m getting my “bow” on Thursday, and my mother warns me not to overdo it. I ignore her and continue to drink wine and mingle.
Aunt Frances presents me with the gold Star of David, which my brother gave me three days before he passed. She had the chain mended for me as a birthday present. It’s sacred to me; it belonged to my father first. Engraved into the gold on the back, it says: LOVE, MOTHER 1961. It was his 19th birthday present from my deceased grandmother, Lucille.
When my dad gave it to Blake one holiday season, Blake and I were convinced he was about to kill himself because he’s not usually that sentimental.
When we realized the coast was clear, we found this whole ordeal hilariously funny. What’s unfunny is that my brother gave it to me, in sentimentality, right before his life came to a screeching halt.
“Now I really look like Dad in the 70s,” I joke.
Inside, my heart feels perforated with bullet holes, and by the time we get home, I’m crying and upset with my mother for making plans the following evening, which would be my brother’s 44th birthday. She cries too and forgives my outburst. It’s just a rough time for everyone. I’m grateful to anyone who cuts any of us slack. We all need slack. Life is hard, babe.
My mom and I talk until 2 a.m., and I realize it’s too late to call my girlfriend back, and I also realize I told her I’d call her in fifteen minutes two hours ago, but I was too swept in emotion to keep track of time. I hope she isn’t mad.
I put on one of those jaw-defining masks that circle over the ears and speak aloud to my brother. I know you’re an atheist, I say, but I miss you so much. And I know you’re making fun of me right now, in bed with this dumb contraption on my face. I take a selfie for personal record and fall asleep crying.
Wednesday, June 18th:
It’s my brother’s birthday, and my mother amended her plans. A big group of us are all going to dinner at Epicure in his honor: my parents, their friends Wilson and Carleton a gay couple in town from Orlando, Ruba and Ryan, and Eduardo and I.
I meet Eduardo at five so he can do my weave. We have a glass of wine as he adheres someone else’s hair to my hair and we wax poetic about life, love, and art.
I am very teary the whole night, but also laugh a ton. Carelton tells me how he once bonded deeply with Blake; they spoke for three hours about their mutual obsession with Thomas Jefferson. I don’t order the quattro formagi because I’m saving the experience for my girlfriend’s arrival, so I get the chicken parm, which is fab, even though I hardly have an appetite.
Carleton orders the quattro formaggi as per my recommendation and he describes it as “orgasmic.” I’m relieved, it’s a polarizing dish.
I get home and smoke a joint and listen to music and think about my brother until I realize I’m still wearing stiff black jeans (not skinny, baggy) and a tight corset top, what the fuck am I doing? I slip into cotton shorts and my girlfriend’s oversized black tee and get into bed.
I dream I’m in an underwater reality show.
Thursday, June 19th
My sister Jaymie and her husband Tommy come over around 4 p.m. I’m panicked about work as I have yet to finish up since my Botox took longer than expected.
I remind myself that my business will not fall apart if I take a break and enjoy my family.
I remind myself that I’m actually not behind at all and that I need to release myself from the narrative that working myself to the bone is the answer, when it’s proven many times to be the problem, not the solution.
I put on a tiny, cropped tank with a dramatic turtleneck. I think about fashion icon Stacy London, who I heard once say at a reading we both did at the Public Theatre a few summers ago, “whoever invented the turtleneck tank top must’ve been in menopause. Why else would you ever make anything so stupid?” I smile fondly at the memory and pair the top with silk pants and boots.
My dad, my sister and her husband, and I go to Kojo for dinner. We order sashimi and steamed pork buns; steak noodles and black tea cod. I sip a martini, which is rare. I’m not a liquor girl, I’m a wine slut. But I crave the taste of the ocean, and a vodka dirty tini always tastes like a lovely gulp of seawater. We have a great time and I feel genuinely happy and at ease. I decide to keep the good feelings going, so I call Eduardo.
“I’m sitting at the bar of Selva,” he slurs, “with Marley.”
