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.