Dance Fever — The Social Experience
Maybe I'm not supposed to talk about it. I'm unsure how these things work. I didn't take an oath or shake a secret hand shake. I didn't prick my finger and rub it against someone else's pricked finger to exchange and blend our life fluids, binding us forever in some kind of meaningful psychological moment. All I did was show up, drink, and dance the night away. It was a bachelorette party, you see, the first actually that I'd ever been to. And I'd like to tell you about it but like I said, I'm not sure if I'm allowed. It's not like the boys parties. Those forbidden Bachelor parties that are spoken of in hushed tones. In reality all the boys usually do is ogle some tits and this is supposed to create some kind of secret boy pact. Information is withheld from the women in an effort to secure the feeling of naughtiness, which is apparently the most important part of those events. Of course this is all said with 95% of bachelor parties in mind. The other 5%, well, we won't speak of those.
But this bachelorette party that I attended last Saturday, well, it wasn't without a small little bit of naughtiness, but it was overall pretty innocent. Innocent in a rubber penis paraphernalia kind of way. Innocent in a drunkenly dirty dancing with strange men kind of way. Not me of course. I'm a good little wife.
So I'll tell you about it then. Not all of it because, well, we women must have our secrets too. But seeing as none of my women friends actually read my blog (except for you Miss V), then I run little risk of anyone getting pissed that I divulged the details of the night in question. But if so, well then, so be it.
The evening started off well enough, with cocktails, eats, and some dirty little gifts. The second bar we landed at was packed and loud and thoroughly unfun. That was when the bride-to-be suggested dancing. There's an 80's themed dance club here in NYC called, cleverly enough, Culture Club. I'd been there only once before, in 1999, freshly 21 and a very new New Yorker. On that first visit to Culture Club my friends and I didn't stay long. I was more reserved and afraid of looking foolish so I didn't dance and neither did anyone else. But if eight years in NYC has taught me anything it's that dancing in public is one of my stronger party qualities. That and my ability to do an obscene amount of tequila shots.
Not really expecting a night of dancing I'd worn impractical heels and a stylish sweater. But after four cocktails those small details didn't occur to me and when the Culture Club idea was suggested, we were all in cabs within moments, excitedly chatting and reapplying lipstick.
All of the elements that normally repel me from dance clubs in NYC just seemed to slide right on by. The long line outside of the club, the ridiculous entry fee ($25 a person!), the loud music, the crowd, the heat. None of it mattered. I was with my girls, drunk, and ready to have a night like I'd never had before.
After checking our coats and purses (another long line with a $4 coat check fee) the group of us made our way upstairs to the dance area and promptly secured a nice little corner section of the elevated and lit-from-beneath dance floor. As the familiar music invigorated us with the nostalgia of our youths, hair flew into ponytails, sweaters were peeled off revealing sexy strappy tank tops, and shots were ordered and swiftly downed. The next three hours passed in a flash of Duran Duran, Cyndi Lauper, Tears for Fears, The Culture Club, Pat Benatar, Blondie, and so many more. Beers kept appearing in my hand from the alcohol fairy, shots kept appearing on trays, and although I was certainly drunk, some of the girls were much more so than I. Men sensed this and honed in on us like a pack of savage wolves. They surrounded us, threatening our personal space with their gyrating, pumping groins. They all had a hungry look in their eyes that cannot be mistaken for anything but pure crazy lust, and they were confident that they would all get their way. What they didn't count on, was me. I can cock-block like nobody's business and and I'm a certified professional at telling men to fuck off, most times in a more charming way but that usually only leads to persistence in which case the deal is closed with a deadly look and the actual use of the word fuck, but not in the context that he would prefer, no doubt.
But we all had our fun, and aside from a few very discriminating photographs, curiously obtained hickeys, aching feet, and a bedtime of 5:00AM, there was no harm, and no foul.
I'm going to miss you girls.
That's my girl.............bold and brassy.
Well it seems that you only dance with semi strange men and not at this kind of parties. It takes a quiet classy place with live music to do that and I have the pictures, no worries Botch she is the good little wife
Oh and the new hair is beautiful
Hooray for dancing and humilation of men on the light up dance floor! can you get a job in Oregon cockblocking?
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