My friend Kim and I were both single, and we were tired of cutesy couples. To sabotage the suffocating concept of coupling up, we decided to discreetly invite recently broken up couples to an intimate dinner party at my apartment--three couples, six individuals. The dropped jaw looks on their faces when they walked in were alone worth the price of the gourmet fixings. But the fun didn't stop there. All night, we had front-row seats to the acidic aftermath of relationships--it was better than Melrose Place. At times, the silent tension was almost audible. At others, insults flew across the table like boxing jabs. When conservation slowed, we handed out "discussion cards" with questions like, "Who at this table would make the best gynecologist?" and "How many licks does it take to get to the center of (fill in ex's name)?" When one man answered, "five thousand licks" about his ex, she snapped back coldly: "How would you know, you never got there." As an extra treat, without my co-host Kim's knowledge, I also invited her ex-boyfriend. They had a particularly snippy break-up, thereby providing the whipped cream on my party sundae. PB


The last time I ever smoked pot or dropped acid occurred on July 4, 1996, our nation's holiday, on which I imbibed both (along with a pint of Jim Beam Irish Whiskey). While it may sound like the trio of substances would provide for a good time at this joyous celebration, it did not. In fact, I thought that I would actually die by the end of the night. Which would have been fine--preferable, even--if my ex-boyfriend hadn't chosen that very evening to lash out at me for dumping him. In a fit of rage, he threw a deck of cards; thanks to the LSD, jokers and aces flew past me with the velocity and force of a Star Wars fighter craft battalion. Some other stuff was thrown--little things that morphed into huge, loud, weapons--and I ended up slumped in the middle of the kitchen, crying and tripping balls, while the rest of the party celebrated America's independence around me. Then my friends swooped me up and drove me to a Crash Worship concert. Since then, I have been careful to avoid taking drugs (especially in tandem), and I like to deal with ex-lovers on a totally sober level. (Also, after the Crash Worship concert, I gave up on watching pornos.) JS


A good party gone bad. A party guest at my house was enjoying the band, dancing happily on the beer-slicked floor... When suddenly, he slipped and fell onto a glass bottle, which sliced deep into his arm. A Carrie amount of blood sprayed all over the house, leaving partygoers to slide around in bloody beer chunked with ash and cigarette butts. It looked like there had been a dogfight or a stabbing. Friends of the wounded surrounded him, up to their elbows in blood, helping to hold his arm-gash closed as the ambulance arrived. He tried to refuse the ambulance, claiming that he had no insurance and couldn't afford it--but quite honestly we wanted to be rid of this endless blood source. Eventually, thank god, he was coaxed into it, leaving a sparse crowd of soused gawkers to mumble their goodbyes. What did we learn today? Don't put glass on the (wet) dance floor. And don't dance near the glass on the wet dance floor. MS


It was my third birthday, and it began very pleasantly. My fellow three-year-old comrades dropped by for refreshments and presents. Much cake was smeared on faces and in hair, and a good time was had by all. Later, I decided to continue the celebration by taking a big fat dump in my bed. What a glorious dump it was! Robust and full-bodied, with an odor like Autumn wheat. Its color was healthy. It was the cleanest, purest poop imaginable.

Enamored of my creation, I crawled about the bed, shifting my weight to and fro, so as to make the poop roll about and be admired from every angle. I realized that it was heart-shaped and, appropriately, I felt myself fill with such love and pride I feared my chest would explode.

And that was when everything went terribly wrong. My mother entered the room to say goodnight, saw that perfect mound of excrement, and yelled at me for soiling my clean sheets. Then--horrors upon horrors--she took my poop away... she took my poop away. JWS


What're you s'posed to do at hott parties, anyway? Shake a leg? Clap a hand? Grind dat ass? Yes, yes, and yes again--unless, that is, you've decided to throw an Amputee Party like Erich Ginder, 23, did. "I thought it was a totally funny idea," said Ginder, whose twisted notion of a themed bash brought him little praise and much disdain from friends and acquaintances. No stranger to throwing killer conceptual to-dos, Erich's other endeavors (e.g. a Welcome Party involving life-sized masks of the new kid in town's face for all invited; a Monochromatic Croquet Luncheon) were all successes. Why not the Amputee Party? "Well, I mean, I guess the idea wasn't really funny-funny, but come on! I had this great idea that everyone could come wearing crutches and fake legs," Ginder pleaded. Although a few select friends thought that, though a bit insensitive, it would be great fun, Erich mostly got a bad reaction. "You shoulda seen the looks on people's faces. And the few people who did get costumes together, well, I think they just felt bad about it on the inside." Dr. JH


Nick Chavez. Forever that name rings in my mind. Nick Chavez. I was a sophomore, he was a senior, and gorgeous and dark and tall and intelligent and I was in love with him, as only sophomores can love seniors. Nick Chavez. He gave me beer at the first party of my high school career, held at my friend Dana Walker's place (her parents were on a golfing trip). He gave me so much beer, I got drunk. He gave me so much beer, I decided it was a good idea to give him a blowjob on Dana Walker's parents' washer/dryer. Oh, did I mention it was the first blowjob I'd ever administered? It was. And, in the middle of being drunk and feeling awkward/insecure at the rhythm and voracity with which I was sucking, the cops came to the house and busted the party, thus sending hordes and hordes of cruelly-intentioned, high-school-aged teens into the laundry room to hide out, whereupon they witnessed my 15-year-old lips wrapped around his more experienced man-meat. "[NAME WITHHELD] is giving Nick Chavez a blowjob!" they all screamed. And for the rest of the year, Nick's friends wanted to date me, thinking I was some valiant suburban blowjob queen--when really, I was just wasted and humiliated. The boys who didn't want to date me taunted me with chants of "Oral sex is illegal in this state!" in the hallways. FOR THE REST OF HIGH SCHOOL. College held many unfulfilling one-night stands and sloppy oral interludes, but none of them was as terrible or nightmarish as the blowjob I gave Nick Chavez. ANONYMOUS