I Drank “Girls Only” Punch at a Kegger Party
Before I went to North America, I was told that kegger parties were a must-do, even if I had to break and enter in order to make it to one. As the name suggests, they involve drinking beer from a keg in a red cup at someone’s house, so in other words, they’re an underage college kid’s wet dream. Most commonly, you buy tickets beforehand or on the door. They’ll set you back about 15 bucks if you’re male and 10 if you’re female, and they’ll get you unlimited drink access. Shit gets cray – think Project X combined with a demolition episode of The Block.
My first kegger took place in Orientation Week when I was on exchange in Canada. I was really keen to immerse myself in the culture, and by that I mean perform an infamous “keg stand”, which is when two friends suspend you by your ankles over a keg in a handstand position while you skull as much beer as possible. We rocked up at the house, spoke one word and got in for free. Only in circumstances like these am I grateful for the bogan Australian accent I possess. We had a wild time until the cops came and shut it down: I nailed keg stands, fell down just one flight of stairs and kickstarted my professional beer-pong career.
The rest of the semester flew by without me attending another one, and by the time December rolled around, I only had one week in Canada. When my friends and I stumbled upon an invite for another kegger party, we agreed to go, vowing to make this one bigger and better than the last.
Unfortunately, we had to pay for our ticket this time, possibly because I’d put on five kilograms since the last party and the door guy was a shallow prick. We didn’t worry too much about pre-drinking: instead, the plan was to get there early to ensure we redeemed every cent of the $10 ticket. By the time we arrived, the house was already packed full of people. There was beer pong to the left, keg stands to the right and doobies out the back. Because we’d paid for the ticket, we were being picky bitches and were unimpressed with beer. Instead, we were after the jungle juice that had been specially advertised just for us girls. And just like that, as if God was answering our prayers, a random came around with a big container and liberally filled up each of our red party cups. We sat down out the back, chatting about general shit – getting fat, Gossip Girl, 1D vs. Justin Beibs and who was on our “to do” list. Then, all our memories went blank.
I woke up at 2pm the next day to the sound of my roomie Skyping her fam in India. I was topless and had an uneaten slice of pizza next to my head. I wasn’t too alarmed with my lack of clothing, but I knew something was very wrong when I noticed I hadn’t even taken a bite out of my slice. I grabbed my phone and tried to piece together the night before. I couldn’t remember ANYTHING past my second or third drink of jungle juice. A message from an unknown number flashed on my phone. “Hey! It’s Trent from the party last night.”
Trent, I thought, who the fuck are you?
Next minute, my Swedish best friend came knocking on my door, dressed head-to-toe in boys’ clothing and equally as confused as I was as to what the fuck happened last night. She had woken up in Tom’s room – an English fellow exchange student. He lived on the floor above me and liked her even more than football, but the feeling had never been mutual. She had no recollection of how she’d got there or, more importantly, how she had ended up in Tom’s clothes. The previous night, she’d been wearing a g-string, which was now missing. Tom had been sober.
My English bestie was next to contact me. She too didn’t remember anything past the jungle juice, which by now we were strongly starting to suspect contained more than booze. Unfortunately for her, she’d woken up in an even worse predicament: in a room she’d never seen before, in a house she’d never been to next to a boy she’d never laid eyes on. She got up, asked for directions to get home and bailed faster than we’d lost consciousness the previous evening. She walked outside in the snow wearing her sheer blouse from the night before and no coat. But by that point, contracting frostbite was the least of her worries.
So the moral of the story? I really don’t know. Maybe we drank too much, or maybe, just maybe, the punch was spiked. Either way, if you’re going to a kegger party and there’s a type of mixed booze reserved for “girls only”, maybe give it a miss.