The First Time I…Partied At The Yolo Estate (With Drake)
I arrive at a home off the PCH in Malibu, undoubtedly dangling over the Pacific ocean, at around 9 PM on Sunday evening. Arriving, however, was not as simple as stated. It’s pitch-black and parking along the infamous highway is near impossible. For miles, there’s not an idle vehicle to be found until we reach the stretch packed with BMWs, undeniably parked by the many occupants of the house party that Drake is rumored to be at. My couple girlfriends and I get to the gate by the guidance of iPhone flashlights, pushing past the 18 mile per hour gusts of wind, courtesy of the ocean. Thank god I’m wearing my faux fur.
At the gate there’s a list. We’re not on the list, I had just received a text from my friend, the manager of a booming up-and-coming artist, to come through. His name isn’t even on the list. Why would it be? He’s a friend. He’s a homie. Homies don’t have to be on the list. I text and call him to come get us at the gate but he’s not answering. There’s probably no service down in the house.
People are coming out of the party wearing obscure straw hats, resembling that of chinese farmers. I ask, “What’s with the hats, did we miss a memo or something?” Security reassures me, “They’re giving them away for free. The hats are the theme.” The hats are the theme? The theme of the party is “straw hats?” We wait for about fifteen minutes before finally convincing the surprisingly chill security to let us in. We’re friends with the artist and we’re not dressed like thots. You’re always more believable when you’re not dressed like thots.
When we reach the end of the winding driveway, we see David, who had finally received our texts and missed calls, and was on his way to bring us in. He leads us inside the Malibu estate filled wall to wall with girls in either short bodycon wrap dresses and thigh highs or light wash jeans and crop tops. I’m wearing neither.
Music is blasting, probably “Blase” by Ty Dolla Sign and Future, and there’s a bar with endless alcohol. There’s a weed bar. There are chefs in the kitchen pulling out heaps of crab fried rice and crab cakes. I didn’t even know crab fried rice was a thing. I order Hennessy and Coke but I’m handed a vodka cranberry instead. I drink it anyways. David begins to lead us outside, towards the fireplace. I follow obediently like a foster puppy, being introduced to it’s new home for the first time. Someone reaches their hand out and grabs me by the arm. It’s the guy who comes into my work that I think is really attractive but I’ve never actually talked to. He pulls me in for a hug and I’m wondering how he ended up here just as much as I’m wondering how I ended up here.
I see a few other people I know, industry people, friends and I’m already on to my second drink. I decide I’m are going to dance and I am not going to give a fuck who sees me, so I do just that. I’m getting drunk, I’m dancing and soon one of my girlfriends approaches me.
“Did you see Drake?” What?! Damn it, how did I miss Drizzy’s entrance? Oh yes, that’s right I was dancing. Casey continues, “He came right through here,” motioning toward the hallway sprouting from the kitchen, “I swear it was like the red sea parted when he came through. Everyone made room for him.”
Not too long after, a large figure appears in the crowded living room. A very large figure. Wearing a white sweatband and a full navy sweatsuit, with that undeniable swish through the front of his closely shaved head, it’s definitely Champagne Papi. It’s Champagne. Fucking. Papi.
Drake is in the room and the DJ is now only playing Drake. Is it weird to dance to your own music, I wonder? Drake raps along to the lyrics with everyone else in the room, as if he’s not Drake, but he’s a part of the entire rest of the world that probably knows more Drake lyrics than they do Middle Eastern countries. Drake is now dancing. Drake is Hotline Bling dancing. I am watching Drake Hotline Bling dance.
Drake is a huge person. I’ve heard he’s been bulked up in the past year but I haven’t paid that close of attention. Drake is easily the biggest person in the room. It could simply be that in comparison to Omarion, who’s also Hotline Bling dancing, anyone is huge, but Drake also does possess the “I’m Drake” aura that could be taking him from 6’ 4” to 8’ 3”.
I keep ending up next to Drake and I’m honestly not trying to. I go to the bar to get another drink and I’m standing next to Drake. I walk outside and I’m next to Drake. I’m giving my friend a lap dance on the couch and Drake is in plain sight. Drake very well could have seen that.
Outside, Drake is talking to some girl with dorky sunglasses. The girl oddly resembles Rihanna, in her facial features but could very well be wearing a wig. The only thing throwing me off is her outfit; tight jeans, denim top and chelsea boots that look like they came straight out of a Melrose boutique. Could it be? RiRi would have to be really dedicated to that disguise to step out in public looking that basic.
You forget about you until you’re standing next to Drake. I’m drunk. Am I cool? This room is full of Don’t-You-Wish-You-Were-Me girls and I don’t wish I were any of them. Are they cool? I’m probably not that cool and in reality, no one really is that cool. Except Drake. Drake is probably that cool.
There’s a first time for everything, and I don’t just mean your “first time.” Of course, there’s vital, “right of passage” first times that everyone must encounter at some point, for example, moving to a new place, getting your heart broken, and making your first humiliating, drunk decision. Yet first times are imperative to the better (or often, identical) mistakes we’ll make later, and teach us the lessons that we’ll continue to not learn from. Every week, we’re going to be telling real first time stories from real girls, and that includes everything from celebrity house parties to Instagram marriage proposals.