I’ve thrown a few parties in my life. Many are those that simply occurred due to ‘normal’ life such as birthdays and holidays.

Then there are those that are talked about for years and years later, You know, the memorable ones or the legendary ones.

I like to think that I’ve thrown two such parties.

The first was during sixth form (year 12) when my parents went on holiday. It was nearing the end of ‘our’ school year, and we were supposed to be studying for our HSC exams.

That’s when I decided to have a party for most of my girlfriends from high school. Going to an all Catholic girls school in Newcastle back in the eighties was a bit repressive and not much fun.

So, I photocopied some invites at Officeworks and made a few mixed tapes weeks in advance, all on the sly.

I probably would have gotten away with it had the neighbours not dobbed me in because their Alsatian didn’t like the sausages that Sally kicked threw over the fence.

It also didn’t help that someone spilled their Malibu and milk on the lounge carpet and I couldn’t get the stench out.

Also, Margaret had climbed out of my upstairs bedroom window onto the carport roof to squat and pee onto the garden below.

Why, because a couple of girls were fingering each other in the bathroom, and clearly her walking downstairs was too inconvenient.

The second party was during my last year at Teachers College. Again at my parents home but this time with their knowledge and approval.

Twenty to thirty or so people; maybe more due to some girls bringing guests and my parents insisting I invite the neighbours this time, all squeezed into a large detached suburban house and garden.

The parents and other ‘older’ folk just chilling on the sofa swapping boring stories over a few cans or some Clayton's and milk.

Meanwhile us younger folk danced away to some loud music and drank heavier spirits that several guests had smuggled in.

Katrina was my best friend, from our early school days to now. Our parents had been friends from before we were born.

Katrina exhibited a bunch of features that made boys (and men) look more than twice. Shoulder length dark hair and a curvy behind that filled her jeans nicely.

In fact, curvy everywhere under the low-cut or tight fitting T-shirts she favoured that highlighted her ample sized breasts.

She was gorgeous in her own way, though always resented the fact that boys were more focused on me.

Obviously the boys our own age were too inexperienced or too nervous to think they stood a chance with her.

That’s when I noticed John, Katrina’s date. He was older and seemed more mature than all the boys I had known. I didn’t notice at the time that I fancied him.

He had a nice car (Brock Commodore V8) and I laughed at his crap jokes and had an impish grin when he teased me for being a good ‘Catholic’ girl.

To Katrina’s frustration, he spent most of the night talking to me. I was a naive eighteen-year-old with no real experience with men.

Besides, Katrina had mentioned he was her boyfriend, so as far as I figured, he was off-limits. Friend zone material.

Just for the record, six months earlier, she had slept with my boyfriend Martin behind my back. I forgave her because I didn’t really blame her.

I guess he had gotten too frustrated with me only letting him grope my breasts and finger my pussy.

I had only stroked his penis through his trousers and definitely refused to let him take it out and put it in my mouth.

Anyway, that was in the past and Katrina and I had resolved our differences, without me thrusting several kitchen knives into her back.

So, did I end up thinking about John after the party? Yes, did I imagine him naked in my bed with me, instead of Katrina while I masturbated alone that night?

Fine, okay, yes I did. Hey, I didn’t say I was a ‘good’ Catholic girl.

Remember the party? Well it was raunchy and loud. It was the sort of event where nobody would believe the things that happened when they were remembered weeks, months, years later.

Like when I wandered down the hall towards the lounge and was startled by someone hitting the floor of the alcove by the stairs with an almighty crunch.

Turns out some silly bastard had found some string, and egged on by his mates, decided he could tie it to his ankle and use it to bungee off the landing over the banister.

Except he’d cut too much and found the floor first.

How he avoided not ending up in the John Hunter Hospital, I have no idea. Probably the vacuum cleaner broke his fall. It never did work properly after that night.

Like I said, it was a crazy party, and I did get drunk. Very, very, very drunk.

It was late when I sauntered into the back garden, illuminated only by the house lights blazing from where the music thumped. Martin, Sally, Katrina and Jon were there.

It must have been shot o’clock because Martin had opened a bottle of Tequila and was pouring it into three outstretched plastic tumblers without much regard for volume.

John beckoned me over, grabbed a tumbler off the table with the leftover barbecue food on it, and held it out to me. No doubt mesmerized by the bulge in his trousers, I took it and Martin poured.

Standing there, drinks in the middle, glasses touching, Martin declared, “Down the hatch,” and we all chugged. The tumblers clinked together again and he sloshed another healthy slug of alcohol into them.

With a collective, rising, “Woo,” we lifted the glasses, chugged again and swallowed. It fucking burned, I remember that.

Not tequila heat. Sharper, rougher, like someone deep throated me with a chainsaw. I screwed my eyes shut, winced and shook my head as if that would somehow dissipate the fire.

It didn’t. Part of me knew this was stupid, but a greater part of me didn’t want to wuss out in front of Martin and Katrina, and I definitely wanted to impress John.

Hey, most of us were young and dumb and full of piss, while others were full of cum.

I guess I tried to stumble back inside and I remember John catching up with me, and grabbing my waist.

I think I tried to have a conversation, but I remember him laughing and to this day I don’t remember what I said, or couldn’t say, that he found funny.

Soon enough, the word “bed” filtered through the alcoholic fuzz, and that sounded like a good idea.

I let him lead me inside, through the living room, dodging loud conversations, threading past people up the stairs, onto the landing where someone I didn’t know was still trying to undo the string from the banister.

He asked which was my room. I pointed and he opened the door. Two people were on my bed. He had one hand up her top and the other between her legs, and she was moaning.

They suddenly stopped and got up. I think I apologized, which was ludicrous given it was my room and my bed they were on.

Don’t ask me what happened next, as all I can remember was my mother tucking me in and leaving a bucket next to the bed.

The next day I was completely hung over. The night before was a complete write-off and I only recall snatches of it.

The coldness of the bathroom tiles on my knees compared to the fire in my throat as I hurled into the toilet bowl.

The freezing tiles on my back as I sat there between bouts of retching in just my lacy G-string, cradling my legs while my mother held back my hair or dabbed a cool flannel on my face.

My mum and I talked, but I don’t recall a word either of us said. We might have been there for hours until the nausea subsided, but it could have been less. Or more.

Time was irrelevant, she took care of me. The next thing I remember is groggily waking on my bed, the sun warming my back.

Mum was gone, me still in my G-string and no top on, I tiptoed over to my draws, pulled out a more modest pair of panties and a bra, and then staggered to the shower.

I was a nervous wreck throughout the next few days, worrying if I’d blurted out to mum why I had been wearing a G-string and no bra the night before.

I really hoped that I hadn’t told her that it was because I wanted to make it easier for someone to access my pussy.

I guess I wasn’t such a good Catholic girl after all.