“I’ll see you in five,” I slur back, trotting down the hot Florida street in winter boots and unbreathable silk pants and a turtleneck. Oh well. Fashion over function baby. I didn’t choose this life. It chose me.
Marley is a gorgeous supermodel with a lion’s mane of blonde hair. She’s six feet tall and has bronzy skin of a Swedish goddess. She’s young and brilliant, and the world is her oyster; I love her like a little sister.
Eduardo is who I’d choose to be stranded on a desert island with. We’ve been best friends since we met at Saks Fifth Avenue, and no one gets me quite like him. He’s my brother, my sister, my soulmate, my plus one, my ride or die, my constant, all wrapped up in one impeccably groomed, dewy-skinned package.
We drink wine and talk about the fundraising event we’ll all be hosting together to raise money for reproductive rights.
A man none of us knows starts talking to us about something boring and I can’t stop thinking, “DO STRAIGHT MEN EVER KNOW WHEN TO SHUT THE FUCK UP?” I wonder if I’ve come down with a sudden case of misandry? And then realize I’m drunk, probably because I had a controversial tini earlier and decide to roll with it.
Why not? I’m only in town a few more days…
The next thing I know I’m at Eduardo’s appointment smoking a joint on his couch. We’re fighting about sensitive global issues. He yells at me and I start crying, and then he starts crying, and we hug and make up. These are sensitive times, we conclude. Everyone and their mother is triggered. Everyone and their father is triggered.
I love friendships like this. Where you can be raw and real and fight and laugh and make up and overreact without judgment.
I take an Uber home at midnight and make myself an electrolyte water and set three alarms, because a former party girl like me is triggered by many things, not just international crises, but fear of failure too. I realize as I lay on top of the covers, that I’m still in my silk pants. I slither out of them and sleep in the nude, dog tucked into my armpit.
Friday, June 21st
I spend a long time primping for my girlfriend’s arrival. I flat iron my new 22-inch extensions until my hair is as straight as I am a lesbian.
I full body exfoliate and apply even more fragrance than usual, and I am notoriously heavy-handed with perfume on the best of days.
I wear a gold cocktail ring, a white Hermes bangle, an antique silver cuff, and emerald stud earrings. I repeat the denim bell-bottom jumpsuit because my girlfriend hasn’t seen it, and I enjoy dressing like my retro dad.
I wear my most towering platforms and a giant gold necklace with a giant gold heart pendant. It sits in the center of my chest. I zip the jumpsuit low and wear a push-up bra for good measure. There isn’t much to push up, it’s ~the feeling~ that counts.
“Getting ready for some hot sex with lover-girl?” My mom asks, sitting at the dining table, immersed in a puzzle.
“MOM!” I wail.
Her best friend Anne lives with us. I adore her. She rolls her eyes and says, “What, darling? You know it’s true.”
The two of them were bunnies together at the Playboy Club in London back in the day. They’re very comfortable talking about sex. So am I.
So I tell them both: my faux outrage was merely performative.
But they already know this. After all, I’ve been a professional sex and dating writer for over ten years.
My dad and I pick up my girlfriend at the airport. I spot her immediately: her raven curls, her slim black pants, her black shirt, the brown Nikes I bought her for Chanukah, her crossbody buttery leather bag she bought last summer in Europe when we were first falling in love. She’s grinning and has a twinkle in her eye that tells me she had some wine on the plane. I grin. We pull over, and I jump into her arms.
My dad drops us off at Epicure like we’re teenagers.
We sit at the bar and order burrata and tuna tartare, quattro formaggi, and chicken parm.
We clutch hands and talk passionately about the future.
We have a brief tiff about my escalating defensiveness.
We kiss. We eat. We have wine. We kiss more. We talk about the passionate lesbians we observed at the lesbian bar in Paris. I tell her I plan to write about them next week, but she says we should go back when we’re there next month and we can do deep on-site research. I agree. I’ll adjust my editorial calendar.
We go home early and have hot sex in my teenage bedroom because we’re both lover girls and my mother is always right.
Hi Zara !! ❤️