The legendary ABC parties: Anything But Clothes

I was 19 when I attended my first ABC party. The term meant nothing to me until an older sister in our sorority said, “You’ll love it. Just be creative. And remember – anything but clothes.”

I thought of carnival, craft projects, glitter, and fantasy. I didn’t think about the stares. Not about the shivers. Not about the moment when I hesitated in the doorway because I suddenly knew that I would be seen – completely different from what I was used to.

Today, I look back on those parties with mixed feelings. And I’m not the only one.

Creative, sexy, exciting – but also a stage for insecurity

ABC parties – “Anything But Clothes” – are an integral part of American Greek life. If you want to belong, you know that sooner or later you’ll be invited. And at some point, you’ll find yourself in the kitchen crafting an outfit out of anything that isn’t fabric:

Garbage bags. Newspaper. Aluminum foil. Cling film.

And that’s the point: it’s not just an outfit. It’s a statement.

“I made a one-piece outfit out of duct tape,” recalls Lisa, who joined our sorority two years after me. “It looked cool, but it was so tight that I could hardly sit down all evening. But I wanted to fit in.”

What many people underestimate is that these parties are more than just playing with materials. They are also a game with boundaries of shame – and not everyone plays willingly.

Freshmen in free fall

Freshmen, or first-year students, are often hit the hardest. Many have just left their parents’ homes, are on their own for the first time, want to make friends – and suddenly find themselves in a strange dorm room and are told to take off their clothes and wrap themselves in bubble wrap.

What looks like courage is often insecurity in disguise.

“I made myself a dress out of newspapers,” says Anouk, now a third-year student. “Before that, I cried in the bathroom. Not because of the dress. But because I knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable in it. But I was afraid of being seen as a killjoy.”

ABC parties work according to an unspoken set of rules: those who participate are accepted. Those who hesitate are considered prudish. And those who drop out halfway through – because their outfit slips, because someone gets too close, because they suddenly panic – quickly find themselves alone.

The game of visibility

Of course, there are other experiences. Female students who say: “Finally, I was able to celebrate my body.”

I myself remember a party where I felt truly beautiful for the first time – because I had decided for myself how much to show. Because my outfit – a repurposed bed sheet, tied asymmetrically – was my idea, my expression.

But that’s exactly the difference: Freedom requires choices. And those are lacking at many of these parties.

Because Saran Wrap isn’t just “funny.” It’s transparent. Garbage bags are cheap – but they’re also tearable. And anyone who thinks cling film is a stable barrier has never experienced how it peels away from the body when it gets hot and moves.

Between flirting, attention – and things that go wrong

I don’t want to sugarcoat anything: there are evenings when everything is easy. You feel good, you get looked at, maybe even admired. You dance across the room in your tape dress, someone hands you a shot, you laugh at the balloon outfit next to you.

But then there are the other evenings. The ones where something snaps – and suddenly someone is pointing their phone at you. The ones where a stranger’s hand touches you where there’s normally fabric. The ones where you “just go over there with him for a minute” because he’s nice and you don’t know how to get out of it.

It’s often not the big assaults that stick with you, but the small ones:

Someone films you trying to fix your outfit that’s slipped out of place.

Someone makes a comment that feels like a stab under the skin.

Or someone asks you if you chose that costume to get noticed.

“I had cling film wrapped around my chest and hips,” says Emily, born in 2020. “It was my idea, my thing. But when I was on the dance floor, I suddenly had three cell phones pointed at me. I only saw it later on Instagram. Without context, without my consent.”

The truth is, these parties have a tension that not everyone can handle – especially when you’re 18, new to college, two drinks over the limit, and in a room for the first time where you’re being craved in a way you’re not used to.

When you suddenly become part of a game that others know better

No one prepares you for the moment when someone says to you: “You’re hot.” And you don’t know if that’s a compliment – or the start of something you don’t want.

No one tells you that there are guys who specifically target the inexperienced.

Or that your improvised outfit will only last as long as you feel safe – and not when it suddenly becomes too much for you.

“I went upstairs with him because I thought we’d talk for a while. Then suddenly I was sitting half-naked on his bed and didn’t know how I got there.”

– Zoe, now 24

And no – it’s not about blame. It’s about situations that can quickly turn sour. About the pressure to stay cool. It’s about the moment when you think: “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

And afterwards, you don’t know if that’s really what you wanted – or if you just didn’t know how to stop without looking uncool.

And then there’s the group thing

What is often forgotten is that many ABC parties are not invitations to individuals, but to entire sororities.

“Theta will be there too.”

“We need to show up, otherwise we won’t be invited next time.”

“It’s important for our standing.”

That means if you cancel, you’re not just turning down a party—you’re removing yourself from the group picture. And no one wants to be the reason why their sorority is considered boring, anti-social, or “too prudish”.

Especially for new members—for pledges, for freshmen—it’s an almost impossible balancing act.

“I didn’t want to go. But my big said it was practically mandatory. I was afraid I wouldn’t fit in otherwise.”

– Jules, former pledge, now out

And yes, some sisters say, “Do what you feel comfortable with.” But between the lines, there’s often something else: that you should at least show up. That you should at least “not stand out in a negative way.” And that you shouldn’t be the one who makes a scene when someone goes too far.

This is how a voluntary party becomes a collective ritual.And creative fun becomes a test that many want to pass – even if they lose themselves in the process.

What I would say today

I wouldn’t say, “Don’t dress like that.” That would be bullshit. You can look however you want. And dance however you want. And flirt. And shine.

But I would say: You don’t need permission to feel uncomfortable. Not even in a room where everyone else is pretending that this is just fun.

I would say: The moment your tape dress slips isn’t automatically an empowering moment. Sometimes it’s just a shock. And sometimes someone takes a photo.

I would say: You’re not less strong because you don’t know how to say “no” when you’re not wearing anything to hold on to.

And: You’re not a prude if you want to decide who sees you before you show yourself.