The Party 2004
Now, now, now...this is tongue in cheek, OK? No panty knots, ladies and gentlemen. Go with the flow. Any complaints will be ignored. Oh, and the whole Tribe is there. Honest. You all are. No one sent his or her regrets. If you're not mentioned, you were either circulating or I missed you on the bottom of the pile on Brian's bed.
The annual invitations had gone out in plenty of time for the invitees to all get new party clothes.
The thick white, embossed envelops had been delivered by the messenger service Kinnetics always used-a stripper in Carmen Miranda drag-heavy on the bananas and not a whole lot else (come to think of it, maybe it was Josephine Baker drag? Whatever.)
PAR-TAY
PAR-TAY
Partake of the ridiculous and the sublime
402 Tremont
Saturday the 24th
Seven PM
Dinner and so much more
RSVP Please bring this invitation as your admission
The word went out on the street, Liberty Avenue and the surrounding alleyways and blocks. The ones who had received the honor were smug, tactful, but proud to be included, the ones who hadn't were jealous, petty backbiting bitches and the haves knew that the party would be better without the have nots cluttering up the place.
Thus it ever was.
One up or one down-and this party merely proved them all to be seriously one up. Maybe two up.
There were even rumors of attempts to purchase the highly sought after invites and talk that money had exchanged hands but that was firmly put to rest with the assurance that the list was set and firm-no name on the list, even if you were Bette or Jlo and you were just another sidewalk sausage.
Thank God. There are standards to be maintained, after all.
The street was abuzz for days ahead of time. The guests ran into one another at this or that shop and conferred with either their tailors or their little dressmakers as the need arose. Everyone knew that sleazy and cheesy wouldn't cut this cheese. If it wasn't Armani or Prada or Pucci or Gucci or maybe even Vera, well, just suck it up and stay in some dark corner where no one would have to look at you.
The competition would be fierce at this one and everyone knew it.
Then the word went out that Emmett's Painless Parties would be doing the catering and the thing almost fell apart until the further assurances was issued that not a shrimp would be served. No one. Nada. No fish would swim tonight, ladies.
The sigh of relief reached as far as Harrisburg.
The big night finally, finally arrived.
You'd have thought that Rage was making it's world wide debut (and was that going to be a true smut fest or what, kids? I mean, imagine the special effects-if you get my drift-when Rage uses his special healing powers on the twink-heads will roll and not just the ones in the audience or on the pillows, if you catch what I'm saying here) and the only thing missing were the street based sky searcher lights aiming towards heaven-the real one, not the one on the top floor.
So Pittsburgh's finest are there to keep the crowds under control with police barriers and the whole bit set up. The place was packed, a real mad house with everyone and his brother trying to crash-Jesus, you shoulda seen the unwashed masses.
It was pathetic.
First you got your Bjfic ho's on one corner and then you got your B/Mer's on another sizing each other up and across the street you have this crowd of God knows who they were but they showed up when it looked like anything even vaguely interesting was about to happen two blocks away-word on the street was that they had gotten their practice standing out on the streets in Toronto of all frozen places on earth-and were now so conditioned that they'd stand anywhere to report want people were wearing and what they maybe might have said and what it mean to the future of the planet.
Get lives, for the love of God!
Oh and did I mention the picket signs? "Ethan Evermore, Truluv lives" "Die, Debbie, Die", Just fuckin OD, Ted-Do us all a favor!" "Pod people have feelings, too!" "Debbie Does Pittsburgh" "My way or the highway!" "Vic isn't dead, you just stunned him" "Balls, Balls, Balls" "Hunt ME, Hunter" "Happy Endings! Happy Endings!" "Brian, Brain…use spelchek, damnit".
It went on and on and the crowd was getting restless and ugly. And they didn't know how to dress, either.
Everyone going in was photographed; flashbulbs were popping, reporters shouting questions right and left;
"Buckspan, Buckspan, Cindeeeeeee-over here-who are you wearing tonight?"
"Sun, Sun, sweetie-WHO is that handsome fella on your arm, hm? Care to make a statement?"
"Skyelf-darling!" Kiss kiss. "I love your hair…any truth to the rumor that trip you just this minute returned from was a little te-te-tete with a certain Pittsburgh confirmed bachelor about town who lives upstairs?"
"O.G., O.G.-LOVE the earring, and in your left ear, too. We all know what that means, don't we girls?"
One by one they arrived and were admitted to the inner sanctum.
A hush fell over the increasingly rowdy crowd as a tall distinguished woman made her way from the stretch limo, up the side walk with the dignity of an old queen (oh, shut up, I was talking about Queen Mary), turned, gave the crowd a gentle smile and nod and sailed through as the doorman knew better than to ask her for her ID.
Yes, it was the lady herself. Gayle had arrived with her customary grace and favor. Her image none the worse for the lime green boa sprinkled with glitz that had been casually tossed on over her Dior. SHE could pull that off, damn her.
The second the heavy door closed behind her the whispers started; "Did you see her?" "She smiled at me, I swear, just at ME!" "God, I just love her." "She's always reminded me of Mother Teresa, just a little. But taller."
Upstairs the party was just getting started. Brian and Justin, as the annual hosts, greeted their guests at the door. Brian was in his customary well-worn and hugging-the-package-just-so-perfectly jeans and a fitted black wife beater. Justin stood beside him in the most darling crop top and the dearest cargoes you've ever seen, his bubble butt displayed to perfection for all to see and admire-but never touch. That was reserved for the man himself and no one would dare violate the house rules.
Or would they?
Over on the couch Bat was popping the cork on her third bottle of Piper so far that evening. That bitch-I mean, that poor darling. Stewed to the gills. Blotto. Drunk as a skunk.
