I didn’t ask.
I’m a little nervous because the crew that I’m going with is the same crew who planned my bachelorette party in NYC four years ago. Picture me, a sweet little engaged lamb, carefully packing my overnight bag for my last hoorah. Now picture my friends at the chotchkie store, buying penis shaped straws and lollipops.
I thought we were going bar hopping. Instead they took me to...
To...Hunk-o-mania.
Yes! And it was as gross as it sounds. Hundreds of brides-to-be and their friends sat at tables in what seemed to be an abandoned factory. The room had the smell and feel of a petting zoo. A dark petting zoo with sweaty, gyrating men everywhere. Men danced on stage and their oil and sweat flew off in big chunks and hit you in the face!
Ok, that might be the tequila talking. I had a lot tequila.
Women screeched and screamed as the dancers worked the crowd. Sometimes I’d look over and see a dancer holding a woman around his waist as he thrust her up and down. The women seemed to enjoy this. I must have been snarling at the dancers because no one tried to pick me up and dry hump me.
The grand finale of the night was when each bride-to-be was called up on stage so she could enjoy a personal dance. There was more thrusting and screeching. Some women were placed on the ground and ploughed. Others were stretched and pulled into positions I’ve only read about in Cosmo. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw a live enactment of the much heralded Wheelbarrow position.
Then it was my turn. The sweaty, oily man sat me down in a chair. I'm sure I looked grossed out (and, ok, cross-eyed from the tequila). He approached me and gyrated. He tried to spread my legs. I believe I put up some resistance. When he finally pried my legs open, I looked away and that’s when he made a fist and jabbed me—in my crotch!
Not a Vin Diesel kind of jab, but enough of a punch that it stung.
I got up and walked off stage. My friend asked me, “How was it?” and I shouted, loud enough so everyone could hear: “HE PUNCHED ME IN THE CROTCH.”
I thought that after my declaration I’d fall into the sympathetic arms of the sisterhood, or at least the establishment. Alas, some chick in the bathroom was on her knees as she thanked her dancer for her dance. She didn’t care about my mangled privates. And the manager? When I told him what had happened, he asked if I wanted him to rub it all better. Bastard!
I was so irate that I demanded we leave. I started towards the door and then I fell. Flat on my back on the concrete floor. I was in a cab by 10:15 and in bed by 11.
Rock on!
So you see, when my darling girlfriends tell me we are going to a concert in NYC I am a little leery. I haven't actually seen the David Gray tickets. All I know is that we are getting a 2:30 p.m. train.
Should I bring my husband's athletic cup?
