From all the little bits of misshapen debris lining the canyon between man’s Mars and woman’s Venus, I’ve managed to craft a fairly convincing pearl necklace of relative androgyny. I don’t douche, but I have been known to shoot water up my ass; I don’t do sports, but I do sometimes shop competitively; and a number of my shirts could be accused of being blouses and not completely fall apart. All told, though, I enjoy not being a girl. I’m not a big fan of bleeding, see.
So how the fuck did I get here?
“What’s a flat?” Kelley lilts a girl-drunk eyelid.
“It’s like a pizza, but crunchy,” Lindsey Wikis.
“Oh, and it’s very urban,” comes Jacki.
We’re at Urban Flats downtown to kick off that most ridiculous of public heterosexual rituals, the bachelorette party. Kelley’s tying the knot in two weeks, and while visions of vibrating rabbits, stripper balls and scented massage oils may all be standard sheep for the counting just before I pass out, I’m a little wary of this whole institutionalized manner of tiara-topped binge-drinking to pre-ruin a marriage. Is nothing sacred?
“Lindsey likes it up the butt,” offers Kathryn, a Mae West minx of ample bosoms, tonight clipped into their bra and shirt with three lovely buttons: “DRUNK,” “SINGLE” and “SLUT.”
“Not all the time,” Lindsey shifts in her seat a little bit. “But my gay friend in Atlanta coached me through it, once.”
“Ah, so you know the trick, then,” I’m both engaged and gay.
“You have to sit on it.”
Indeed. Brown ice duly broken, we’re on to the greener pastures of harmless semantic coincidences, like the fact that Jacki, Kathryn and Lindsey are sitting in alphabetical order across from Kelley and I at our booth, that my initials are B.M. (and yet I never shit!), and that if I took my married name – because I’m like so totally married – they would be B.J. All very interesting, but only in a menstrual week of Sex and the City kind of way. Thankfully, in addition to a Party City kit of buttons and glitter-plastic tiaras, Kathryn has a plan: We’re going on a Christmas-themed pub crawl of the lazy Orange Avenue Realtor variety, and we are going to have f-u-n.
“Go up to a guy, grab his butt and ask, ‘Is this seat taken?’” Lindsey gives a dramatic reading from a deck of Spencer Gifts bachelorette party cards. “It’s either that or edible underwear!”
Over at the Globe, where the “12 Bars of Christmas Pub Crawl” is due for its imminent stumble-off, we’re given the fraternity date-rape options of Bacardi or Miller Lite for drink-ticket redemption, which means I probably won’t be drinking much. Although one old rum-and-coke won’t kill me for the purposes of research and/or unexpected butt sex.
“You’re not drinking Miller Lite!” a promotional ice princess perks an implant in my direction. She’s wielding blue Mardi Gras beads with Miller Lite “Christmas Lights” (that don’t really light), and saying things like, “Geddit? Miller Lite?”
No. No, I don’t. Nor do I understand how so many middle-income downtown girls are so quickly able to transform the naughty-nurse Halloween costumes into naughty-Santa Christmas ones. Naughty!
Out of the corner of our collective girl-eye, my ladies and I spot a select piece of middlebrow man-meat ripe for the seat-taking. Lindsey and Jacki approach him as a means of preparing him for Kelley’s scripted advance, and he points to his girlfriend, who would probably just die if his precious glutes were fouled by fiancée hand. Denied!
After about 45 minutes of standstill, the crawl relocates to Crooked Bayou, where Soulja Boy’s “Crank That (Superman That Hoe)” is browning the white girls’ Bacardis. Most of them, anyway.
“I don’t get this music,” Kelley whites.
“Well,” moans the fantastic Kathryn over the throbbing of beats, “they say ‘Superman’ means fucking a girl in the ass from behind, then pulling out and giving her a ‘cape.’”
And it only gets filthier. Kelley capes back with some discussion about how girls can use urinals, “you just have to back your ass up on it,” and Kathryn charms again with a tidbit about almost making out with a girl when she was in a three-way that became a two-way, “and I was like ‘whoooooaaa.’”
By the time we arrive at the Lodge – a man’s bar, by most accounts – the ladies have all but usurped the alpha card, rendering even the foul locker-room mouths of men (even gay men) unnecessary. Just buy your sperm at a bank, grab your crotch and move on.
We finally wrangle one willing male celebrant – whose wide grin seemed to betray the fruits of lengthy fermentation – for Kelley to politely assault. She, however, has another plan; another card, please.
And then she does it. A pink Sharpie is produced from within a purse, the cap is removed, and Kelley draws a giant penis on said celebrant’s shirt-raised, urban-flat stomach … and indeed on the whole night.
“Perfect!” she curts.
I enjoy not being a email@example.com
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