Since we're doing our best to avoid snorting the rails of blow – that, somehow, actually managed to increase from previously unconscionable levels – during Fashion Week, we feel blessed that our official Bryant Park Roving Reporters For All Things Skinny Beyond Medical Safety are keeping tabs. And no, not Tab Energy tabs — we'll address that PR blitz later.

Our latest filing from a well placed BPRRFATSBMS tells the story of a Fashion Week-fueled Alan Cumming, who, when not starring in The L Word, can be seen in the basement lair of a Meatpacking District apartment.

On Friday night, the newly minted man with a scent (though Diddy is totally stealing his thunder) kicked things off at Shag, the West Village gay bar a certain Patrick McMullan photog used to call home. With his gaggle of gays partially distracting onlookers from his sinking skin, Cumming & Co. then took off to a friend's Meatpacking home, where the blow flowed freely like it was Kate Moss at a London recording studio.

It wasn't long before the coked up queens were headed downstairs to engage in some highfalutin group action, where the only rule was "don't let the naked fat guy touch me." Blowjobs traded like pogs in the 90s? Penetration deeper than the NSA's wiretaps? Sign us up.

Now, we're not sure whether Alan followed house rules, but he was certainly an active spectator. To be sure, our BPRRFATSBMS cannot verify (beyond our insinuations) that Cumming was a human snow globe or moved beyond his gawking to frollicking among the man sex. Our BPRRFATSBMSs, after all, know when to make an exit even Liza would be proud of.

(To be sure, we did try to ring Alan's PR folks, but nobody's alive over there just yet.)

Related: Queerty Query: Alan Cumming