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Bipolar Bachelorette Party, Part 1

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Gradually I came to realize that my understanding of women goes only as far as the pleasure is concerned.

- Charles Bukowski

 

“Let’s hit the bar. Who can drive?”

“I’m good to drive.” And oddly enough I was. The benefits of mixing liquor with marijuana are numerous from my experiences. They balance each other well. The liquor keeps me social, prevents me from spacing out. The pot focuses my drunkenness, stops me from turning into a stammering, stumbling fool. The pot also thwarts the looming hangover.

It was 11:00pm on a Saturday night when the five of us decided to trade in a winding-down barbeque/house party for a bar. We piled into my car—as tends to be the case I was the most sober of the group, which in this scenario is tantamount to being the least obnoxious asshole at a Red Socks vs. Yankees game.

“Why are all the lights out?”

“Shit, the storm must have knocked out the power. What do you guys want to do, try another bar or head back?”

“The two other good bars around here shut down. We could go to the Post, but I was 86’d from there.” I had gotten into a fight more than a year ago at that place over a girl who neglected to tell me that she had a boyfriend, and that her boyfriend was there with her. There was no chance of them recognizing me after so much time had passed, but I had other reasons to avoid that bar and I wasn’t in the mood to explain them at the time. The Post is a bar-nightclub hybrid which caters to the fake ID crowd and is always packed. Imagine waiting 15 minutes for a vodka and tonic while being forced to listen to a group of 19-year-olds debate the merits of the latest Ashton Kutcher movie and you’ll have an idea of the soul-sucking hell that is the Post.

We were contemplating going back to the house where we still had a good supply of booze and weed when a party bus pulled up and unloaded a three sheets gone bachelorette party… dear Penthouse.

“Is anything open?” The inquisitor was wearing a pink dress and a tiara; clearly she was the guest of honor.

“The storm knocked out the power. This whole block is dead.” I responded. The bachelorette was cute, and so were a handful of her friends.

“Well, where else can we go?”

“There’s another block of bars a couple of miles from here. We were about to head there.” They invited us to join them and without a second’s thought we boarded the bus. The bus itself was a nightclub on wheels. Upon entering I was immediately passed a bottle of Grey Goose (drink of choice for bachelorette parties) as the girls grabbed the front most member of our group, dropped him on a seat and proceeded to do body shots off his stomach. Two of the girls broke away long enough to dance on the stripper pole strategically set up in the back to the tune of Britney Spears’s “If U Seek Amy”.

We unloaded at the bar and while some were immediately charged with getting drinks, I was given a different mission.

“Okay, so we have a list of tasks we have to complete before the end of the night and since you guys are with us, you have to help us complete the list.”

“Alright, what’s on the list?”

“We need to take a picture of us in a men’s bathroom.”

I lead five of the girls to the men’s bathroom, wait for it to empty out a bit, and accomplish the mission with no problems. Extraction proved rocky however as a bouncer had seen us enter and yelled at us to “get the fuck out of there!” Was I about to get 86’d again from the same place? Not tonight. Not for something this harmless.

The bachelorette complained of being close to passing out and left with one of the girls to find food. Two of the guys were enjoying their drinks and mingling with a mutual friend they’d run into. Myself, Todd, and the other guy took the girls to the dance floor. I’m dancing with one girl in particular, a stunning blonde wearing a little black dress that would make Audrey Hepburn envious. I’m not the only one to notice her beauty and she’s ensuingly swept away by the DJ to a special “hot girls only” section of the dance floor. My consolation prize is another of the girls from the group grabbing me for a dance. Not nearly as attractive as the girl in the black dress, but given my BAC at this point and the dim lights of the bar, I’m not complaining.

“So what do you do?”

“I’m in law school.” I gauge her response carefully to see how she reacts. If she’s impressed, I assume she’s a moron. If she points out the crappy job outlook for lawyers, I at least know she reads The New York Times.

“Wow, so you’re gonna be a rich lawyer pretty soon.” Dammit, she’s a moron.

The bachelorette and her friend reappear to tell us they’re heading to another club, except this time they can only take two or three of the guys with them. Todd and I grab the girls and leave. Part of me felt bad for ditching the other three guys, especially because I drove, but another part of me was drunk, stoned, and single-minded with the intent of sleeping with the girl in the black dress. We boarded the bus once again and told the driver our new destination.

“So what do you guys do?”

“They’re lawyers!”

“Not yet. We’re still in law school.” I’m drinking Grey Goose out of the bottle and watching four girls all trying to simultaneously dance on the stripper pole to a  playlist which seemed to consist predominantly of Britney Spears and Ke$ha. Todd was on the other side of the bus drinking a beer and flirting with his own ambition of the night. Eventually he and I were both dragged up to the pole to join the girls for a rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. I again began dancing with the girl in the black dress while Todd became sandwiched between the bachelorette and maid of honor. Everything was great until my consolation prize decided to join me and the girl in the black dress.

“So what’s the craziest thing you’ve done sexually?” My consolation prize asked.

“It depends, what do you consider crazy? Some people think reverse cowgirl is outrageous. Others think it completely normal to ask a woman to dress up like a Nazi and spank them with a stalk of wet celery.”

“You’re joking…”

“Absolutely not, people like that exist everywhere.”

“You’ve done that?!”

“Hell no, just making a point that perversion is subjective.”

We arrived at the next club and got in without paying cover. I went to the bar to get myself a gin and tonic. The consolation prize walks up to me and begins to flirt. My hand is on her hip, moving down her thigh when she drops the bomb.

“Just so you know, I’m married and have two kids.” My hand stops moving. “I love my husband very much so you should know I’m not going past flirting with you.” By now the weed has worn off and with it my live and let live attitude.

[Continue reading for the thrilling conclusion.]

[Read more from Shadow Hand]


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