The show is over, the chairs have been stacked; only obstinate rhinestones and rogue boa feathers remain. So we dance. Under behemoth glowing light fixtures, with bodies clothed in crinoline and khaki; genders marked via nature, knife, or glue; glitter in the air.

Minutes earlier, a sold-out crowd filled this ballroom to view the first-ever Boylesque 101 Student Graduation Recital, which followed six weeks of classes taught at the Academy of Burlesque by Seattle treasures Miss Indigo Blue and Waxie Moon. Amid pasties and penises and smirks and posturing, we laughed and winced and blushed. Our entertainers included a horny Mario, a bashful bear, a lusting soldier, and a French Quarter orphan whore with a dove affixed to her shaved head.

But now the performers mingle with their newly minted fans, accepting their praise with grace. Gradually, the promised afterparty emerges; it's small, which is just as well when the Hula-hoops appear. Those who linger to celebrate with the performers dance or gyrate in clusters, swiveling hips wrapped with sparkling spandex or military fatigues.

It's getting warm and we need a new location—the post post party must continue. Where does a crew of shiny, pretty boys and bois decide to go? Pony, of course.

Want The Stranger to watch you ejaculate rhinestones at your house party? Send the date, place, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.