After I essentially purged everything that had ever been in my body on the 5th, it was time for Lesley’s bachelorette party. Out of concern for my well being, but slightly more concern about what might happen at the party, she suggested that we could call the entire thing off. Queasy or not, I wasn’t going to allow THAT to happen.

Our first stop was at Superb Video, the self-same porn store at which I used to work. If my grandparents ask: That summer, I worked at a ‘video’ store.

When I worked there, the building was grey (You can sort of see it in this picture that Felix took, three years ago.). Then, one night, the neon on the building started a small building fire, and I believe the pink paint job was to cover up the scorch marks. Lesley calls this color ‘titty pink’. I maintain that there is no paint chip name in existence that goes by that color.

Before we went inside, Lesley and I took little bets on who we thought still worked there.

I laid my monopoly money down on Steve and Fahri, since Harmony had married some guy from Russia for money so he could get a green card, and I imagined maintaining that sham takes more time and effort than she originally anticipated.

Lesley went with Steve and Ed, who could easily pass for Rob Zombie’s twin brother (the one with less ambition).

Steve (and I was just looking through my archives and I CAN’T BELIEVE I DIDN’T POST ABOUT THIS) and I once went to a strip club together; he has about 25 years on me, and, as I found out a bit too late, like his ladies YOUNG. I thought we were going as work buddies blowing off some steam. Apparently when some other guy started talking to me, he got super jealous and disappeared. He then gave me the silent treatment for weeks afterwards. Mature. And that’s why he’s still working at a porn store at nearly 50 years old.

That’s right. Lesley and I were BOTH right.

I was also right about Fahri.

I’d had the hots for Fahri the entire summer I worked there, and he completely ignored me. When we walked in the door, there he was, asking us for our IDs. I called him by name and asked him if he was really going to check MY ID. He did a double-take and said “…Melissa? Wow, you look great! What are you doing in town?”

I told him I was there for a wedding, and he asked me if I had a date, because he’d love to go with me, and asked me for a hug before I walked out the door because he was ‘not creepy like Steve’.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is validation.

Armed with a feathery penis boa, enough annoying paper noisemakers for everyone, and temporary tattoos for Lesley that suggested strange men might be able to touch some of her nether regions for the low purchase price of one dollar, we made our way to La Perla, where, as it turns out, you can ride a pepper.

This man was very, very enthusiastic about riding the pepper; hollering wasn’t enough–he also felt the need to vigorously smack his own ass, repeatedly. We witnessed this event incredulously while waiting for bellachiara6 to show up. It would just be the three of us all night, and while I myself would have preferred something a little more insane and frenetic, I think that Lesley appreciated it being a bit more low-key.

After dinner, it was my turn to ride the pepper, which was an awful decision considering I’d spent the majority of the day throwing up. I stand by my choice.

Before you continue, please note the effect my pepper-grinding is having on Lesley. That look in her eyes? Desire. Oh yeah.

After my pepper-riding adventure, we were off to the Safe House, where I had something special reserved for Lesley at 10pm–Her Majesty’s Secret Service, which is billed as ‘more than a drink, it’s an adventure!’. They only serve one per hour, thus, the reservation.

In order to enter the Safe House, you need to know the password. If you do not know the password, they force you to participate in some humiliating ritual, which is broadcast throughout the rest of the bar, so when you finally are allowed inside, everyone cheers and your humiliation is complete.

While we were waiting for Lesley to be whisked away, we drank and played ‘I never’; a drinking game in which everyone takes turns making statements such as ‘I never stole anything from a workplace’, etc. If you HAVE performed that activity, then you drink. We all learned some interesting things about one another in a very short time period. VERY interesting things. Additionally, every time someone mentioned ‘bachelorette’, we all simultaneously hollered ‘It’s a bachelorette party!’ and honked our noisemakers as loudly as possible. Seriously. All night long. To drunks, this never gets old or stops being funny.

Finally, someone came and escorted Lesley to the basement of the bar, where she was seated on a seat inside a bathtub. Nicki and I could watch her on closed-circuit TV (broadcast throughout the bar, again), and the bartender proceeded to interrogate her.

After he felt that she had sufficiently answered his questions, he flipped a switch, and her chair rose up from the basement through the first floor of the bar, where Her Majesty was hailed by adoring bar patrons, presented with a 24oz cranberry vodka, and played a special video in her honor.

At one point or another, I felt the urge, nay, the need to touch Nicki’s boobs. It’s a bachelorette party! (hoot!)

Lesley, proudly displaying her drink now that the embarrassing part is over; or rather, now that she’s drunk enough that embarrassment ceased to matter.

At one point, Lesley complained that the penis boa was too ‘goddamn itchy’, and that she wasn’t going to wear it anymore. *Someone* had to wear it, so I stepped up to the plate. Miss Drunky McDrunkerson herself. This picture was taken shortly before we left. I commanded that she put that drink down before we went anywhere, and she did an admirable job. After she finished her drink, it was around 1am, and she really didn’t want to go anywhere else. No strip clubs, no other bars, just home. Maybe to watch a movie. I demanded that she gave me the keys before we even left the bar, as there was no way in hell I’d let her drive after pounding an insane amount of alcohol into her system. She once again donned the penis boa, and stumbled down the street towards the parking garage. We made it back to the car, put our glassware into the trunk, and once we were inside, she leaned over and whispered urgently “Melissa? … MELISSA. I LOST THE PENIS BOA. I have to go get it, ok? I have to go get it. I’ll be back.” She then proceeded to go back to the elevator area, and even though we’d only ridden down on one car, opened up every single elevator (there were four of them) to make sure that the boa hadn’t, I don’t know, WARPED into a different car. We didn’t end up finding it, and she was not a happy camper.

She was also not a happy camper when we got onto the highway; I had to stop at the Pilot gas station on Ryan Road for her to expel the contents of her stomach. She may have even stood in front of the toilet, waved a wand and screamed ‘EXPELLIARMUS’ and pointed at her stomach. I don’t know. But I like imagining it.

That’s when I knew that (A) the evening was over, and (B)I’d done a good job. No matter how low-key someone wants their bachelorette party, unless the bride to be is throwing up two days prior to her wedding, someone really fucked up.