I’m not a TikTok obsessive (MySpace was my first language), but I was locked into RushTok last year. The viral phenomenon, which features young women preparing for sorority recruitment at college campuses across the country, originally blew up at the University of Alabama in 2021. Bama has remained the epicenter of the trend, but, since 2024, SMU, my alma mater, has been one of the most popular schools on RushTok.
I mainly scrolled through for the fashion. At SMU, items range from cute (Alo tennis skirts, Steve Madden heels, grandmother’s jewelry) to extravagant (Cartier bracelets, LoveShackFancy dresses, Louboutins). But one day I stopped on a video posted by a Boston-based user named Samantha. The young woman spoke directly to the camera with the breathless abandon of a friend about to dish at happy hour. In the background was a photo of the Kappa Alpha Theta house, where I had pledged in 2009.
Samantha said: “With SMU rush happening right now, I cannot help but think: who is going to join The Society, aka what used to be Kappa Alpha Theta? Allegedly. If you don’t know the lore behind this, oh. My. Goodness. It all starts when Theta was suspended from SMU’s campus. Now, the reason for the suspension was hazing, but this was not just regular hazing. This. Was. Horrific. According to ex-members and their parents, they were forced to drink and do drugs, which, yes, that sounds like normal hazing, except that the sorority girls would take note of what medication their new members were on so they could push them right to the limit. Right to the point where they would feel absolutely horrible, but wouldn’t end up, you know. There are also rumors of them being blindfolded and stripped down to their underwear in front of fraternity boys, having to perform acts on fraternity boys—a bunch of horrible things. So the previous members of Kappa Alpha Theta, after being kicked out, decided to form something called The Society, which is basically the exact same thing as Kappa Alpha Theta, down to the cheetah print.”
I had heard about the removal of Theta in 2022, but The Society was new information. I opened the comments section and found:
Of the 250 comments, Keen’s message caught my eye because I had rushed her. She was, in the parlance of Panhellenic, my sister. And, like my sister, I thought the rumors about hazing sounded wild compared to my experience.
I texted a Pi Phi I knew who had graduated from SMU in 2021. I figured a younger person might have more current intel. She wrote back: “Pi Phi didn’t do any hazing. We were basically showered in gifts all semester that first year! But I always knew that Theta was unique in that they did actually haze. And I think Kappa [Kappa Gamma] may have, too, but Theta was known for it.”
Hazing has always been part of the culture for fraternities at SMU. During my undergrad years, both KA and Lambda Chi were “kicked off campus” for years-long tenures. But for SMU sororities, what happened to Theta was unheard of. Things like social suspensions and other light disciplinary actions were normal, but removing a sorority completely? Barring the 2022 graduates from alumni status? That had never been done at SMU. It was essentially the death penalty for a sorority.
To this day, the stately Colonial Revival mansion at 3108 University Blvd., constructed for $7.3 million in 2016 to house the SMU Theta chapter, remains stripped of any sorority ties. The bookshelves of its Laura Welch Bush Heritage Library, named for the chapter’s most famous alumna, are empty. A painting of an oak tree donated by the former first lady has been removed.
And then there’s the matter of The Society, a renegade off-campus club founded in 2022 by Theta alumni, ex-pats, and their moms that has burned bright enough to become an instant urban legend at SMU and online. I recently spoke with one of the women who founded the club for their daughters. “We were proud of what we accomplished,” she said. “Guess we were too good.”
If University Park is a bubble within Dallas, then SMU is a bubble within that bubble. The all-in, on-campus price tag of $90,000 per year makes it one of the most expensive colleges in the country. Its geometric promenades, evenly spaced oak trees, and Georgian Revival buildings somehow make colors on campus seem brighter. The only thing that can make the experience more perfect for a young woman is earning a spot in one of the Big Three, which, for as long as the internet has been able to rank them, are Kappa Kappa Gamma, Pi Beta Phi, and Kappa Alpha Theta. As Sara Peterson wrote in this magazine in 1997, “Being in the Big Three is the fastest way to be somebody at SMU, to pass ‘Go’ in that popular campus game called Searching for Status.”
