The Hen’s Night: Pre-Game
It’s the big night. I have sat through cake tastings, dress fittings, agonized over napkin choices and spent months
on call to chase away pre-wedding jitters with a bottle of red wine and some sarcasm. I have done all this
(somewhat) happily, after all she has been my best friend since we were five, but tonight is the big night, the hens
party. I had it all planned out, every detail. First was high-tea and party games to keep the in-laws feeling included,
then off to the hotel with the inner circle. Champagne, loud music, killer heels, laughs and anticipation were
tossed around until we were ready to hit the scene. A stretch limo ride with obligatory bride-out-the-sunroof
shenanigans carried us here, and we stand poised, our outfits walking the line between too-much and not-enough
like a circus act, ready to enter the fray. The assembled-from-spare-bulldozer-parts bouncer gives us nod and a
knowing wink as he opens the door wide for us to tumble through.
The Hen’s Night: First Dance
Our heads spin from our not-drunk-just-a-little-tipsy buzz as the lights flash and the waves of bass crash over us.
On stage a well muscled male stripper turns up the heat on stage as he rhythmically transitions from fireman to all-
man. A hunky waiter with a cute smile appears and we follow him to a table shamelessly checking out his butt and
giggling like a gaggle of school girls. A round of drinks, (“shots!” Declares the bride-to-be), act as liquid courage as
I scan the room looking for a target for her first lapdance. I spot him from across the room, moving with a slow
sexy swagger that’s born from the confidence of wash-board abs and perfect teeth. I approach him and as he
flashes me a big smile I point out the lady of the evening. She is hard to miss, wearing all white with her dollar-
store veil. “My friend would like a lap-dance”, I blurt out, and he winks and makes his way over. He introduces
himself and offers his hand, she takes it and is led to a chair set apart from the table. As she sits he walks slowly
around her, all eyes on him as he prepares to practice his craft.
The Hen’s Night: In Full Swing
As the night rolls on the drinks flow and the nervous giggles become a raucous of laughter. The liquid courage and
casual-confidence of the male strippers washes all of our inhibitions out the door. Notes are stuffed in G-strings,
lap-dances abound and some very creative party games have us in stitches. The DJ spins some karaoke classics
that we belt out at the top of our lungs, complete with all the dance moves we pretend not to remember and we
drown in a tidal wave of debaucherous frivolity. I look over at my childhood friend hooting at a male stripper, bank
note in hand, beckoning him toward her. She is so far removed from the woman having a panic attack about where
to seat her estranged aunt and uncle of a week ago, and I am thrilled. This Hen’s Night will be legendary, talked
about for years to come and I mentally pat myself on the back for a job well done. I am disturbed from my moment
of self-congratulation by a hand on my shoulder. Well hello blue-eyes, why yes, I’d love a lap dance…
