Chloe, September 2026

Every party needs _____.

I really like to dance and go out, but so many of the parties and clubs here sell you on their boring and sexless events with cliche-ridden copy. I want to throw a party, and I need your help writing the promotional text. Think Stefon from SNL: “Portland’s hottest party is…” What do you think every party needs to make it a great and memorable time?

Portland’s hottest party had it all. It was not a dark and stormy night, because it was still summer, in spite of everything. We approached the house with gravitas, gossip, and a bag of some chips. I stepped up to the porch, which was packed with queer people (or queople, as my sisters and I call them), yet I quickly became enmeshed in conversation with a token straight man misguidedly trying to pull off Carhartt overalls. He was smoking cigarettes hand-rolled with pages from Das Kapital and helped myself and others feel better about ourselves. I opened the front door. My friend followed. Instantly I was struck with an erotic static in the air that made my nipples sharp and my flirtatious wit sharper. As I scanned the partygoers, I found love and pain in their faces. Before we advanced further down the entry hall, we were stopped by a court jester sort of character—a sensual clown, if you will—who proposed a riddle and an option to participate in a clandestine game of wit. We opted out and continued towards the living room. This seemed to be the designated quiet zone with activities for the introverts, who had gotten into a mess of bubble wrap. My friend, a bit of a clueless wallflower themselves, gleefully joined in, taking their place on a human-sized dog bed as they began to pop the wrap. I hightailed it to the restroom, which was preceded by a line of people wearing shoes on the carpet. Eventually they all gave up and went looking elsewhere to do their business. Whoever was currently in there was taking far too long, likely using it as a private room to distastefully spill a handful of secrets. I crouched to press my ear to the door, but it swung open suddenly before I could eavesdrop. 10-15 beautiful trans women, some of whom carried cocaine-dusted noses, and all of whom got in for free without an RSVP list spilled out with a dog in tow. I was mesmerized by all of them. After I took a piss, I followed my ear to the noise and led myself towards the cramped and sweaty galley kitchen, which seemed to be THE epicenter hang spot despite ample couch space. I wasn’t ready for that yet, so I went outside, where I was gagged to find a pony standing in the grass. She was surrounded by adoring partygoers and looked like she wanted to be there, for real. Now fully embraced by warm expectation, I stroked her fledgling mane and made my way to sit by the fire. The hotties out here used a bit more discretion in the spilling of their tea, speaking in hushed whispers about some of the fags inside. I closed my eyes, inhaling the musk of campfire smoke before my peace was interrupted by a “What’s your name?” My gaze was met by one of those really annoying trans guys—you know the type. Like, he’s gonna leer at my cleavage but it’s OK because he’s doing it in a sensitive way. He’ll say “Gosh,” fingering the edge of his bolo tie, “you remind me of this song. Can I sing you a song?” and then he’ll sing the whole fucking song, like three or four full verses while I stand there smiling, and at the end what choice do I have but to say “Good job—oh—what’s that? What was I like pre-transition? I’m sure we were so very alike … now where did I set my cowboy boots and frilly white shawl and baseball cap that says “Guy Stuff 😎?” Oh that’s right—that’s right, that’s right. Where was I? I was back in the kitchen, thank God. The cramped tiny room was abuzz with voices encircling a table of quality snacks, which I set my chips down on for the masses to feast. We really had it all: french fries, grilled grapes, pigs in a blanket, and a dessert that contains the royal sex honey pack. I bounced from acquaintance to acquaintance, full of feral yearning before being frozen in my tracks by a woman who would surely become my new horny crush. I recognized her as one of the dolls from the bathroom earlier. We got deep into conversation for what felt like hours, and the longer I stared into her eyes, the more I lost track of how many drinks I’d had. To our left, I overheard a deeply political discussion that devolved into the opposing sides making out. To our right, one of her sisters briskly made an approach, grazing my crush’s shoulder and lifting her mouth to her ear with a hand up before whisking her away. I continued to circle the surrealist charcuterie on the central island, sliding past the trans guy from earlier in a way that ensured we didn’t touch, before I bumped into my ex’s ex’s ex. We began to catch up, before they asked me if I “knew that guy,” pointing the trans guy out as he fumbled his way through flirtation with one of my crush’s other friends. I told them I did not. They told me he had been telling everyone that I was a problematic detrans grifter and trying to get me kicked out. Weird subterfuge, but OK. To my relief, my ex’s ex’s ex was one of the people who actually lived in this house. They assured me that nobody believed him, and said that they would talk to him. Thank God. Like a sign, the dog from earlier waddled up and nuzzled my leg. Apparently, his name was Little Man Jesus. Weird. I thanked my ex’s ex’s ex and descended the creaky stairs into the seedy basement with a moist corner. The dancefloor was flooded with sex appeal, good lighting, gratitude, and of course baddies breaking it down… A DJ in the corner was playing what I would describe as gay guy music, ultimately. Thank God. I spotted my friend in the middle of the crowd, going harder than anyone else at the party, fully locked in. Someone passed around goodie bags full of slutty little glasses, and everyone looked so alive in the light. Bodies were grinding and dancers were slick with sweat. At least two pairs of gays seemed to be kissing at any given moment. I left it all on the floor and lost myself to the beat. There was a moment where time dissolved. I shut my eyes, gyrating my hips to a remix of “Hide & Seek” by Imogen Heap, and opened them to the most beautiful sight in the world: the girl from earlier, my horny crush, smiling and dancing in front of me with a glint of infatuation in her eye. I gingerly placed my hand on her waist and we swayed in unison, culminating in a fierce dancefloor makeout at the climax of the track. We kissed until the crowd began to thin out. Her mouth tasted of the heaps of spaghetti that somebody unveiled at midnight. I caressed her silken cheek and twirled her auburn hair before our lips parted. I was starting to reach that point. We exchanged numbers, and I wrangled my friend who was still shaking relentless ass. As we said our goodbyes, I was struck by an unctuous fog of impending post-hang paranoia, punctured only by the shivering lighthouse beam of poetry and the crashing waves of a slight but occasionally not-slight horniness. My friend and I leaned on each other as we trudged out onto the porch, which was still full of cigarette smokers still captive to their own delusion that they, in fact, enjoy being at parties. I spotted the t-boy on a stool in the corner, staring off into the distance away from the action as he huffed a crazy modified vape. Forever the bigger person, I ambled up to him and had an honest talk; a moment to quickly dip in the font of forgiveness. Once that bow was sealed, my buddy and I called a Lyft and took off. A single tear rolled down my cheek in the backseat, basking in the gratitude of a night that had it all, but most of all a clear direction, and the sensuous delight of feeling beautiful and comfortable in my skin for the first time.