Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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[September 23, 2006] As we left for the Last Chance Underpants Dance Party, one of my friends commented on how surprisingly complex it was to decide what to wear.
I'd noticed the same thing. How tight did I want my garment to be? How much flesh should it cover, or show? Do I want to be tasteful, or silly? And how much, well, wobbling is okay, and how much would be scandalous.
And is scandalous even a bad thing in this situation?
I'd been invited to the party by a gentleman I met at the after-party for an art show he'd organized in my neighborhood. He was also the organizer of the Underpants Dance, and several similar events in the past few months. This one was at a house in northeast Portland, and at the Aussie's behest we took a cab -- which proved to be a lengthy and frightening mistake. Portland is bilaterally symmetrical, cut down the middle by the Willamette river, with mirroring numbered streets running north-south on either side of it. The party was on the east side, just like us, but the cabbie wanted to take the freeway, so he pulled onto a bride over the Willamette -- and discovered the exit closed. And the next exit closed. We crossed the river twice, as the cabbie got increasingly more frustrated, and started driving faster and faster. The exits were closed due to an accident, and at one point it looked like we were about to T-bone a fire engine on its way there.
$30 later, we were at the party, and stripped down to our party attire. (I'd settled on a pair of new Super-Man boxer shorts and my Green Lantern t-shirt. Wearing the two, I told people I was the Justice League of America.) The night featured a slew of DJs and bands (including Blitzen Trapper, who I'd been wanting to see), a game of Twister, and a whole bunch of people in their underwear.
Really, of the several hundred people there, maybe half were undressed for it. The large quantity of fully-clothed people detracted from it for me. Seriously, if you aren't willing to meet the undress code, why are you going to an underwear party, unless it's to check people out?
Those of you who don't know me may be experiencing a sensation of "... You went to an underwear party?" I think people imagine this sort of thing to be more risque than it actually is. The women there were wearing at least as much as you'd see them in at the beach, and many of them were wearing lingerie that was probably much less revealing than their swimsuits. (There were more guys in skimpy clothes than you'd expect to see on an American beach, but that seemed mainly done out of humor.) It was promoted as a safe-space party, where everyone was asked to respect each other's boundaries, and if anyone asked you to leave, you were supposed to leave. Lots of people would imagine the opposite, but I saw far less making-out, cuddling and displays of sexuality than I do at the usual party.
(Though based on their demeanor and where their eyes were pointed, I'd swear two girls were deep in conversation about my crotch.)
[September 23, 2006] As we left for the Last Chance Underpants Dance Party, one of my friends commented on how surprisingly complex it was to decide what to wear.
I'd noticed the same thing. How tight did I want my garment to be? How much flesh should it cover, or show? Do I want to be tasteful, or silly? And how much, well, wobbling is okay, and how much would be scandalous.
And is scandalous even a bad thing in this situation?
I'd been invited to the party by a gentleman I met at the after-party for an art show he'd organized in my neighborhood. He was also the organizer of the Underpants Dance, and several similar events in the past few months. This one was at a house in northeast Portland, and at the Aussie's behest we took a cab -- which proved to be a lengthy and frightening mistake. Portland is bilaterally symmetrical, cut down the middle by the Willamette river, with mirroring numbered streets running north-south on either side of it. The party was on the east side, just like us, but the cabbie wanted to take the freeway, so he pulled onto a bride over the Willamette -- and discovered the exit closed. And the next exit closed. We crossed the river twice, as the cabbie got increasingly more frustrated, and started driving faster and faster. The exits were closed due to an accident, and at one point it looked like we were about to T-bone a fire engine on its way there.
$30 later, we were at the party, and stripped down to our party attire. (I'd settled on a pair of new Super-Man boxer shorts and my Green Lantern t-shirt. Wearing the two, I told people I was the Justice League of America.) The night featured a slew of DJs and bands (including Blitzen Trapper, who I'd been wanting to see), a game of Twister, and a whole bunch of people in their underwear.
Really, of the several hundred people there, maybe half were undressed for it. The large quantity of fully-clothed people detracted from it for me. Seriously, if you aren't willing to meet the undress code, why are you going to an underwear party, unless it's to check people out?
Those of you who don't know me may be experiencing a sensation of "... You went to an underwear party?" I think people imagine this sort of thing to be more risque than it actually is. The women there were wearing at least as much as you'd see them in at the beach, and many of them were wearing lingerie that was probably much less revealing than their swimsuits. (There were more guys in skimpy clothes than you'd expect to see on an American beach, but that seemed mainly done out of humor.) It was promoted as a safe-space party, where everyone was asked to respect each other's boundaries, and if anyone asked you to leave, you were supposed to leave. Lots of people would imagine the opposite, but I saw far less making-out, cuddling and displays of sexuality than I do at the usual party.
(Though based on their demeanor and where their eyes were pointed, I'd swear two girls were deep in conversation about my crotch.)
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