It certainly felt that way to me in 2008. Coming from a tiny, all-girls Catholic school in Nashville, I felt acceptance in the Big Three would be the fastest way to fit in. Until very recently, SMU held its rush process in the spring, which created an entire first semester of longing. And of “dirty rushing”—lunches, coffees, and walks with older sorority girls who could vouch for you when the slideshows of PNMs (potential new members) are shown in fall chapter meetings. I wasn’t one of the targeted freshmen on campus, a “rush baby” that the Big Three would fight over. I didn’t have a prominent last name. I owned only one designer bag (an LV Speedy), one David Yurman bracelet, one pair of Rock & Republic jeans, and a very standard pair of Tory Burch flats my mom bought me at Highland Park Village. This sparse wardrobe worked in Nashville. Not so much when surrounded by Lauren Conrad lookalikes from Newport Beach.
But I knew how to socialize, and the fact that my older sister had rushed Theta, even if it was at a less competitive Northern school, secured me an invaluable “legacy” check by my name. Still, the actual rush experience at SMU was a mental marathon. It’s roughly six days of constant smiling and small talk, elation and (often) rejection. I was blown away by the number of mothers who flew in to support their daughters. My mom, who had dropped out of Alpha Delta Pi at the University of Kentucky after deeming the whole sorority thing a bit of a racket, wished me luck from afar. I will never forget lying on the sad, gray-blue carpet in my dorm room the day before Bid Day, overwhelmed by the fact that I’d never wanted anything more than to be a Theta. (Dramatic but true.)
And then I got it. I opened the big white invitation in the Hughes-Trigg ballroom, joined the Pig Run, and dodged the frat boys’ water guns on the way to 3108 University Boulevard, where I found myself among the chorus of cool girls draped in gold-and-black jerseys while Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” blared in the background. I was there. I belonged. Now what?
For as long as there has been a Big Three, there have been stereotypes. You can find thousands of explainers and rankings online, but I’ll speak (broadly and with great generalization) to the 2008 era of those houses.
Kappa was prim, proper, pearls, the quintessential Southern sorority. The girls had their sights set on Dallas’ high society. Only at Kappa were candle-passing ceremonies, performed when a senior gets engaged, a common occurrence. Bumble founder Whitney Wolfe Herd is SMU Kappa’s most famous alumna.
Pi Phi was laid-back and fun. Of the Big Three, it was regarded as the most approachable. It was more focused on partying than philanthropy. Interestingly, SMU Pi Phi’s most notable alumna, according to the internet, is philanthropist Ruth Collins Altshuler.
Thetas had a reputation for being pretty and partying hard. Some might say they were most likely to be doing blow by night and leading a club by day. (My apologies to Mrs. Bush, SMU Theta’s most famous alumna, for the previous sentence.)
The reality was quite different. We weren’t all blond. We weren’t all skinny. We had a handful of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, but we also watched Gossip Girl in the common room and went through boxes of Bagel Bites so fast that our house mother could barely keep them in stock. Cocaine was everywhere at SMU, but the lines were laid mostly by the fraternities or at off-campus parties. No one was snorting in the Theta house bathroom. At least not that I saw.
We had some wealthy girls in our ’09 PC (pledge class), kids with G Wagons and a candy-colored collection of Chanel bags. But we also had girls on scholarship or financial aid. I can’t recall any divides between the haves and the have-nots. A sorority pledge class can be a great equalizer in that way, but the girls of Theta were genuinely nice. I could name a few exceptions (any sorority could), but they were few and far between, never leaders of the pack.
Every rush week, it was magic to see how 50 girls from across the country could spend long hours trapped in a house and get along so well. Not to be all Pollyanna about it, but we truly did care about Theta and each other. But I have learned there’s a perception that we were the last of our kind.
I talked with a Theta who pledged a couple of years after me. “Your group and the group above you were more accepting,” she said. “What I think happened was my year, and the year below me, and then the year after, did a worse job of being more open to different kinds of girls. They evolved to be really mean.”
Before Theta was removed from campus in 2022, Theta Nationals held an alumni hearing in the SMU sorority house basement, which looks like a hotel ballroom. According to Cait Keen, the space that day was packed with women of all ages, although the range did lean on the older side. The meeting had a town hall feel, with Theta members, alumni, and moms making the case for why Theta shouldn’t, simply couldn’t be shut down at SMU. One woman brought up the loss of funds to the nonprofit CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocates), for which the Thetas held an annual 5K fundraiser. Another woman said that her daughter, a Theta at UT Austin, was fearful that Nationals would come for them, too. But the representatives from Theta Nationals, which is based in Indianapolis, were not swayed.
