Mr. Saturday Night & Spank: Just Like We Pictured It

A nondescript building, carefully containing bone-crunching bass and electro-house surges, was only made obvious to me by the polite line of fresh faces tucking in feathers and rapping as if in Morse code against a plain steel door. As a suburban girl living in the City, I had only dipped my toes into the vibrant gay culture that New York has to offer; Mister Saturday Night/Spank’s flamboyant warehouse party pulled me into the depths of 172 Classon Ave.

I turned into the opulent space and was immediately overwhelmed by all of the beautiful faces (it became a sexually torturous evening – I felt like a starving animal being teased with meat… lots of meat). While my mind took in the sights, my cameras captured altitudinous models, an intimidating man in a beaked mask and bright orange feathers, ravers, outlandish statement-makers, and some generic older and younger men alike just trying to get their groove on.