The Party One, I'm Not Typing It Out Again

You’re at a house party, and a fucking proper house party: there were two actual bouncers on the door with their little neon armband ID cards and everything, there are themed rooms and a sprawling garden full of mysterious people skipping through the foliage like fawns, are they— what are they doing? Smoking? Fucking? Doing keys? It is impossible to know: the garden goes off into the horizon, the garden goes on forever – and you’re pretty sure you’re in a mansion or something, you can’t seem to get a handle on the enormity of this place, every house party you’ve ever been to before has very clearly been a house – you, stood in your own muddy footprints in a luminous kitchen, a mess of House Party Guests around you (ominous lad in a leather jacket; Someone Who Is Wearing A Mask Despite There Being No Dress Code; three women who are painfully beautiful, too beautiful to actually look at) – but here is different, low lights in every room, no visible practical furniture, everything blasted in purple lights and low smoke and silk rags, very properly bacchanalian, like there is a wine fountain, you feel very uncomfortable stood here with three cans of Heineken stuffed in your pockets. Let’s take an internal temperature check. Are you drunk? Yes. Do you have a buzz? You also have a buzz, yes. Are you tired? No. The night is young. Are… you… horny?