“It was truly just a formality,” Keen says. “I think they came down to Dallas and had this meeting with us because they had gotten so much pushback. But they had their minds made up. I don’t think they understood the implications of what kicking off this group was going to do.”
Panhellenic
The National Panhellenic Conference is the umbrella organization for 26 national and international women’s sororities in the U.S. and Canada. Its first meeting was held in 1891.
Theta Nationals
The central governing body of Kappa Alpha Theta oversees all its chapters and manages the Theta Foundation, a 501(c)(3) charitable and educational organization established in 1960. “Nationals” refers to leadership at the headquarters in Indianapolis, Indiana.
Kappa Alpha Theta
Often just called “Theta,” the first Greek-letter fraternity established for women was founded in 1870 at DePauw University.
The Beta Sigma Chapter
This chapter of Kappa Alpha Theta was established at SMU on March 9, 1929.
Pig Run
On the last day of rush week, SMU students receive bids from sororities and run to their house of choice on campus. There is often squealing involved.
Sanctions
Disciplinary actions imposed by a university or Nationals in response to violations may include suspension, probation, mandatory training programs, or loss of social events.
Did Theta get meaner after I graduated in 2012? It’s a question I’ve asked my sisters and can’t really answer. But I can tell you that we were the last class before the SMU Theta Instagram account launched in August 2013. Scrolling through from the very first post, featuring seven young women in sorority squat formation on the Boulevard, to the last, a shot from June 2022 of three girls horseback riding on the beach, is a fascinating study in visual trends and generational presentation.
Things begin a bit grainy, with plenty of red-eye, Valencia filter, Pic Stitches, and toothy smiles. Then things shift into the Tumblr era, with a chaotic collage of skinny jeans, leather leggings, braids, and boho vibes. Around 2017, the photos begin to get clearer, and the poses start to look less stiff. By 2018, the girls are taking photos comfortably by themselves, sipping coffee, smiling softly, and looking off into the distance. But by 2020, we’re nearing the uncanny valley of beyond-human perfection. Each new post is more stunning than the last, and it becomes increasingly difficult to tell the young women apart. Everyone looks poised to sell $5,000 worth of clothing using affiliate links. Teeth are a rarity; it seems they’ve all graduated with honors from the Tyra Banks School of Smizing.
I have followed the SMU Theta account since its creation, when I knew the girls who ran it. Somewhere along the line, it became difficult to picture myself as one of them. Partly that’s due to age. It’s probably a good thing that I, a 35-year-old woman, don’t feel a connection with a group of 20-year-olds. But the aesthetic shift was dramatic enough that I could no longer fathom even a younger version of myself as a Theta.
Maybe the rise of social media caused the girls to morph into Theta’s age-old stereotype: blond, thin, and beautiful. Maybe new pledge class decisions were based less on personality and more on how the members would look on Instagram. One SMU professor I spoke with dubbed them the Alpha Thetas. Even their 28,000-square-foot mansion got a glow-up with the help of interior designer Margaret Chambers and architect Robbie Fusch.
Later in 2022, The Society would pick up on Instagram where SMU Theta left off, and the girls would transform from glamorous to full-on glitterati.
“They’re stunning, but I remember seeing a post and thinking, Why does this girl look like she’s just gotten half in the divorce—and she’s the one that left, obviously,” Keen says. “When I was in college, I might have been kind of a dork, but I looked like I was in college. They all look like Alix Earle.”
A recently graduated former SMU Theta says, “These girls are all on Ozempic. They all have lip filler. They all have Botox. They all have extensions. They’re all influencers, apparently.”
I’ve heard all the stories about hazing at Theta. Accounts vary wildly, with repeated rumors ranging from human branding to a game called “Blow or Blow.” The latter involved blindfolds and a choice between a line of cocaine or the genitalia of a fraternity member. (Again, my apologies to Laura Bush.) The only thing everyone seems to agree on is this: the last straw for Theta Nationals was the Big-Little night in February 2022. That’s the evening when pledges (the littles) meet their family, which is made up of a big (a sophomore), a grandbig (a junior), and a great-grandbig (a senior).
I did receive a firsthand account of that night from a Theta pledge who would go on to be a founding member of The Society. She, like most of the women I spoke to, wished to remain anonymous. We’ll call her Gabby.
