By Guest Reviewer: Dan Meltz

The Annual Black Hearts Party. A mix of “best kept secret” and “infamous underground”, just finished it’s seventeenth—and final— year. This invitation-only anti-Valentine’s Day party had one rule: wear as much or as little as you like, as long as it was black.

The whole party, from the decorations, to the beverages, to the dress code, to the hors d’oeuvres, even the toilet paper, was all done in one colour. Black.

In the spirit of anti-Valentine’s there were signs declaring the reader unwanted, unloved, and entirely uncool. Even the hand-stamp at the front door said “Loser”.

But in the spirit of Valentine’s the walls were adorned with Kama Sutra photocopies, condoms for the taking and pictures of animals in rut. There were stickers to declare one’s sexual preference: red meant you like boys, yellow meant girls, and green meant “anything goes”. More and more people showed up wearing less and less clothing– men wearing Speedos, women wearing corsets, and the occasional person in costume.

The dimly-lit back room featured two walls that had curtains over them, providing “privacy” areas. Throughout the middle of the room, garbage-bag-created “make-out” booths hung like ominous black pods from the ceiling. On the far wall was “The Wheel”, which people would spin and obey its directives, which included such instructions as “Kiss. Tongue. Now.” and “Lick Victim’s Ear”. It was simple, sexy, and just outrageous enough to make it clear that this party was not like others.

As the evening progressed, dancing involved more and more groping and fondling. Necklines dropped, hemlines soared, and underwear was more visible. Kissing became a way to greet a complete stranger. You may have arrived alone. You may have even gone home alone. But at some point during those few hours, a few hundred people made sure you knew that you were not alone in being alone.

My first Black Hearts Party was the last one ever. I already miss it.