Everyone is naked.

Well, almost naked. It’s late Friday afternoon, the day of Exotic Erotic, but the temperature still hovers around 95. Already, the landscape is a mosaic of flesh: bare, brown arms toss a frisbee across the Oval; pink, freckled shoulders peer from beneath black bikini straps. Bowing to the heat wave, students take the night’s dress code — one piece of clothing for men, two for women — to heart.

Up on the row, sweaty Sigma Chis unload kegs from a van, preparing for Saturday’s Cowabunga. Lounging on picnic benches, a cluster of Sigma Nus watch listlessly as two boys play volleyball on their lawn. A girl in a yellow bikini makes her way to Kappa Sig, where the sprinklers are on and the music is blaring.

The air is too hot to move in, too hot for anyone to breathe. So instead, while they’re holding their breath, they wait. They wait for sunset, and they wait for relief.

They are waiting for something to happen.

* * *

As it turns out, that something is scheduled for 10 o’clock that night. It’s still only 4 p.m., but preparations for Exotic Erotic are underway at 680.

680 Lomita is a squat, white house that overlooks central campus. In a few hours time, its front yard will be brimming with students — half-naked and wholly drunk, dressed only in their underwear — but for now, the lot is completely deserted. In the distance, a plane glides across the fierce blue sky, disappearing for a moment behind Hoover Tower. The asphalt burns black in the afternoon sun.

Already, the house has been stripped of its furniture. The dorm’s sofas and tables now adorn the basketball court, and barbed wire fences span the length of the backyard. Two girls in halter tops lie sunning themselves in the grass, talking and laughing as if this day at 680 were no different than any other.

But Matti Hirpa ‘08, the house’s social manager, has been waiting for this day since September. The man behind the party, its success — or failure — will fall on him and his staff.

Hirpa stands off to the side, nodding, as he presses a cell phone to his ear. He runs his hands again and again through his long, curly black hair.

“Matti’s been working nonstop,” whispers Wendi Goh ‘09, 680’s kitchen manager. Her eyes trace the path he paces about the room. “It’s his baby.”

In keeping with the theme — Exotic Erotic: Hypnotic Rave — the hallway has been lined with black butcher paper and spray-painted with suggestive graffiti. The fluorescent graffiti ranges from the unsurprising (“penis”) to the hostile (“blow me EX”), to the slightly puzzling (“consensual sex”).

Hirpa snaps his phone shut and gestures silently to the lounge, where a shirtless resident is busy twisting glow sticks into bracelets. The boy looks up briefly, then returns to his task.

“It’s all gonna glow,” says Hirpa. He folds his arms across his chest, pausing for a moment to survey the scene. “It’s going to look amazing.”

* * *

By dinnertime, campus is quiet. The afternoon heat still lingers in the air, but the sun is sinking beneath the trees, bathing Mayfield in cool, blue shadows. In the corner of the sky, a pale silhouette of a moon appears.

Hirpa and three other residents are setting up barricades when Alison Pena arrives from the Office of Student Activities (OSA).

“The lines should fit no more than two people standing side-by-side,” orders Hirpa. His aviators hang around his neck, dangling from the string of a red staff nametag. Wiping sweat from his brow, he turns to Pena.

“Hey,” Hirpa calls.

Pena makes the OSA look good. Deeply tanned, with short, reddish-brown hair and glasses, she greets Hirpa with a broad smile. As Stanford’s Assistant Fire Marshall, it’s her job to make sure the party doesn’t end with 680 going up in flames. In her hands is a clipboard, a pair of scissors and a plastic, orange lighter.

“You ready for this?” she asks.

Hirpa nods, looking slightly apprehensive.

Pena flips through her papers, making notes as she walks through the house. When she reaches the graffitied wallpaper, she bends down and cuts a small, black swatch. Hirpa leads her outside, where the two are joined by Goh and Carolyn Celio ‘08, the dorm’s financial manager.

“Do you understand how nervous I am right now?” Celio laughs, clutching Goh for support. “I’m literally shaking.”

For the last hour, Celio has been double- and triple- coating the walls with flame retardant. The air around her smells faintly of chemicals.

Pena holds her lighter up to the paper. For a moment, yellow flames dance along the corner, and then — they disappear. She flicks the lighter again, but the paper won’t burn.

“Perfect,” she says, and Celio lets out a whoop. Hirpa breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

Before anyone realizes it, the sun has set. The orange glow disappears, and the sky fades to indigo. The streetlamps flicker on, as the cool, night air washes over 680. The lights on Hoover are tiny, white pinpricks.

The house is now chaos, within and without. In the hallway, police officers, fire marshals and EMTs brush past residents, who slowly make their way outside.

On the house’s front steps, Leah Leff ‘08, 680’s Resident Assistant, has marshaled her residents. In an elaborate pink and green tutu, she barks out name after name, assigning each to a shift: Sober monitor, 10 to 11. Ticket-taker, 11 to12. Fire-alarm guard, 12 to 1.

“This is really, really crucial,” she yells, and the crowd quiets down. “During your shift — if you have to go to the bathroom — HOLD IT IN.”

For campus security, this is just another day on the job. Another year, another Exotic Erotic and another group of rowdy, reckless college kids.

The officers cluster in the front, about to fan out through the house. They hold flashlights up to their maps, squinting to read in the darkness.

“It’s almost like I was here yesterday,” adds one dryly under his breath, glancing over at the house. “Oh, wait — I was.”

Out in the parking lot, Pena waves a cheerful goodbye to the Palo Alto fire engine.

“See you next week!” she laughs. “Next party!”

Inside the house, a team of EMTs in blue winds its way through the halls, radios at the ready.

“Do NOT push the orange button,” their supervisor instructs, holding up his radio. “Do NOT push the red button.”

“Just don’t push any colored buttons,” jokes one EMT, and the group laughs.

On the left, they are passed by two members of TGIFunk, the first live band of the night. The band drags its equipment through the house, toward the makeshift stage in the backyard.

One, hidden behind a large, black amplifier, poses a crucial question to his lifting partner.

“As the talent,” he call outs, sticking his head around the amp, “are we allowed to imbibe?”

Up on the stage, the band sets up its instruments. A boy lies flat on his back, waiting for the night to begin; others dangle their feet off the edge of the stage, talking and laughing. A cloud of gnats hovers in the yellow glow of the stage lights. Someone is fiddling with the spotlight. It dims, then brightens. Dims, then brightens. A flashing golden halo against the purple evening sky.

* * *

Part 2: Something Incomprehensible will run in tomorrow’s issue.