I’m so glad I’m married. Can I just tell you how grateful I am that I’m married? Well, I am. Because it’s been a long time since I’ve been out in the world of dance clubs and bars and now that I’ve been out there for an evening I’m beyond thankful that it’s not a scene I ever have to take part in again.
As faithful readers know, I went to a bachelorette party in San Francisco last weekend. We actually had a really good time. Our group consisted of the three bridesmaids and the bride. We all knew each other so there was none of the icebreaking, feeling out time that takes up the first 2 hours of other gatherings of women. We drove into the city singing “I Will Survive” at top volume, checked into the hotel and sat around for an hour talking about God knows what and having the bride open her naughty gifts.
The naughty gifts were from me. I figured if we were going to do this whole bachelorette thing, it just wouldn’t be right to do it without cunningly wrapped gifts of flavored lubricants and other accessories. I bought the stuff at a place near my house called “L’Amour Shoppe” – a name that has always killed me. The use of the French “L’Amour” isn’t too surprising, since French is the language of love (or, as in this case, the language of euphemism), but it’s really the “Shoppe” part that cracks me up. As though the place is some sort of old-world trading post filled with handcrafted valentines and priceless baubles instead of X-rated videos and packages with names like “The Big Boy” or “Leanna Foxx – Love Doll in a Box”.
I think some day I’m going to open my own adult bookstore and call it ”Ye Olde Porn Shoppe”. It has a certain ring to it.
I’m so reliant on writing things down that I actually had the visit to the Shoppe on my to do list. When Dave asked me what I had to get done the morning of the party, I pulled out my organizer and ticked off the list: “Buy black heels, go to Bed, Bath and Beyond for curtains, pack (remember ear plugs), stop at Trader Joe’s for wine, go to the porn store.” As soon as I read it I heard the “one of these things is not like the other” song from Sesame Street running through my head.
At first I told Dave I could just run out and do my errands on my own, but when I read “go to the porn store” I figured I should bring him along both for the legitimacy factor (I really didn’t fancy walking into the porn store alone) and for the giggle-fest that such a trip would surely be. Without going into too much detail, the Shoppe did not disappoint. At one point Dave bounded up to me holding a cupcake mold in the shape of little penises and suggested I offer to bring snacks to the party. Just think of the icing possibilities! I probably would have done it too, if I hadn’t been pressed for time and if the mold hadn’t been so damn expensive.
Call me a hyprocrite, I don’t care. Penis-shaped cupcakes are funny.
But we didn’t have any such snacks at the party. At first we just sat around the hotel room and talked until it was time to get ready for dinner, at which point a flurry of primping activity commenced. Four women. One bathroom. You do the math. By the time we headed out to the restaurant we were all wheezing from inhaling each other’s hairspray fumes.
I have to say though, we looked great. Through some sort of female ESP three of the four of us wound up in animal prints for the occasion. The bride’s sister had on a snakeskin-patterned top, the bride sported a leopard print blouse, and I wore blue and black snakeskin pants (they’re not real snakeskin… in the first place that would take a cave full of snakes … and in the second place… ew).
We had dinner at the top of the hotel, in a restaurant called Cityscape. If you’re ever in San Francisco, I highly recommend it. The food was great and the atmosphere was incredible, since the restaurant is on the 46th floor and offers panoramic views of the city. It’s really gorgeous, provided it’s not foggy, which it wasn’t fortunately for us. Throughout dinner we checked the progress of a group of hot tubbers in a Jacuzzi on the roof of a shorter building across the street from us, but sadly nothing happened that’s worth reporting.
After dinner, we headed back to the room to outfit the bride for her evening of debauchery. As bridesmaids, we figured that the payback for dressing us all alike for the wedding would be to make the bride strut through the streets of San Francisco in a bright pink and white tulle veil festooned with condoms. Oddly, most people didn’t give her a second glance. The city is a weird place and you don’t ask questions when you see people wearing condoms on their heads. You just don’t want to know.
