Where: Capitol Hill
When: Sunday, November 4
After moshing to "post-horncore" in the Wedgwood countryside, The Stranger was pleased to get an invite to a party closer to our hearts and, more importantly, our office. The invite described the party as a "caftan & cats double birthday/pajama brunch," and we were told to wear a caftan, bring champagne for the two "salacious Scorpios"/birthday boys, and prepare for things to get very gay. The Stranger was, of course, fine with this, as we needed an excuse to show off the terry cloth caftan we recently purchased while stoned at Fremont Vintage Mall.
As we arrived at the party, we were greeted by the gayest scene we'd ever seen. Gays in caftans reclined on a chaise lounge, drinking champagne and petting a very large kitten. Exotic plants with sphagnum moss dotted the apartment's corners, as did colorful wigs. A tasteful painting of RuPaul hung above a fireplace. Partygoers chatted about how hard they partied the night before, and how much they loved the Sabrina reboot. Macaroons, salmon scrambled eggs, and chicken and waffle skewers were served on dainty plates. Very gay sentences like "I once did pup play and I loved it," "Beto for my butthole," and "Troye Sivan is an emotionless singer," were said. It was truly a gay brunch wet dream.
Outside on an elaborate jungle of a patio—there were grape vines, succulents, little flowers, ornate hand mirrors in case guests found the gorgeous view to be too overwhelming and needed to cool off by looking at themselves—joints were passed around while the gays discussed one of their favorite topics: their daddies.
"How did you meet your daddy? Scruff?" One of the 40 or so party guests jokingly asked another. "Off Grindr," the guest responded, "but he was crazy." "Has one of your daddies ever bought you anything?" another man was asked. "Craig bought me cocaine once," the man responded, "but then he moved to Long Beach." Everyone agreed that it was sad Craig moved to Long Beach.
After smoking outside on the patio for a while, The Stranger made our way into the kitchen to get another bottle of champagne, and noticed a rained-on outdoor cushion had left a big wet spot across our ass. "You know, a wet ass means it's a good party," someone said to us, which was a proverb we'd never heard before but couldn't help but agree with. One of the birthday boys pulled The Stranger into their drag closet (a literal closet filled with drag, not a euphemism) and showed off a full walk-in closet worth of vintage dresses. The elegance was shocking.
Out in the kitchen, a toast was made by the other birthday boy: "I just want to say, I haven't posted 'Send Nudes' once today and I've already been sent six." Everyone clapped and awed and cheered. There were genuine tears. "I truly couldn't imagine a better life," someone said. "I've heard the phrase 'my husband and I' more this afternoon than I ever have in my life," someone else said.
Then came the poppers. "It's White Label!" someone screeched, and a group of gays (The Stranger, allegedly, included) clamored over the bottle, passing it between their nostrils and taking large huffs. "Yes, bitch," someone whispered as blood rushed to their cheeks.
The popper-passing went on for a hot minute, then people made their way to the patio for a beautiful, post-Daylight Savings 4:30 p.m. sunset. "The clouds are so pretty!" One birthday boy yelled. "Oh my god! Gorgeous! Who has the acid!" Someone responded.
Three champagne bottles popped in the background.
Want The Stranger to come crash your party? Email us at email@example.com.