I’m in New York this weekend for this girl’s bachelorette party.
Only, you can’t really call it a bachelorette party since she’s been shacking up with the groom for a couple of years now.
But really you can’t call it a bachelorette party because she (a) refuses to wear a tiara (excuse me, I wear a tiara just because it’s Wednesday); and (b) refuses any kind of penis paraphernalia; or even actual penises in the form of male strippers.
So that means no Chippendales, no American Storm, no Thunder Down Under (all very fine song-and-dance shows that I have personally enjoyed. What can I say? I support fine theater. PBS ain’t got nothing on me.)
(SIDENOTE: I love that American Storm’s website is a dot.org. As if it’s just some run-of-the-mill, everyday organization. Practically a non-profit, if you will).
However, bride-to-be Amy did not say a word about men dressed up as women gyrating around skimpily clad. So that’s the route we’ll be taking. Girl loves a drag queen.
It’s probably all for the best. I do not have a good record with strippers at bachelorette parties. Unless you’re talking medical records.
A few years ago, I attended my friend Alexia’s wedding. My plus-one-for-life XFE and I flew out to San Francisco and had a lovely week in Napa before returning to the city for the wedding. We got back just in time for me to attend the bachelorette party, which was held a couple of days before the wedding.
The party was at this lovely little Spanish tapas place and there were probably about 25 girls. We had a private room, a very long narrow room, with one long communal table and the sangria was flowing.
Then came the big event, so the staff came in and moved all of the tables out of the room and us ladies took our chairs and lined them up along the walls. The bride sat in a chair at one end of the narrow room, while our slightly chunky entertainment began to do work.
Since we had no tables to set our sangria on, we all just had our sangria on the floor by our chairs. Well, the gyrations of our male dancer and the vibrations coming off his accompanying boom box caused someone’s rather large glass of sangria to fall over and break into a million pieces. Right in the path of our now barefoot stripper.
Me, every the rescuer of male strippers worldwide, decided to grab some napkins and crouch/scooch along the wall perimeter to sop up the sangria and shove the broken glass away from our erstwhile entertainer’s feet.
What I didn’t know, is that our stripper was an amateur Cirque Du Soleil wannabe. Unbeknownst to me, he was setting up for a back flip.
His bare foot and entire body came crashing into the right side of my head, crushing my melon into the wall.
My teeth literally rattled. I swear I heard a crunching noise in my neck. I definitely, definitely saw stars. I had a headache, no lie, for two days.
Anywho, the show came to a screeching halt and never really gained momentum after that. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip and shirk away from all the attention with protestations that “I was fine, just fine. I just need some fresh air. No, no, continue on without me,” while trying not to pass out.
I was quite a hit at the reception. Apparently, everyone knew me as the girl who got crushed by the male stripper.
Hopefully, drag queens don’t cause as much damage.
Funny sidenote: While looking for images using the term “seeing stars,” this existential question popped up. Who is Poe? A Poe is a girl who knows not to mess with strippers or broken glass, that’s who.
2 thoughts on “I’m Not Sure My Insurance Covers Stripper Collisions”