Be afraid, men. Be very, very afraid.
Before Friday, the last bachelorette party I stumbled through was in the dead heat of last July’s Vegas.
The pool at the Hard Rock existed only to quench all thirsts: it soothed our bar-battered bodies, its icy, green, plastic contained beverages calmed our sore throats (self-medicating our hangovers with a bit of the hair of the dog), and our curiosities and libidos were alleviated by man cleavage, dental floss thongs in all flavors, and sun lotion greased hardbodies.
Glittery chains, dark roots, gel-tipped nails. Buoyant breasts bobbed in the water at the south end, butts in the air at the north. Weaved cowboy hats and writhing coeds everywhere.
Versace sunglasses nestled between impressive boob jobs and tucked into the thin sides of banana hammocks.
Everything they said about Vegas…it was all too true. This was not just Sin City; this was lust on a gold-plated platter.
Just the place for us—a motley crue of jaded city girls from the east and sunburnt consultants from Seattle, with high tolerances and money to blow. Just the place for us to play a three-day long game of dare, no truth involved.
My personal favorites:
Me, squawking and flailing as a chicken overcome with bird flu, around the pool, nearly halfway, as strippers in hot pants and 'roid-raged men looked on in a mix of horror and bemusement.
Me, at the high roller table, faking a terrible impression of a thick Strong Island accent, practically yelling my wager of five dollars at three silver fox-type businessmen.
Lucinda jackknifing onto a six-foot long inflatable phallus, which we dragged around with us in the pool, soliciting most frequently the following two phrases:
“Hey, they used my mold!”
“That’s right, work your way up to my size!”
We weaseled bottle service at Pure, dodged sleazebags at Ghostbar, took an unforgettable trip to the top floor of Olympic Gardens (our favorite was the cop who reprimanded the bride-to-be for “violating penal code 6969”).
This weekend, the group of girls was different and the venue was closer, though the penchant for debauchery was virtually the same.
This time around, with the theme of “undercover”, the highlights included:
Me, in a platinum wig, sporting a nametag that proudly proclaimed, “Hi! My name is Candi (spelled with an “i”, dotted with a heart)” and a ruffled dress with leggings and heels. And the four guys who asked me if that was indeed my real hair, and indeed, my real name. And who refused to believe me when I told them the truth.
All of us, drinking only from the requisite flesh-toned straws (replete with a Map Quest worthy network of snaking, highway-like veins, and asymmetrical testicles).
Games, lots of games. Card games with instructions for the night. The one I pulled? Get a guy to give you some of his pubic hair; ten extra points if it’s blond, twenty if it’s gray!
Poor Brian (I think that’s what his name was). He hurt himself trying to help me win, bless his giving heart. But after his third attempt, and possible permanent damage to his family jewels, I convinced him it wasn’t worth it and pointed him towards the next So-Co and lime shot.
Later, I was saved from an awkward conversation with another guy (this being the part when I tell him I have a boyfriend and he either walks away as I stand there like an idiot, or he stays, which is even worse) when he tried to impress me by emptying his Amstel Light onto the crowd below the balcony, immediately before he was forcibly ejected from the bar.
The next day, the future bride spent the afternoon with her head in the toilet.
No better way to ring in the celebration of nuptials, I suppose.
Share your bachelor/bachelorette stories, please. I want to think that my friends and I are halfway normal, even if it's far from true...