Next thing she'd be stripping (and before anyone got the go ahead) and would be using the bed for hand springs like she did last year, outta control cow.
…Damn. You caught me. I'm lying.
OK, I admit it. I'm just jealous because she has such a great name. Sure, she opened the bottles but she was passing them around and serving. Swear to God. She was sober as a judge. So far.
Bitch.
OK, OK, calm down here, people. I mean the evening is still young.
Over by the flat screen, the vaunted $5000 flat screen, was Twinflower talking to her usual hangers on…you know her crowd; Chris, Ronnie slumming away from OG for a minute, Danny, Astra, Wren, Bailey-her usual groupies. Hey, I can't help it of that whole scene makes me snerk. I mean, like anyone can understand Norwegian or Swahili or Urdu or whatever the fuck she's speaking to them. Voodoo? Like I know.
Sure she speaks pretty good English when she wants, but you ever try asking her for five bucks?
Nada, no speaks the language.
Bitch.
And wearing the new hot Greenland designer Tovam or something…Seal skins? I mean SEALSKINS with a pink boa and pallets? Ewwwww. Maybe Gayle could pull that off, but…y'know? You never go wrong with basic black, hon. Trust me here, will you?
Over in the kitchen we had another group having a little too much fun, Angel kitty and Jule were there trying to calm down Veganvicki who was making her usual stink about how her body was a temple and she'd be damned before she ate anything that she hadn't grown herself…uh-huh. You ever see her at Mickey D's?
The woman is a total frypig. You watch her next time. Totally gross.
Hey, Pumpkin was tying to hold her back, but it wasn't going to be pretty here. Time to move on.
You could hear the crowd noise down on the street…it was getting louder.
So Brian gets up to thank everyone for being there, raises a glass and toasts his missing ball. Justin climbs up next to him, smiling like he always is and hands the man this-shit-it looked like an old pickle jar and inside is, get this, his pickled ball. He'd kept it as a sort of souvenir. So he goes on and on and fucking on about all the fanfic stories from the last year and thanked everyone who wrote about his mutilated genitals-yeah, thanks a lot, guys for making it completely impossible for him to put it behind him-as it were-because every damn story has his balls prominently displayed front and center. Either than or he and Justin have just found true love and are completely committed-Justin guffawed here- or he's tossed the twat out and killed Ben or Ben has finally died and Brian and Michael are now together forever.
BULLSHIT! LIKE THAT WOULD EVER HAPPEN!
Bri-guy was looking a little cranky here and I noticed that Anita, that pig, was looking a little guilty so I figured she had another bad batch Brian imbibed in. Jerk. You'd think he'd learn, but he did get our attention. All I could think was to thank God that the lez's weren't there. I mean, if I wanted to hear a bitchfest I can just resign up to a few groups on the internet, and you know what I'm talking about here, do you?
So that sort of quieted everyone down and we could hear the sirens out on the street. Looking down, the damn place was swarming with cops, firemen, and paramedics-what the fuck was going on down there?
The uniformed finest were tromping up the stairs coming in and locking the big slider behind them, tons of them and real man meat, every single one of them.
"Yes, officers, is there a problem?" Brian was now back under control. Good thing.
"Sorry, bud. There's a riot down stairs, everyone has to stay up here until further notice."
The room was abuzz.
"That's right, I said a real down-home Pittsburgh riot. Some assholes calling themselves B/J shippers are pounding on some assholes who call themselves B/M shippers and the ones just watching on the other side of the street are all calling their friends on their cels giving blow by blows and screwing up our radios. So we heard that there was this hot shit party up here so we thought they could all kill each other and we'd just sorta hang-you cool with that?"
Margaret stood up, Sun behind her, both outraged. "You're going to let them KILL each other? What kind of cops are you?!?"
"The kind who work for Jim Stockwell, m'am." The Sergeant tipped his hat at the ladies and Margaret noticed how nicely he filled out the various parts of his manly uniform. Emmett seemed to be noticing the same thing.
Cat fight in the making, step back!
"So, you think we may be stuck here a long time…sir?" She was practically purring.
"A very long, long…long time, officer?" Sun added hopefully, batting her eyes. Emmett conceded defeat and left to whip some cream.
"Gosh, Officer, sir-that could be…hard on all of us, don't you think? Awful hard…" Sabina was dragging a couple of the EMT gentlemen, well, boys would be too much of a stretch, really, let's just say they were a little wet behind the ears and about to become a whole lot wetter. Ron and Rod, they were twins and were about to be shown the many household dangers and how to avoid injury in Brian's family sized shower. Sabby, she's always been so civic minded, that sweetheart.
Glancing around the loft, Brian and Justin knew they'd pulled it off yet again. Another successful writer's bash that would insure another year of sycophantic fanfic making them out to be everyone's dream dates and heartthrobs. Or selfish and unfeeling assholes.
Whatever.
There were small yet growing-as it were-pairings and triplings and quads dotting the landscape and the couch and the rug and the bed and the floor and…
"Emmett, you got in five or six dozen eggs for breakfast for this crew?"
"Sure did, darlin. I may have to just run out for some more OJ for all these firemen, you think? Thirsty work is afoot."
Over by the dining room table Gayle was hanging from the chandelier with a handsome fellow wearing just his fireman's hat and her boa. Good thing the light fixture was heavy duty with two of them there.
Batty seemed to have discovered a new affinity for the Police Chief himself-such a handsome man!-and was last heard suggesting a dip in his Jacuzzi…
The party was a triumph.
The streets were a QAF bloodbath, but what the fuck.
After all, tomorrow is another day, Scarlett.
Fini for another year.