I went to Ottessa Moshfegh’s auction and all I got was this story

Ever dreamt of running your fingers across Ottessa Moshfegh’s toothbrush? Or clinking martinis with her and some friends at a bar?

On Tuesday night in New York City, these wild fantasies were up for grabs at Substack’s debut auction with Moshfegh and fellow writer-slash-media personality Eddie Huang.

For the occasion, the pair auctioned off a curated mix of personal ephemera and conceptual offerings: a single (used) toothbrush, a signed copy of Moshfegh’s 2018 novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation bundled with a bottle of Infermiterol (really just Vitamin C), ten VHS cassettes, five pieces of vintage lingerie, a prank call, a painting, lunch at the Russian Tea Room, martinis at the Chelsea Hotel, a leather jacket, two hours of writing therapy on Zoom, and a signed box of laxatives paired with 2015’s Eileen.

This wasn’t exactly out of character for Moshfegh. Fans of her bizarre Depop know she’s all about deranged memorabilia. When @realottessa first surfaced online, a frenzy ensued. The fans circulated screenshots and tried to unpack the strange, slightly haunted items she sold: a Jesus tee from the ​’70s, a fez hat with Masonic lettering, a tiny deadstock baby angel locket she promised to bless. ​“I bought a charm bracelet from her last year. She included a note. It was cool,” one user wrote on Reddit.

The auction took place at Golden Unicorn, a dim sum banquet hall in Chinatown where the lights are always a little too bright and everything feels stuck in permanent mid-brunch mode. To get inside, guests passed through a carpeted lobby replete with mirrored panels, artificial flowers and plastic-covered chairs. An attendant stood by idly until a crackle from above — via walkie-talkie — cued them to usher us into the elevator.

When the doors opened onto the second floor, I Only Have Eyes for You by The Flamingos played softly overhead. The room was packed with revolving circular tables covered by checkered red tablecloths; a small stage sat in the centre. A mix of downtown scenesters, literary types, and Substack micro-celebs settled in with plates of soup dumplings, lo mein, and sauteéd green beans. It was a friendly, buffet-style-affair — the kind of thing that felt like a wedding but also the dining deck of a cruise at hour 36.

This is a real auction, so please be prepared to bid,” said Matt Starr, Substack’s writer relations producer. One of the masterminds behind the platform’s IRL gatherings, he’s organised events like a steamy literary reading in a Russian bathhouse. These types of live events aim to turn the buzz around Substack’s writers into tangible, in-person moments. Starr describes it as a way to expand their reach beyond the confines of newsletters, and into spaces where that online momentum can actually live and breathe.

“Has everyone been to an auction before?” He barely finished asking before the fire alarm started blaring. Chekhov’s klaxon, if you will.

I had never been to an auction before. I didn’t know what to expect. Would there be a bidding war? Would a fight break out? Would I, despite myself, bid?

Writer Camille Sojit Pejcha (author of the delightfully messianic newsletter Pleasure-Seeking) had her eye on an artwork Moshfegh painted when she was 27 — abandoned in a Bed-Stuy apartment, it was later found and returned to her. Starr, meanwhile, had his eye on the toothbrush. If not Moshfegh’s, whose would he most want to own? ​“Probably, Leonard Cohen’s or Lou Reed’s,” he says, as if the object itself was the secret to their rock star cool. I had a feeling he’d be leaving with someone’s – anyone’s – used toothbrush tonight.

At 7:30pm sharp, Moshfegh and Huang strolled up to the stage, ready to auction the un-auctionable. The two riffed like people in the same fever dream. ​“We’re talking about Greenpoint in 1995,” Ottessa said, launching into a story about taking an taxi to New Jersey to meet Whoopi Goldberg. ​“She told me she loved me.”

Huang, meanwhile, reflected on his lot of fake Birkins. ​“They’re authentically Chinese, in another way they’re a lie, like all of us” he said, leaning a bit too existential for the crowd. Things spiralled beautifully from there. Ottessa: ​“What is codeine promethazine?” Ottessa again: ​“Ayahuasca, seven days in a row in Peru. That’s how I figured out My Year…” Huang then shared his struggles with chronic IBS, which explains why he’s auctioning off a signed bottle of gluten-free tamari. Moshfegh countered that she ​“cannot shit to save her life.” She’s even jealous of people with diarrhea. The two bonded over bowel dysfunction like kids in a candy store — if the candy was used, mildly erotic, and sold in a ziplock bag.

When someone in the crowd asked what the auction proceeds would go towards, Moshfegh didn’t miss a beat: ​“Our pockets.” Eddie added: ​“We do it because we love Substack.” (Someone has to pay writers, right?)

Enter CK Swett, a seasoned auctioneer with stints at Christie’s, Phillips, and Heritage under his belt. Dressed in a two-piece suit with an ascot tie, Swett brought charisma, timing, and just the right amount of chaos to the proceedings.

The first item up for grabs? The infamous toothbrush. Twenty paddles shot up. ​“The bid is at $80 right now — reminder, this is a used toothbrush,” Swett said, swinging the gavel over his head. ​“It’s mine!” a bidder finally shouted. Sold for $110 (as predicted, to Substack’s very own Matt Starr.)

The auction hit a high when Moshfegh’s painting was up. Someone collapsed. The chandelier jingled ominously. We were all on the edge of our seats. And suddenly, something came over me. I shot my paddle into the air with blinding vigour. The price soared to $3,200. Sold. Not to me, thank God – remember, I’m a freelance writer. Turns out, not everyone in the room was in the same tax bracket.

Then came the lot everyone had been waiting for: the Zoom writing therapy session with Moshfegh. The energy in the room shifted. Writers in the crowd exchanged nervous glances; some laughed forcibly. The bidding war was ravenous. Everyone wanted a chance to pick Moshfegh’s brain. Sold for $2,600. The winner was Sophia, 22, who came in with no expectations. ​“I didn’t know if I’d end up bidding at all,” she said, ​“but I knew, listening to Moshfegh speak, that it’d be invaluable.” The final item of the night, laxatives paired with Eileen, in which the protagonist famously shits her brains out, sold for $400.

As the auction wound down, Swett took the mic for one last line: ​“People say New York is dead. New York isn’t fucking dead! This is better than Sotheby’s.” I asked Moshfegh which lot most surprised her on our way out. ​“The painting,” she said. ​“I did not expect it to sell for that much.” We were interrupted by the underbidder, her eyes glistening. ​“I’m Iranian too and I wanted that painting so badly, for my daughters — so they know there are amazing Iranian women like you out there.” ​“Oh,” Moshfegh’s eyes glistened back. ​“Well, they already have you.”

And so two of the city’s most exciting personalities concluded a theatrical farce that also felt oddly sincere. Maybe that’s the value of a night like this one: leaving with memories algorithms can’t replicate, and the kinds of stories you can never fully explain because, well, you just had to be there.