Over the weekend, the guy I’m seeing met my best friend for dinner Sunday. It was a last minute “I’m hungry!”, “Want company?” thing, so it was pretty casual. Over a slice and a soda, we shared some interesting conversation. Much of it was standard getting to know you stuff, until the talk of the Great Bachelorette Hijack of 1998 came up. As the story goes, he and several of his friends drunkenly crashed a bachelorette party, expecting to find penis shaped novelties such as straws, baked goods, and tshirts. However, upon storming the gates, they discovered the skies had parted and a choir of devils sang as a shaft of light struck a 6 foot inflatable dildo. Mouths agape, and hormones raging, hijinks ensued. Namely, grabbing it, hoisting it over their collective shoulders, and running through the middle of their college town with it, all while shirtless, shoeless, and extremely drunk.
struck me was the hesitation to tell this story in the first place.
Now, we all know I don’t have any boundaries. Well, ok. A few. As he
starts to tell the story, I catch him censoring parts of it. To which,
I encouraged him to tell it how it happened. I got the whole “Well, I
didn’t know what the limits were here.”. I tipped my head to one side,
smirked and said “Darling, she’s *my* best friend. I mean, this is the
girl with whom I ended up with matching vibrators at checkout the last
time we went to Doctor Johns. During the same trip, we made friends
with the cashier when she and Ashley (the cashier in question) ganged up
and chased me around the store, waving frilly pink lingerie at me!” He
takes a second to digest this information, and turns back to the
. . “So, there we were, 6 feet of inflatable cock over our shoulders,
running down the main drag, trying to outrun the ladies who’d piled into
their mustang, and avoid the cops.”
That’s my boy, vulgar, and quick on the uptake. The public may never be safe again.