In an effort to get some near-weekly content out: A writing experiment that averages out to being a fictional accounting of my former life as a socialite whilst being rooted in factual events.

The Start

The party is aptly named; <redacted>-gala. I walk in, and the first thing I notice are the walls.

They are adorned with memes: It’s a very San Francisco party.

They are mostly conspiracy related, and look really cool. I idly wonder if my costume is enough for this high concept party.

Some of it is latex, some of it is fuzzy. I have my story prepared: My outfit is a commentary on restrictive legislation like the RAVE act that was ultimately defeated by the spirit of PLUR. Peace, Love, Unity, Respect.

I have been to this location once before. Then, it was my first mansion. Is it a mansion? I decide that any home with 5 levels is a mansion.

I put my stuff down, and start transferring provisions into my fuzzy club backpack. It is pink. Small.

I have an assortment of small, empty, plastic vials. I have 5 larger vials filled with liquid. Elixirs that help people know what’s in their drugs. I also have Narcan, so people don’t die if their drugs have surprise Fentanyl.

There’s some food, but I had dinner but a scant few hours ago, just before my Sephora makeup appointment. I suck at not fucking up lipstick with food or drink at this point, and resolve to go without until later.

It’s too early, and too bright outside to bust out the pixelwhip. I see People I Know.

I talk of Things I Have Posted with People I Know. No one else is wearing latex, and I feel like I made a bad party decision with the outfit. I decide to not let it bother me.

The opening ceremony! I would later come to know this ritual of silent eye contact quite well. At more tame parties, it’s speed friending. At sex parties, it’s some guided social lubrication for Those Who Are About To Fuck.

I find another trans person, and we talk. I spend too much time talking about myself and probably give the impression that I single handedly legalized cannabis in Canada. My inner normal girl chides me. Gawd Ivy, could you not?? Do you even have any personality outside of your resume?

At this point in my life, my personality is mostly my resume and who was at the parties I’ve attended. In my defense, a solid percentage of people at this party have similar personalities focused on how much their startup has raised.

The silent eye contact ritual is to meander until you lock eyes with someone. I look for my next partner, and see Anika. She actively dodges me, and my inner mean girl has a bit of an internal monologue about how fake her nose job looks.

I couldn’t tell you when her bitch mode activation started, other than sometime after she asked me for a N95 mask at another party.

In the time it takes me to recompose myself, I wonder what it’s like to be a real celebrity. I really want to be famous. I’m not sure why.

I want someone to find me and say excuse me, are you Ivy?? Instead I talk with a guy in a fuzzy jacket. He is also a flow artist, we resolve to flow jam at some point in the evening.

I see A, and his costume is great. I have been posting about how much my life sucks lately, and we share a knowing moment. He says I’m really glad you came, and I say the same in response. I actually mean it.

Later, things get cuddly. I find myself involved with a beautiful trans woman. A is there too, albeit separated from us by a few people. I have officially died and gone to heaven. I am on top of the world. I have made it.

The Bros

She leaves to avail herself of the outdoor hot tub, and I remain to intertwine myself with a new partner. We talk of posting.

Then the cuddle bros show up. They share a common uniform of a manbun and polo shirt, and declare that my partner and I are in their section of the cuddle zone.

I idly wonder if I will ever escape being subject to the machinations of mediocre men. My inner feminist suggests some expletives to share with the bros.

Still swimming in oxytocin, though, I decide to move instead. My partner and I cuddle further, and we part.

I become vertical again, and sit on a nearby couch for a bit. The People I Know are somewhere. I don’t want to move, but I realize the futility of resisting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Anika and her friends. She is staring at me. She does this often.

I have bitched about getting the ‘ew’ treatment to a mutual friend, and they told me Anika’s friends generally don’t acknowledge other people as human beings. My friend had to put in a lot of work to be worthy of it.

Why does it bother me so much, I wonder. I am early in transition, and the opinions of other women are important. Queen bees especially.

Last year, the founder of the festival this community organizes around told me Anika doesn’t talk to you if you don’t have status. I remember last year, when she indignantly asked me: who are you?

Am I over-reacting? Maybe, but nevertheless I prepare a solid bitch face to convince her that staring at people is rude.

I go outside and make pretty circles with my pixelwhip. I find flow friends, get my portable speaker, and we jam to Kesha. Social slights are forgotten.

I get back to the cuddle zone. I find new people to intertwine with until a bro who has chemically overreached himself touches one of my partners without consent.

She is understandably upset, and leaves.

Internally, I scream. WHY ARE MEN??

The Plot Twist

I go to retrieve my pink backpack, and notice my phone is gone.

FUCK.

Why did I leave it in the corner?? Why didn’t I bring it with me??

I find the host. She is noticeably frazzled, and I ask if I can stay after the party is done to find it. She says yes.

The panic sets in and doesn’t stop. I have Important Chats in that phone, and more practically our setting is out in the Berkeley Hills. I don’t trust that I’ll have a way home if I can’t find it.

I start searching. A cuddle bro attempts to stop me, and says ‘why do you think it’s over here?’

His tone is petulant, and if I was in that situation again, I would have used some expletives. I wanted to say because that’s where my fucking bag was, but I use a more polite version.

I start feeling the rising waves of emotion that I’ve come to know as precursors to crying. I see the CEO of a blue social media platform, and she gives me a dirty look. Those waves rise up further.

I would later learn that Grimes was at this party. I’m glad she didn’t meet me as almost crying girl at party, but wonder now if being known as crazy girl who lied about being sexually assaulted is really the better of the two.

I go upstairs to be frantic. I see The AI Researcher, I say hello. 3 parties ago, he gave me an excuse me, are you Ivy? Now he tells me he has taken too much ketamine to converse.

I say goodnight to that beautiful trans woman, and we share parting smouldering looks. I find D, and ask her if I can get a ride back to my hotel with her. She saves my world by saying yes.

When I get back to my hotel, I decide to go for a hail mary and call my phone. Someone answers.

I know him from last year: I lost his sandals on the walk back up the windy hill from the mansion. I offered to get a new pair for him and never heard back. I am informed my phone will now act as a hostage.

I go back to my room, and I really, really want Uber Eats, but decide begging people in the lobby is not the move. I resolve to embark upon the Sandals saga tomorrow morning.

FIN