Or “That time I helped host a bachelor party for a straight man.”
One of my good man friends (and also ex-roommate) decided to make an honest woman of his long-term girlfriend. My best (woman) friend is also very close with him, so we were the two lucky broads invited to the bachelor party. Try telling new coworkers that you’re hosting a bachelor party when you’re a prissy looking female: “You mean bachelorette?” EVERY. DAMN. TIME. And then my personal favorite: “Oh, is he gay?”
10 dudes descend upon Chicago demanding we show them places with wiffle balls, titty balls, just all kinds of balls. Having never been to a bachelor party before (but most definitely hoping I get to go to more in the future), I am not entirely sure what happens at them other than seeing lots of boobies and also mostly feeling like you want to die for days afterward. I managed to show up to the first night’s dinner completely shitcanned because I had a work thing beforehand and hellooooo this girl never met free alcohol she didn’t like. I vaguely recall getting in a cab to go to the restaurant, and walking in late and everyone being like “HEYYY!!!!” and then the lights go on but no one’s home.
The next morning as I’m dragging myself out of bed to get after Day 2: The Reckoning – because apparently being married means you can never drink for 52 hours straight with your best man friends again? – I casually look at my phone and check back through the most recent texts. There’s an amusing group exchange with the party goers, and also, wait, what is that?
Did I text that guy I’d been seeing (known as the “baby doctor” last night)? I don’t remem….HOLY GUACAMOLE. Literally. Apparently someone(s) thought it was extremely amusing to take my phone away from my drunk ass and text the most vile and also hilarious filth involving avocados and guacamole and no-no parts to the baby doctor. Didn’t see him again. Thanks, guys. Day 2 drinking commences, hits several venues, including a sake bomb party at a sushi spot. We drank a metric ton of sake and continued the night. It gets real fuzzy around this point but here is the one conversation I remember.
“Do all strippers have really nice vaginas?” -Me
“They have different looking vaginas like most any other women.” -Bachelor party dude #1
“Why? Have you not seen a lot of stripper vaginas?” -Bachelor party dude #2
“Well no. But some vaginas are like, intimidatingly good looking yeah?” -Me
“Are you saying you have an ugly vagina?” -Bachelor party dude #1
“OH NO YOU DINT. My shit is tucked tight. Like…like…hospital corners!” -Me
Cut to the rehearsal dinner event a month later – I walk in and hear, “Hospital Corners!!! How you been???”