Check out the first part here.
The show was over, the day had been long, but the night would make it longer still. We trudged back to the car, our sneakers freezing in the snow.
The party was at a friend’s, and we were one of the first to arrive. As people started filing in, we put Die Antwoord’s “Fatty Boom Boom” on the stereo to liven things up. The hostess was not amused. A slew of twenty people came in, and went for the liquor. I know a lot of people in the town’s queer community, but I didn’t know any of these fuckers. Hoss was getting the keg of PBR ready.
Drinks in hand, we went outside for a cig. The party’s number tripled, the sea of queerdom pushing out more people onto the balcony with us. It wasn’t long before the weed came out. A girl who was smoking in state for the first time shared her bowl with us. A couple we know shared a joint with us, which they dropped, and a woman with small hands had to pick it out of the boards of the balcony. I distinctly remember yelling at someone, calling them “silly prickly pear.”
Through the glass door we could see that a game of spin the bottle or Fuck the Dealer or something, the entirety of the living room floor full of people sitting cross-legged. Someone walked back inside, and a cheer of multitudes, like a battle cry, escaped the apartment. I had been drinking all day, so I shouted “Crikey!”. What can I say? It is in my nature to cry inane things when I’m inebriated.
The after-party was growing more and more insane. Somehow the whole girl’s rugby team from the local college was inside. (I later learned that they kind of show up everywhere. Good on you, female rugby team.) The crowd was getting much drunker, and rowdier. We decided to follow a guy who had been wasted at the show, devouring his boyfriend’s face (in a sexual manner, of course), and was now stumbling around the party. It was partly a matter of conscientiousness, but mostly it was just free fun.
I remember it was after seeing the pile of shoes that I started freaking out. It was gigantic. Clogs, heels, chucks, Uggs, and boots flooded the hallway to the entrance. The pile was at least one foot deep, and several feet across (get it?). It may have also had something to do with a bunch of youthful gays running around and pouring their tearful hearts and souls into drunken phone calls. With a gay couple with whom we are friends, and a couple beers, we shoved through the crowd of rowdy drunks.
We went over to a friend’s vacant house to wait out the storm. There was Netflix, thank God, and a bong. While we were looting her house for weed, I had several communal nature moments via her cat. Hoss found the weed, and the light of the heavens shone on his face.
After a while, we went back to the party. Things had happened, to be sure. When the host saw me, he gave a cry of relief and hugged me. I asked him what the sitch was. There was word of some skinny guy who had passed out drunk in the snow, and the cops had shown up, and the host thought I was dead.
Meanwhile, Hoss was getting into a drinking contest with some motherfucker with flowers in his beard, and was putting him in his place. The guy was out before the third shot.
Then, too drunk to drive, we went back to crashing in the missing friend’s house, the cats humping our legs as we slept.