It’s 4 p.m. on a Sunday, and I’m at a friend’s loft in Bushwick where he is hosting a party, a pregame for some and afters for others, offering tank-topped gays a pit stop amid the crush of must-attend raves over the weekend. There are about 15 of us here, mostly 25- to 40-year-old childless gays who live along the M train, the Dimes Square–to–Ridgewood express that has replaced the L as a stand-in for hipsterdom now that Williamsburg is a heterosexual-financier hub. In the bedroom, roughly a dozen baggies of drugs are scattered on the nightstand. A mustachioed gay helpfully explains the pharmacopoeia: “We’ve got 3MMC, 4MMC, cocaine, and keta. I cut the corners off the 3MMC because it’s hard to tell the difference.”

Another friend interjects, “Oh, stop! It’s so easy. 3MMC is whiter.”

“No

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