“We were all split up according to our families,” Gabby says. “My family just had to do drinking things. It really wasn’t that bad, but it was definitely an intimidation thing. It was, like, walk up the stairs and take a shot at each stair. So it was like seven shots.
“For a lot of other people, it was something really similar. It was kind of just, like, we’re going to be bitchy older girls, and try to intimidate you, and make you drink. We all knew we were [going to be] drinking, too. They told us to eat before, you know. Like, it’s going to be a long night. I know other groups had fishbowls, which were just little bowls of punch with a ton of alcohol. They were making jokes that they were going to brand us, but it was just meant to be funny.
“In my experience, my family was so nice. They helped me drink a bottle of champagne at one point.”
When I pressed Gabby about drugs and Blow or Blow, she said, earnestly, “No. They would never do that to us. That’s insane. That’s just gross.”
Whatever the case, after Big-Little, members of Nationals began having one-on-ones with the sophomore and junior Thetas at SMU. “They were, candidly, awful to us,” says a former Theta I’ll call Emily. “We were essentially told that we [pledges and members] couldn’t congregate in the same house. ‘You’re congregating with uninitiated girls and drinking? That’s hazing.’ ”
Emily and the other members began receiving emails informing them that they had essentially been kicked out of Theta. “It sounds horrible to say, but the vibe we all had was that these were women who felt like, had they been at SMU and rushed, they would not have gotten bids from Theta,” Emily says of Nationals. “These women were very different from us. And because of that, they didn’t like us.”
Seniors were allegedly told that if they all dropped out of Theta, the sorority could remain on campus. With just a few months left until graduation, most felt they didn’t have much to lose and deactivated accordingly. Then Theta was killed.
“Honestly, the only thing I would ever really do is write younger girls letters of recommendation and maybe, like, when I’m 40, go to an event or something,” says a Theta senior. “Then of course, two months later, they sent out an email that Theta was being removed. I didn’t even actually get the email. I had to be forwarded it since I wasn’t a member.” Whether a member is kicked out of the sorority or deactivates of her own volition, she loses her Theta alumni status, which means that if she ever has daughters who rush, those kids won’t have a legacy advantage. “That is reason enough for me to be upset,” says the senior, who regrets voluntarily deactivating.
Then there was the matter of housing. In February 2022, many of the freshman Thetas had signed rental agreements for the Theta mansion for the coming fall. They were under the impression that, despite the sanctions, their housing was safe. In July, less than a month before classes started, the students were informed by Nationals that they needed to look into alternative housing options.
For the parents who were already fuming at Nationals’ decision to shut down Theta, scrambling to find housing for their daughters was kerosene on the flames. On July 26, 2022, five parents and nine students (all referred to as either Parent Does or Student Does) filed a lawsuit against Kappa Alpha Theta Fraternity Inc. claiming breach of contract. The suit reads, “Defendants make the threat knowing limited housing is available—which would not be on-campus and certainly not including the benefits of the bargain (a home with friends, home-cooked meals, proximity to classes). … The threat is similar to the recent months of Defendants’ bullying, hazing, and intimidation toward Student Does.”
The case dragged on for some time but was ultimately dismissed in May 2024. The house is owned and managed by the Facility Corporation of Beta Sigma (operated by local Theta alumni) and has been used as luxury women’s housing since Theta’s removal. A single occupancy room costs $22,000 for the entire 2025–2026 academic year.
But for some parents, a lawsuit wasn’t enough. Their daughters had been initiated as Thetas before its removal, which meant those girls could never re-rush another sorority during their time at SMU. “Our social life was pretty much destroyed,” Gabby says.
So three mothers took matters into their own hands. In the fall of 2022, they registered with the IRS to create a nonprofit called Society of Dallas, though it would be known colloquially as The Society. (The club was originally named Theta Society, but they dropped the “ta” after receiving pushback from Theta Nationals.) The registration states that the Society of Dallas is “run by a group of passionate young women, and other dedicated volunteers, focused on uplifting and empowering women to be safe, independent, and strong.”
The group primarily fundraises for Dallas-area 501(c)(3) nonprofits that support underserved and impoverished women. In the spring of 2023 and 2024, The Society held galas at Hotel ZaZa and Hôtel Swexan to raise money for Emily’s Place.
