They walk back to the car. The "how much?"s get louder and more insistent. But the escort and high class hooker have no time to offer their services. They are on their way to a sex worker convention.
And so began C's bachelorette party. I can't tell you what happened next because we all drank too much, blacked out and have no memory of what occurred.
We're adults. Sophisticated, classy adults. We sipped sherry by the fire while Harriet played the harp and Marian recited Shakespeare. We pitched in and bought C a high necked, long sleeved, ankle length lace nightgown and tried to educate her on what would happen on her wedding night.
"His what goes where?!" she gasped in horror.
"Close your eyes, pretend you like it, and it will soon be over."
We retired early, woke early and went for a stroll in the gardens before a delightful breakfast of tea and English muffins. We bid adieu and promises of "see you in less than a fortnight," trailed on the wind as we rode off in our horse-drawn carriages.
Now that all the parents have stopped reading, here's what really happened.
I got a concussion and then drove into oncoming traffic. True story.
In my defense I was in my husband's truck and totally sober. (And by totally sober, I mean I was actually sober, not sarcastically sober.)
Before that happened I Andretti-ed around the hotel parking lot, which is to say I circled the parking lot like race car driver Mario Andretti but with a lot more five point turns. This happened after I drove up to the guardrails blocking the entrance to the parking garage and hopped out in my tight shiny green dress, sans my six inch heels, making me a Barefoot and Pregnant high class hooker. The ticket dispenser machine proclaimed that it was jammed, which I read as "stab the ticket-dispensing button forty times and wait for nothing to happen."
I finally made it to the hotel room where I was given the highest compliment I have ever received in my entire life. D said that no, I was not a high class hooker, but A Call Girl, which in the sex worker hierarchy is a step up from your common street walker.
After throwing back one, or five, drinks, the eighteen - yes I said eighteen - of us ran across the street because oncoming traffic? Who cares? It's a bachelorette party bitches.
What happened next is quite possibly the single greatest thing about bachelorette parties. The Entrance. But not just any entrance. The entrance of the bride, C, and her friends. And if I'm being completely honest - it is the best policy, you know - my friends and I? We're freaking HOT. It's not bragging if it's true.
We walked in - a single file line of hotness - eyes forward pretending we didn't notice that the entire restaurant halted to watch us.
We were escorted upstairs to a long row of connected tables where the waitress took our drink orders. Mine went something like this:
Me: I'll have a Chardonnay. No! A Cabernet. I mean Char... no Cabernet. Yeah, Cabernet. Wait, is that what I drink. The red...yeah, Char...no Cabernet!
Waitress: Can I see your id?
Me: What? Don't I sound like I order drinks all the time?
We soon realized there was another row of tables set up behind us and unanimously decided that our bachelorette party would kick their bachelorette party's ass.
Except it wasn't a bachelorette party. It was a birthday party, a sweet 16 or some other such nonsense. A parade of cinched waists, perky boobs and elastic skin bopped by and we all scoffed and called them babies and wondered what time their curfew was. In other words? We were the epitome of maturity.
Cinched waists? So what. We can buy alcohol!
Perky boobs? Overrated. More mojitos, please! And tequila shots. And a round of Blue Moons. And Chardonnay...I mean Cabernet. Oh, screw it, bring em both!
Elastic skin? Did I mention we can buy alcohol?
Shortly after the future stars of 16 and Pregnant sat down at their table a few adorable chaps with shaggy hair, dimpled smiles and maybe, just maybe, braces, trotted upstairs. We greeted them with a chorus of whoops and shrieks.
They were good beaus and attended to their ladies-in-waiting before coming over to our table. Another round of whoops and shrieks and we officially became the Cougar table.
Harmless flirting commenced, after of course checking id's to make sure they were indeed legal - no one's going to jail to-night!
One of them - the one without braces - gave C a lap dance. He reminded me of the Charmin bear. You know, the one that shimmy's while wiping and gets toilet paper stuck to his butt. It was the first - and probably only - time a lap dance was described as "cute."
Cute was definitely not the words to describe the "strippers" invited to the room later that night. "Gross" and "Pathetic" were more like it. Honestly, I had to show them what to do. But then again, I am a professional.
After dinner we watched C open present after present of sexy lingerie, aka crotchless panties. And who can forget the cock rings? Then C read to us from the Book of Sexual Positions while half of us said "ooh yeah" and the other half said "I don't get it." During the opening of the lingerie I also had a delightful conversation with V about the different types of anti-anxiety meds.
We each pounded back eight or ten more drinks, piled in cabs and headed to the clubs.
Where we danced.
And that is all I'm legally allowed to say about that portion of the evening.
We returned to the hotel where we undressed and dressed those too
Everyone except for me that is. I slept with A who apparently decided she didn't have enough room on the eight and a half feet that made up her side of the bed so she decided to sleep on top of me. Initially I politely asked her to scoot over. But when she never, as in NOT ONCE, budged an inch I was forced to punch and kick her over to her side. Quite the slippery little sucker she was, making her way back to my side Every. Single. Time.
The next morning we woke, bid adieu, and questions of "what happened last night," trailed on the stale exhaust of our gas powered vehicles.
And maybe, possibly, one of us kinda, sorta slept off her hangover in her car before driving home.
Missed part one? I'll spare you the lecture of not following my blog regularly enough and just tell you to read it here.