Monday, June 26, 2006

Debauchery, please...

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...


Buffy said...

Can't oblige with one of my own. But last Saturday night, a group of ladies with penises strapped to their heads ran around the block ..... chased by the local constabulary.

I say chased...but it was really more of a crawl on the police's part. A blue siren here and there. And more of a 'drag your fallen sister' on the ladies' part.

I watched from my window...and giggled.

Laura said...

At my bachelorette party, one of the attendees was demonstrating the proper way to fellate a plastic penis, when she slipped off her chair and onto the floor.

"Stop laughing. I got carpet burn on my nose," she whimpered, picked up the "toss the rings on the penis" penis, and climbed back into her chair.

themarina said...

I don't have any stories to friends have all been slow to marry....including me!

D.T. said...

Yeah, guys bachelor parties are more sedate. We bring the "fun" to us in form of massive amounts of alcohol and busty promiscuous women. Anything else is just foreign.

Although...I gotta admit, seeing you run around a pool like a chicken would have totally been a sight to see! Tell me you took pictures!

argos said...

Its hard for me to be afraid of anything anymore. But I shall attempt to heed your advice to men.

debo said...

Hi K. almost literary is huge in Argentine internet kioscos. Besos.

Alexandrialeigh said...

OK, now I'm excited. I'm going to Vegas for the first time with my two bridesmaids early next year, and I have high expectations after reading your post. Wee!

Anonymous said...

Bachelorette parties are a guy's wet dream cause everyone is always giggly and slutting it up.

GeminiWisdom said...

my bachelorette party was GOING to be in Vegas in September, but it was too expensive. I think it's going to be pretty sedate: a rented suite, food, drink, games and pampering with an in-"suite" spa.

Deanna said...

My bachelorette party involved me getting om stage to be "hypnotized" by a comedian, him "turning me into" Cindy Brady, and him Dad Brady, and me making incestuous comments to him on the microphone before the audience.

I only know this because it was told to me the next morning.

Anonymous said...

At my best girlfriends party we had 2 trippers and nearlyw ent through 3 cases of wine and 1 case of jack with coke chasers.

Stripper get one black one white and the fake nails so u can ripe that tied little thong(ooops ;-)

Highly recomend if u cant get thre stripper to take a few shots party will get much more fun we got ours to play the lick the whipped cream off game just have a towel for some privacy but bride to be gets none of that(black stripper was impressed with her skills and said her soon to be husband is a lucky more than that though other stuff goes alittle to far beyound but do what u are comfy doing no less and posablly a little more ;-p