Inside Fetty Wap’s Fête

On Thursday night, I was greeted at the door to Fetty Wap’s debut album listening party in Tribeca by a disgruntled bouncer and the words “at capacity.” I was expecting something more like “Hey, what’s up? Hello.” It was 8:15 p.m., and the call time for the event was 8:00. After some delicate maneuvering, I managed to get in and was relieved to see the opening lyrics to the rapper’s hit single, “Trap Queen,” scrawled on a mirror next to a motorcycle with a sign stating “DO NOT SIT ON MOTORCYLE.” This perfect selfie spot would have made right a missed on-brand entrée opportunity, had it not also been closely guarded by a bouncer.

The only thing left unguarded by bouncers were pies baking in the kitchen. Instead, women in “TRAP QUEEN” bathing suits and knee-high boots kept a close watch on their browning crusts. (Some context: there was a pool in the basement). It was unclear if the guests were going to have to fight for a fork, but thankfully chicken nuggets on a stick and a Red Bull elixir served in “1738” Solo Cups ran aplenty.

Fetty arrived around 9:30 p.m. wearing Yeezy sneakers, one of which had what looked like a sock stretched over it. In keeping with the theme from his “My Way” music video, he also wore a motorcycle glove on his left hand. He proceeded to pull a wad of cash the size of his head out of a Louis Vuitton backpack, posed for some pictures, and then retreated upstairs. The women in bathing suits followed, freshly baked pies in hand.

Meanwhile, downstairs a woman accused me of stealing her seat on the white leather couch with a white fur draped over it. Behind us was a life-size sculpture of a horse. I got up to find a bathroom.

While waiting on line, I told a teenager I follow on Instagram named Kerwin Frost (you might recognize him from @AssPizza’s account and for the gigantic tattoo of a pencil he has on his face?) not to skip me and he gave me a look like, “only mere mortals use the bathroom.”

Then, a man with wide eyes and a septum piercing who was also not waiting on line turned to me and said, “Are you a matrix?”

“Are we in The Matrix?” I shouted over the bass, confused. An image of Fetty as Neo flashed in my mind.

“Are you a dominatrix?” he repeated.

“Oh, no. Sorry.”

And then I left. I love Fetty, but I’d heard enough.