When the sun shines its beams of arousal...
Suddenly, all the places you'd never dream of hooking up in become hotbeds for sexual encounters. A party in East Brooklyn at the brink of dawn? Yes. The backseat of a white Ford Bronco parked at the base of the Williamsburg Bridge? Sure! The last standing tenement building on the LES? Hell yeah!
Every purposely-dilapidated nouveau dive bar in Bushwick becomes a petri dish for the super-horny, in which it suddenly becomes OK to hang out off the Halsey stop in the early hours of the morning and pay $10 for a Bud/shot handed to you by a bartender who looks like he’s been kicked out of his tenth Fugazi cover band (“Waiting Room” is the only good song, anyway).
Alongside frequenting bars you’d never set foot inside during the winter, you’ll make terrible decisions to attend every event you’re invited to (which is not the Millennial mission statement) in the hopes of stumbling upon a potential hookup.
Be honest, would you say yes to your college roommate’s ex-step-sister’s DJ set if it was happening during the dead of winter? Why do you think Governors Ball happens during the height of summer? Try explaining the concept of the inane, hopelessly corporate festival to someone in the winter. You want me to go to an island for a week and see who?! Yes, OutKast will be there.
At the very same time, the warm weather incites a feeling of camaraderie amongst our infamously flakey society. That’s why having a summer birthday party is so fun: everyone always shows.
Sure, maybe their hearts are in the wrong place, but nothing’s worse than throwing a Peter Brady Party. You just need to keep up your end of the bargain and make sure to pick a bar that’s in a centralized location for everyone to get to -- sorry to everyone in Ditmas Park, you all saw this coming.
But, be warned: Buffet Season is fleeting
Buffet Season is not as long as the name implies; it doesn't last all summer. No, New Yorkers are neither patient nor attentive enough to keep up this illicit behavior for the entirety of the short summer we get every year. One can surmise that Buffet Season lasts for as long as the novelty of heat lasts... until we’re sweating in our skinnies and/or in the midst of a budding relationship.
It lasts as long as you want it to last and can die with a nothing more than a harmless text asking the very prying question of “so, what are we?” That, coupled with the all-encompassing heat that hits New York City in the end of the summer months, suddenly puts the sun in a different kind of light. A walk to a bar down the street suddenly becomes a trek across the Sahara desert -- except this Sahara is filled with guys who think pushing “enter” on a keyboard entitles them to be called a DJ.
Take in the month or so that Buffet Season lasts with impunity and the kind of reckless abandonment that you last felt in the bottom of a ball pit inside Chuck E. Cheese.
Allow your clothes to melt off your and your partner’s bodies and dance in the proverbial sweat pit that is the back of a Bushwick bar and forget -- just for a month -- that what happens during Buffet Season... happens everywhere else. But, hey, at least the weather’s nice.
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Jeremy Glass is a writer for Thrillist and desperately wants a plate of boiled pasta.