The Bang was a GO.
I arranged the meet-up at a divey bar where we’d met at a playoffs happy hour. Everything seemed on track for a bangin’ night. Beers and conversation flowed.
I spotted a group of 30 somethings cheersing pink drinks and giggling around their bride-to-be. Tipsy me demanded we join forces with this bachelorette party crew. The bartender was giving them the most attention and a heavy handed pour. Why not wish this almost bride well and get some speedy drink service in the process?
My bang date seemed game for the ride. We proposed a toast to the HBIC (head bachelorette in charge) on behalf of the bar and were immediately inducted into the bachelorette ranks. Now wherever this gaggle of drunken gals went we proudly followed.
Next stop: Tequilaville
No one should be allowed to tie the knot without first throwing back a gallon of tequila. We walked into the first pseudo-Mexican bar the group happened upon. One of the 30 somethings stumbled out of the bathroom grasping a piece of paper. For $1.50 she had purchased a One Day Marriage Certificate and a mini Kama Sutra handbook. Waiving it in the air she insisted that I wed my bang date for the next 24 hours.
The night was already chalked up to be a “so that happened” night so we both agreed. Bang date got down on his knee as the bachelorette crew pulled in bar strangers to officiate the ceremony. I have a vivid memory of the bride-to-be delivering a dead on Al Sharpton impersonation. Maybe it was just the tequila.
It’s at this point my BAC teetered on you-are-going-to-be-HUNGOVER-tomorrow-bitch. Recollection from here on out is spotty.
Next stop: Typical Upscale Cocktail Bar
The HBIC didn’t care much for the snooty $20 drinks and buzzkill of a maître d’. We promptly exited.
Final stop: Red Light District? Strip-topia? Strippers-R-Us?
(I think?) We stumbled out of the cocktail bar into a strip club promoter. It’s like he sensed a group of rowdy, drunken women were unhappy somewhere along that exact street. He cut us a group deal, stamped our hands and escorted us into the club.
It was like walking into fucking Cirque du Soleil. The colors. The lights. The pole acrobatics. Gravity defying dollar bill pyramids.
I don’t remember when we parted from the bachelorette crew. I’d sunken into my chair content documenting the show on stage. FYI: You most definitely cannot take photos in strip clubs. I strongly advise against it unless you want a bouncer to (almost) snatch your iPhone.
At some point my bang date/24 hour husband navigated us back to my place where we did indeed bang and continue to bang well into our fake honeymoon. Not saying I’m disappointed but is my own dollar bill pyramid too much to ask for from a fake husband?