But at the start of fall 2022, The Society girls were just getting started. They began meeting at an off-campus house to decide what exactly they wanted their new venture to be. At the top of the list: no hazing. “We wanted to figure out a way to make it as similar as possible, while making it a positive group that had a positive message,” Gabby says. “We had advisers who were moms who sort of spearheaded everything.”
If their daughters couldn’t have Theta, their parents were determined to give them something even better.
The girls of The Society kept a low profile for a little while, but they came to the resolution that they were going to rush in the spring of 2023, which included the “dirty rush” traditions of taking freshman girls to frat parties or for coffee at Foxtrot throughout the fall. “And then we started getting on social media,” Gabby says.
On December 19, 2022, @TheSocietyDTX made its first Instagram post, a carousel of photos featuring former Thetas with the caption, “hi again TS.”
Throughout SMU rush week in January 2023, The Society essentially mirrored SMU’s on-campus events. Parent advisers rented a house on Binkley Avenue in University Park, where they welcomed a “member class” of about 30 women.
“We were a little late to the game, but we ended up getting a lot of girls, which I think drove Panhellenic crazy,” Gabby says. “Even to the point where there were two girls who were going to take a Kappa bid, dropped, and came to our house instead.”
For SMU freshmen, it took just a couple of months for the name “The Society” to emerge on campus. The group was labeled as a less intense, lower-maintenance alternative to a sorority with less expensive dues. Coupled with their connection to Theta, The Society had recruiting power.
“It wasn’t even necessarily that they were trying to be a sorority,” says a former Theta. “It was just, like, the school said they can’t have events. So the girls thought, OK, well, our dues for Theta were like $5,000 a year. What if we asked all our parents for 500 bucks and threw it all together? They weren’t trying to be a sorority. They just wanted to feel like they had something.”
The Society definitely had something. By rush in January 2024, The Society advisers had procured a house on Cornell Avenue where the members paid rent. (The former house on Binkley was allegedly owned by a member of SMU’s board who had asked them to find new housing.) On TikTok, the girls appeared to hold typical rush events, including a Philanthropy Night and an event at Park House, the private club in Highland Park Village. If #SMURushTok were a movie, many of its leading ladies pledged The Society.
“My great-grand-little is some famous TikToker that Kappa thought they had,” a former Theta says. The freshman in question, a tanned, doll-like blonde with 1.5 million followers on TikTok, received over 100,000 likes on her #SMURushTok post (sweater from For Love & Lemons; jewelry from Cartier). She has never commented on which house she took a bid from, but in recent getting-ready videos, she wears a black robe embroidered with “The Society” in gold. On Instagram, where she has just under 340,000 followers, her bio includes a cheetah emoji.
Beyond the high percentage of former Theta members within The Society, another undeniable connection to the sorority was their shared symbolism. The official symbols of Kappa Alpha Theta are a kite and a black-and-white pansy, but the group’s initials (KAT) long ago led to an unofficial adoption of feline prints. Several members of my PC took to wearing cheetah-print bodysuits and climbing the trees during Bid Day. (We got stir crazy during rush week.)
The Society had its own spin on the iconography. They wore cat ears but called themselves Cats, not Kats. Bid Day balloons were black and gold, and a cheetah print flag could often be seen flying outside their University Park house. In my favorite tweaking of tradition, they took a frankly unattractive Theta hand sign (an index finger placed between teeth that was meant to create the Greek Θ) and rotated it 90 degrees to make the shush symbol. They put together some Society merchandise that I would personally pay a good amount for. Not everyone was on board, though.
“While cat ears and cheetah print are not official symbols of Kappa Alpha Theta, both are very closely linked to Beta Sigma Chapter,” reads a March 2023 statement from then Theta National CEO Jennifer Schmaltz. “Until the group ceases to exist, the return of Beta Sigma Chapter will continue to be delayed. If you are interested in seeing Beta Sigma Chapter return to SMU, we ask you to please stop supporting and/or participating in this group. If you know of unaffiliated members participating in this group or alumnae supporting this group, please encourage them to stop.”
Although SMU quietly added an “intellectual integrity” violation for affiliating with “de-recognized student organizations” in the Student Code of Conduct, there was speculation about whether or not the university would take action against members of the sorority-adjacent club. In November 2023, SMU’s student newspaper, The Daily Campus, published a buzzy piece about Greek life, hazing, and The Society. An anonymous Society member told the newspaper that they believed SMU was bluffing, and they planned to carry on with their rush plans for January 2024. And they did, further cultivating a group that included some of the most influential women on SMU’s campus, essentially taking Theta’s place among the Big Three while working independently from the Panhellenic system.
