My father’s face reddens and he clears his throat. “Are there male strippers in Lake Winnipesaukee?”
“I don’t want strippers,” I say, laughing at my father’s attempt to treat this like a serious conversation. “Seriously, the idea of staying up past nine p.m. makes me tired just thinking about it. And it's not like I'm going to be doing shots off some guy's abs, anyway."
“We could go to a strip club during the day,” Ella offers helpfully, spearing a piece of salmon on her fork. “You know, I find strip clubs to be an aphrodisiac. Tacky, but sometimes hot.”
“Really?” My father asks, his eyes fixated on Ella. She laughs, casually brushing her hand against his forearm, and I give Caulter a look again.
Caulter makes a gagging sound and mock-vomits. “I don’t need to hear about aphrodisiacs, Ella,” he says. “Or my mother talking about going to strip clubs.”
“You know, I was doing an interview in one of those women’s magazines the other day, and the interviewer said that I’ve become somewhat of an icon for women of a certain age – that sexuality doesn’t disappear with age. In fact, it gets even better. I think you become more willing to try new things, and --"
“And, I’ve finished my dinner,” Caulter says, putting down his fork. I snort at his obvious discomfort. Ella has actually grown on me. She really gets under Caulter’s skin, but I kind of like her. And she was totally right about her wedding planner, too. The planner was a godsend, breezing in and taking over all the minutiae that had become major annoyances for me.
“You can’t really object to this conversation after, well, what happened the other night,” my father says, pointing his fork at Caulter.
Oh my God, my father is talking about walking in on Caulter and I having sex. Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed.
“Could we please all just forget about that?” I ask. Caulter looks at me and raises his eyebrows, his expression a smug that's-what-you-get-for-laughing-at-me, and I give him my best glare.
"Well, I for one am glad that you and Caulter are keeping up an active sex life during the pregnancy," Ella says. "It's very important."
Beside me, Caulter sips his wine to cover the fact that he's about to fucking laugh, while my face feels like it's on fire. I'm stuck sitting here totally sober, and now mortified.
It's bad enough that we broke the bed and everyone walked in on us, but do they have to keep bringing it up?
"Okay, okay," Caulter says, holding up his hands. "Kate and my sex life is officially off-limits for dinner conversation. Next subject."
"It's not like we're talking about sex toys at the table," Ella says. "Really, Caulter. Don't be such a prude."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Caulter
It turns out that there were plans for a bachelor and bachelorette party after all, encouraged by Ella, I'm sure.
"You dickheads better not be taking me to Vegas or something," I say, as I'm pushed into the back of a limo. My friends – my best man, three groomsmen, and a couple of guys from Boston – are crammed inside, drinking beers and being loud and obnoxious.
"What, do you think I'm made of money?" My best man, Bryan, asks. I met him when I was backpacking through Borneo, and he moved to Boston last year to work at a non-profit. "We're not taking you to Vegas, man."
"Strip club!" One of my groomsmen, Joe, shouts, and inwardly I groan. When you're being let into bars and strip clubs when you're a teenager, the thrill kind of wears off by the time you're an adult.
I never thought I'd say this, but seeing tits gets old after a while, especially since I've been spoiled by Kate's.
"We have something better than tits," Bryan says.
"Nothing is better than tits," Joe yells, his drunken voice loud in the limo.
"Shit, Joe, ever heard of volume control?" Scott elbows him. "I'm going fucking deaf in one ear and I can still hear you."
"What's better than tits?" I'm almost afraid to ask.
"Shots!" Joe yells.
Bryan reaches into the cooler in the limo and pulls out two bottles. "Edward Fortyhands is better than shots," he says, laughing.
Before I can protest, the bottles are duct-taped to my hands and they're chanting "drink, drink, drink."
I take a drag on one of the bottles and nearly gag. "God, how do people drink this shit?"
"I don't know, buddy," Ken says. "But you're going to drink up before we get to Boston. Those forties aren't going to drink themselves."
"We're going to Boston to watch strippers?" I ask, warily.
"No, man. Your father-in-law got us courtside Celtics tickets," Bryan says.
"Courtside!" Joe echoes loudly, pumping his fist in the air. "Fuck, yeah!"
"Seriously?" I ask, downing more of the malt liquor from the bottle attached to one of my hands. Courtside Celtics seats. The Senator is really trying hard to step up.
Those tickets are definitely a point in his favor.
"Drink up, buddy!"