Writing a column about your experiences in New York is one of the most Carrie Bradshaw things you can possibly do. That being said, I’m not really a Carrie. My friends would describe me as a Samantha with accessory Charlotte traits. Sometimes, though, I find myself presenting as a mutated kind of Carrie – a Carry Bradshaw, if you will. Once I’ve ingested enough alphabet substances (and a few named after numbers) I can often relate to the showy, delusional, and self-indulgent woman we all love to hate. I can’t help but conceive of myself as the star of the show when I carry – a word often used in nightlife to describe the dayslong, drug-fueled partying common in New York. I think a lot of us who carry can relate to that main character syndrome.  Recently, I find myself embodying my full Carry most in the outdoor yurts at a beloved venue, a kind of non-binary community center playground slash New York dance club. For most of the weekend, the venue stays continuously open. I’ve ended up in those yurts the last several pre-spring weekends. They function as the international waters meets model UN of the nightclub, where powders, doses and mephedrone-powered ted talks flow unrepentantly. Last Sunday, at about 10am in Yurt One, my spiraling vision focused just enough to make out the face of a semi-familiar acquaintance mouthing something to me. They were asking me a question I’ve been hearing more and more: What’s the tea with Tranny Beef Winter?

For those not in the know, Tranny Beef Winter (referred to as Doll Beef Winter by non-transsexuals without T-slur passes) is a phenomenon that has persisted into these early spring months, first emerging at the tail end of 2024, when it became clear that almost every scene-scion doll was publicly falling out with multiple peer power-dolls across Instagram close friends in unrelenting succession. Supermodels, DJs, Dealers and Onlyfans Moguls loaded up on estrogen and progesterone in an all-out WW3mmc. Sides taken, alliances forged, lines drawn in sandy powders and then ravenously snorted. The Beefs in question have ranged from petty to severe— they’ve even gotten physical on multiple occasions. 

I thought I had been marked safe, until I was interviewing a particularly controversial doll (who months later was allegedly punched in the face by another doll) on my podcast Money Talks With Angel Money. The moment I first pressed record, she received an unexpected call. With the mic hot, the anonymous eye-witness on speakerphone revealed some highly-classified dollstate secrets: years ago a sister of mine stole a still unknown amount of money from the door sales of a large party I had thrown. The theft had been concealed from me by several of our friends for years. Lashings ensued on social media, including allegations of drug abuse. I’m not proud of some of the things I said, and I wanted to say much, much worse. A few nights later, at a guerrilla rave held in an abandoned WeWork filled to the brim with New York’s Who’s Who, I spotted the girl who had stolen from me. In person, she didn’t look evil, she didn’t look conniving, she looked vulnerable. She looked high as fuck. One of her lashes was hanging on for dear life. I found myself hypnotized by her. She was other-worldly beautiful in that haunting Wabi Sabi cracked-out way you often find in these settings. 

Our glassy eyes met, and it felt like she was looking through me, into a vision I can only imagine. We quietly hugged, then parted ways, but our run-in stuck with me. I knew we had unfinished business. Several hours later, at a packed afterparty in a massive commercial office space in East Williamsburg, she slunk over to me. She caught me at precisely the right moment; my fierce dose of GBL (although I suspect it was mixed with BDO, a cheaper analogue) was hitting, and, in my euphoric warmth, I had no wish to relitigate. She owned what she did, and she genuinely apologized. She told me what I already knew – that her theft was the result of a very serious drug abuse problem she had since mostly moved on from. That she didn’t even remember that night and was deeply mortified. She asked for my forgiveness, and I gave it to her. I understand her. I love her. I know that a lot of the slights and conflicts that occur around parties are the result of major drug use, but I also know that these altered states make space for some of the most life-affirming and transcendent connections one can experience. For the rest of our time in that Trecartinesque office carry, she fed me any substance I requested, even calling in favors to do so. My layered high softened our reunion. 

While I was blissed out on our reconciliation, another Doll Beef summit was playing out. The office space was lined with soundproof meeting rooms walled entirely with glass, and they were all being put to use. Just before my own beef was squashed, a well-respected and immensely beautiful doll had been inching all the way into my lap, kissing my neck (a newly common occurrence as word of a recent lesbian affair of mine had spread) before being pulled away by two other members of her transsexual royal family. 

The three entered a glass conference room to hash out their issues. Before the Beef, they had all been inseparable, with inextricably linked careers, until a catastrophic fall-out. Since then, two of them had squashed their beef, and they wanted the third to do the same. From the outside we couldn’t hear a word, we could only watch, like a Real Housewives reunion episode on mute. A designated bystander, non-partial to the Beef, ceremoniously cut lines on a pink plexiglass crusher, passing them around as a peace offering. We watched as tension flared on their faces, their acrylic-nailed hands gesturing emotionally. Suddenly, one of the girls ran out of the meeting room crying. All eyes were on her as she exited the afterparty entirely. She looked heartbreakingly gorgeous as she fled. The carry continued, of course, but her dramatic departure was all the 50 or so coalescing partiers could talk about. Everyone wanted updates, context. With each new iota of information slowly traveling around the space, theories abounded. Sides were again taken. Finally, the girl who had been pulled out of my lap and into the conference room made her way back over. Some Beef isn’t meant to be squashed, she said. She realized she didn’t miss these girls. She realized she wanted to move on.

You have probably seen these women on runways, in major campaigns. They DJ with the biggest stars in the world, on private jets, while dressed by the most powerful designers in the industry. Their glamour is in-part fueled by their pharmacy-sized stock of exotic substances and goddess-like competitive natures, and so are their conflicts. I’ve always admired and slightly envied them. It felt insane to me that cameras weren’t catching every moment as this scene unfolded. It felt insane to me that this wouldn’t be covered in any tabloid outside of Close Friends stories on Instagram. It felt like a waste of interpersonal drama. All of us are famous in a certain sense—scene-famous. I like to say Gaymous: famous amongst gays. We’re often paid to go to the club, and our lives are the talk of the town. 

Freshly single and back on the scene after years of domestic hermeticism, I discovered I was unable to enjoy a single hook-up without everyone in the city finding out. I couldn’t have a conflict with another girl, a falling out at a function, without it being reported via word of mouth within hours. These girls experience this to the tenth degree. When they snatch another doll’s trade, or arrive late to a gig, everyone knows. Even if these scandals happen on an entirely different continent, Instagram will hear all about it. 

We are fascinating, complicated, constantly evolving starlets, but without the compensation women so captivating should command. We hustle to make ends meet. We have roommates. We fly Spirit and take the train. Many of our clothes are gifted by brands we can’t afford to shop with. We deserve better, for all of the entertainment we provide, for all of the eyes on us, for our forgoing of privacy. The girl who had asked for my forgiveness whispered in my ear: “Can I come on Money Talks to unpack our drama?” I was ecstatic. I had been trying to find a sensitive way to suggest exactly that. It was what was needed: a healing public sit-down about something so vulnerable. The next day, we met at the West Village estate of yet another powerful doll where we laid it all out, unpacking each and every detail of our conflict on the record. Thousands tuned in.