Then SMU dropped the hammer. At the end of the 2024 spring semester, scholarships began being pulled from members of The Society. An April 2024 letter from the university to a new Society member states that, after an investigation, she had been found responsible for a “violation of the SMU Student Code of Conduct.”
“So we decided that we were going to stop, because we never wanted something horrible to happen to someone,” Gabby says. But when I mentioned this to another member of The Society, she seemed shocked. She was adamant that The Society had never truly shut down. In a response to an email about when the sorority could be reinstated, an SMU representative replied that Kappa Alpha Theta would be eligible in spring 2026, adding that its return is “independent of The Society’s existence.”
Perhaps The Society simply went underground, sacrificing its flashy, feline presence so Theta could rise again. Its members remain guarded. Over the past few months, I’ve direct messaged about 30 women and heard back from only a handful. The group’s last TikTok post, a rapid-fire slideshow of classy thirst traps introducing the newest “pledges,” was in April 2024. The Society DTX Instagram, once active, has been quiet since June 20, 2024.
But one thing I heard again and again from people close to Theta was that if the sorority should have been punished for its hazing, then all SMU sororities deserved the same.
A former Theta says, “I honestly feel like, had this happened to, like, Delta Gamma, nobody would have cared.”
Gossip Girl
The social media glow-up from the Thetas to the Alpha Thetas that spawned The Society is reminiscent of another digital evolution on campus: anonymous messaging platforms.
My first year at SMU also marked the arrival of a gossip website called JuicyCampus. Created by Duke graduate Matt Ivester, the site hosted discussions on the hottest freshmen or the biggest drug users and was dominated by tiered rankings of sororities and fraternities. (Ivester went on to work at GoodRx and Meta, and, incredibly, he founded a now-defunct “kindness app” called Kindr.) Access to the Reddit-inspired site required a collegiate email, but writer Richard Roeper captured some of the 2008 threads in a Chicago Sun-Times article. “On Tuesday there were discussion threads with such topics as, ‘Who is the best f— at SMU?’ ‘Has anyone f—— [name withheld]’ and ‘[Name withheld] sluts up the law school,’” Roeper wrote. “Nasty, juvenile, cowardly stuff.”
My freshman year roommate, a very tan, very blond, very bubbly, and, admittedly, very well-endowed young woman, was one of JuicyCampus’ “Most Discussed” during our first semester. I saw firsthand how it simultaneously fed her ego and eroded her shiny, confident veneer. She became famous and infamous, and she ultimately left SMU for the more Christian energy of Baylor just before the holidays and well before she could rush a sorority.
JuicyCampus was mercifully shut down on all college campuses in 2009. (Ivester blamed a lack of funding.) After its closure, the Dallas Morning News wrote, “If the Internet is the wild, wild West, JuicyCampus was the tawdry saloon. Users logged on, selected their campus, and posted topics or responded to others. The key was anonymity.”
Initially, JuicyCampus was perceived as a cruel one-off of the Web 2.0 era. A student writer for Cornell’s independent school newspaper wrote of its demise, “The discontinuation of JuicyCampus was regarded as a positive ending to an ugly phenomenon.”
But it wasn’t long before another website, College ACB, picked up where JuicyCampus left off. ACB’s then owner, Wesleyan freshman Peter Frank, smartly paid Ivester to redirect JuicyCampus traffic to his website. When ACB was sold and subsequently shut down in 2011, a phone app called Yik Yak filled the gossip void. (It shut down in 2017 but was resurrected in 2021 by an anonymous team.) But where Yik Yak communities were built on geographic proximity (users must be within a certain radius), Fizz, which also launched in 2021, required a .edu email to register, ensuring a closed, school-specific pool of anonymous posters. The latter can be a source for campus news, but, like its predecessors, the app tends to focus on Greek life and the kind of gossip you can’t believe isn’t libel.
Ultimately, the spirit of JuicyCampus (debauched though it may have been) lives on in every new iteration, each one glossier and more mobile-friendly than the next.
This story originally appeared in the August issue of D Magazine with the headline “The Society.” Write to [email protected].
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