I have to go to a bachelorette party this weekend. It’s the whole piñata, complete with dinner, dance club, possible “male revue”, and an overnight stay in a San Francisco hotel room with an unknown number of women that I barely know. I’m not actually sure if we’re seeing the male revue or not – it’s been tossed around as an idea, but my friend and her affianced are doing the, “If you go to a male revue, my buddies can take me to a strip club”, “But I don’t want you to go to strip clubs” thing, so it may get dropped from the program. Which would be A-OK with me, because the entire prospect of this night on the town is starting to make my skin crawl.
It has nothing to do with the people involved, though I’m generally not happiest when surrounded solely by women. Maybe I’m a traitor to the sisterhood, but girly parties like showers and “girls night out” festivities that are marked by squealing in one form or another don’t usually thrill me. But I’m attending this estrogen-fest for a friend of mine from high school who is the sweetest thing on the face of the earth and for whom I would willingly walk over hot coals. So an evening in the city is a small price, comparatively speaking. There will be a couple of other women I’ve met who will be there too, and they were fun at the bridesmaid gown fitting, so I’m really not complaining about the company. It’s the concept that confuses me. The whole bachelor/bachelorette party notion makes no sense to me.
The “Yippee! You’re getting married so welcome to the Sorority of Chicks Who Have Done It” concept is pretty outdated for my generation, but that’s sort of the theme of a bachelorette party. When women my age get married, most of us have already done the sticky polka (oh… hi Dad. Yeah… maybe you don’t want to read this part, ok? Thanks). So what’s the deal with making a big production out of the fact that the bride is going to have sex with her husband? She almost certainly already has, so I don’t understand why we’re expected to act like she’s never seen a guy in his underwear before. I just don’t see why we feel so obliged to introduce the bride to the joys of Gold’s Gym members in thongs.
If I understand this right, the classic love story goes something like this (your mileage may vary, but I’m generalizing here): boy meets girl, they fall in love, maybe they live together for a while, eventually boy proposes marriage, girl accepts. Then couple’s friends take them out - separately - for a tequila-filled sex-laced night on the town so they can fulfill their wildest fantasies… with someone else.
What could be more romantic?
Now before you write me all in a huff about your ability to go to Candy’s Nude-a-Go-Go without acting on your baser animal instincts like an elephant in must, I do realize that only a very small number of pre-wedding parties of this sort actually result in destructive behaviors such as… oh, say, cheating. But that’s what the panic is all about, right? I mean, that’s why girls hate the idea of bachelor parties and that’s why there always has to be a big discussion before the wedding about The Party and what are and are not acceptable activities on the night of said Party. More often than not, somebody’s uncomfortable with the whole idea even if the only thing that’s going to happen is a few too many beers and some flirting at Hooters. The bachelorette party seems to have grown out of a sort of spiteful place, as traditions go. Most women have never been thrilled with the bachelor party, so they’ve started to give men a taste of their own medicine by going out with all their women friends and watching male strippers. Even though most women I’ve asked don’t get much of a thrill from male strippers – certainly not the kind of thrill we attribute to many men when they watch female strippers.
I’d agree with the contention that a bachelor/ette party is almost always simply good, dirty fun, but I guess I just don’t like the implications of the classic activities. What a traditional bachelor or bachelorette party really says to me is, “I love you. I’m going to commit my life to you. You are the person I want to spend the rest of my days with. But before we do that? I’m just going to run around for a night and have the last fun of my life, because God knows you’ll never let me have any fun once we go through with this.”
Maybe you’re thinking I’m just jealous. I didn’t have a wild and crazy bachelorette party when I got married. No strippers, no dance clubs, no drunken, half-recalled embarrassing moments to be dredged up years later for the amusement of my cohorts in pre-marital crime. But I didn’t want one. I only have a few close girlfriends, and when we get together the last thing we want to do is include any men in our fun, for any reason whatsoever. We’d much rather drink Merlot and complain about the men we have than scope out new men. For starters, the prospect of training a new man is too much to handle, so I think I’ll stick with the one I have, thank you. Besides, ogling men writhing around in their underwear is the sort of thing I think you should do in private.
It’s not that I’m a prude or anything. If there are men writhing around in their underwear in my living room, I’m first in line to see ‘em (you hear that Dave?). But the truth is that I’m not attracted to the types of guys who become strippers – and here I’m talking about physical types, not personalities. I don’t go for muscle bound men in the least. I don’t want to smell what The Rock is cooking, I always think guys with oil all over their chests should probably go take a shower before they break out, and I find it funny, not sexy, when a man can’t rest his arms at his sides because of all the muscles in his biceps, sort of like the little brother in A Christmas Story.
I think the other reason I’m not into male strippers is a male vs. female wiring issue. For many men, the experience of watching a woman grinding her groin towards him is a stimulating one. And I understand that, I really do - from the man’s perspective it’s an invitation of sorts, and men who like the groin grinding like the idea of the invitation. That’s fine. But for many women, myself included, having a man thrust his crotch towards your face seems vaguely threatening. I don’t want a complete stranger shoving Mr. Happy in a banana warmer at me. It’s creepy, and if he’s sweating at all it’s downright disgusting.
I have been to exactly one bachelorette party in my life. The occasion was marked, for me, by too many Jell-O shooters and the disturbing memory of a stripper’s nearly prehensile ass gyrating about 6 inches from my face. It is an impression that haunts me still, and I don’t really need any more images to join that dark place in my mind. I’m damaged enough.
So I’m hoping we’ll skip the Chippendale’s adventure and stick with dinner and dancing. The dance club is an OK idea, although going to a dance club without my husband seems sort of pointless to me. I’m highly unlikely to dance with any strangers, and the club is just going to be filled with strangers. Beyond drinking overpriced, watered down gin and tonics (and not even too many of those since I’m doing Weight Watchers again), what am I going to do except watch the 22 year olds get drunk on Midori sours and laugh at the white guys trying to do the Cabbage Patch?
That might be pretty entertaining, come to think of it…
I think one of the women in our group is still single, so I guess she can dance, and I don’t want to put the kibosh on anybody’s fun, so I’ll probably dance with the bride and since it’s San Francisco maybe I’ll start telling people that she and I are going to get married and see what happens. I could probably get a whole passel of cute gay men to sing “Sunrise, Sunset” if the drinks are strong enough.
Actually, the dancing could be a pretty good time if I play my cards right. After the non-dancing at the dance club and the non-stimulation with the strippers, we’ll have a pseudo-slumber party at the hotel, which really isn’t really my cup of tea either since I have trouble sleeping in rooms with other people. Some nights I have trouble falling asleep with my husband in the room. I’m just a touchy sleeper, I guess. Earplugs have helped to a large degree, so I’ll have to remember to pack those. Since we’re not sixteen I don’t imagine we’ll paint our toenails or pierce each other’s ears or crank call boys on the phone. I’m assuming we’ll just go to sleep.
Which I’ll surely need after the excitement of watching Fireman Ted climb down the Firehouse Pole of Lust.
- KNP Jan 17, '03