We also presented the bride with a list of tasks to accomplish by the end of the evening. This included things like dancing with a long haired man, slapping her ass and asking a total stranger “Who’s your Mama?” and getting a man to give her a condom (not one from her veil).
So off we headed to the nearby male strip club. Because, as I’ve mentioned before, no celebration of the commitment of two people deeply in love is complete until somebody gets objectified.
The place looked seedy, sure, and being in the Tenderloin, we were a little nervous, but the bride’s sister forged ahead, heading in to find out the cover charge. When she came back out to the cab, she was both laughing and shocked. We couldn’t get in. Because the male strip club? Was for men only. It’s San Francisco, y’all.
After much howling of “Sexist!” and “Unfair!” we asked our cabbie if he knew of any male strip clubs, preferably ones we might be able to get into. He gave us the location of another club (on Bush Street, which of course gave rise to a round of snickering and pokes in the ribs, because we’re all eleven years old.) But, he said, they didn’t start the shows until later in the evening, so we had to kill some time. Of course, we elected to start drinking.
Now hanging out in a bar can be either a lot of fun, or pure torture. The experience almost always hinges on two things – the group of people you came in with, and anybody you start talking to once there. The group I was with was a lot of fun, but talking to drunk guys just doesn’t do it for me because I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed man, if you catch my drift. So when Ohioman (names changed to protect the stupid, though Lord knows he doesn’t deserve the kindness) sauntered up and started chatting up our group, I watched with some amusement, since he could barely focus and it was only about 9 pm. I guess they hit the beer early in Ohio. This dude was swaying on his feet, and essentially talked to everyone’s chest. The bride tried to hit him up for a condom, but he didn’t have one. It’s 2003 and he’s hanging around in bars chatting up women’s breasts and he doesn’t have a condom. So much for the safe sex message – apparently it didn’t make it to Ohio.
When we left the bar to head to a dance club, Ohioman raced out after us to whine about our leaving. We gave him directions to the dance club, hoping against hope that the $10 cover charge would be enough to dissuade him. But he assured us that he would be along shortly, as soon as he and his buddy finished their beers. Gosh, the anticipation was almost overwhelming, let me tell you. Almost, but not quite. Because just then Ohioman looked over at me for just about the first time that evening, started at my chest and slurred, “So… how big are those?”
As one of the bridesmaids asked later, at which beer is a question like that deemed appropriate? Did Ohioman think that was a compliment? Did he actually expect me to whip out my cup size like a trophy? Was he genuinely curious or just a complete asshole? I’m leaning towards the latter, but perhaps I’m being ungenerous. Maybe he was conducting a scientific experiment or a survey...
Oh, who am I kidding? Some men just suffer from diarrhea of the mouth, and it only gets worse when they drink. Which is a huge part of the reason I’m glad I’m out of the trying-to-meet guys scene. More guys in bars are willing to ask a question like that than you want to think about. Their mothers must be so proud.
The only reply that bubbled up through the shock was, “Big enough. And I take them with me everywhere.” and then turning around and walking away, because what else can you say to a question like that? My husband doesn’t know my cup size for God’s sake! Of course, now I wish I’d said something like, “Clearly larger than your brain” or “Not nearly as big as the balls it takes to ask a question like that” or “Why? Did your mother shortchange you?” but I’d had a drink myself and was in a bit of shock. Besides, I’d have hated to waste good material on the guy. He definitely wouldn’t have gotten the joke.
When Ohioman showed up at the dance club later that evening (and boy, was I thrilled to see him again), he presented the bride with a packaged condom which he took special pains to point out was Extra Large. This nitwit had actually gone to the store, bought a pack of condoms, looking specifically for the “Elephantitis of the Unit” type and brought them to a woman he had just met, handing them over with an oily smile and a wink.
I think that tells us everything we need to know about why Ohioman is so obsessed with size, doesn’t it?
- KNP Jan 26, '03
