“Come on, this is a bachelorette party. If you can’t lighten up at one of these, you’re truly doomed to a sad and miserable existence.” Avalee waved at the party table, which had so many penis-shaped balloons attached to it, it was a miracle the table wasn’t floating. Situated front and center was the—who would have guessed?—giant penis cake.
Our mom wasn’t here tonight, and thank god because she would have keeled over from a heart attack if she set sight on a tenth of the gifts Charlotte had opened tonight—or a hundredth of the provocative photos that had been snapped of her demonstrating her oral skills pertaining to a certain piece of male anatomy.
“Sad and miserable existence”—I held out my arms—“take me, I am yours.”
Avalee giggled again, tickling my sides.
“Would you stop pawing all over me? You’ve got a fiancé for that.” I shoved her hands away even though I was fighting a laugh. My sides had always been ticklish, and I’d be damned if I gave any indication I’d enjoyed any part of this hellish night.
“You want to help me cut the cake?” she asked, trying to sit up. She collapsed right back beside me on the couch.
It was a good thing the maid of honor—aka Avalee—had had the foresight to rent one of those chauffeured party buses—which I’d refused to ride in because gross—because the only person who wasn’t ten sheets to the wind was me. After the comments I’d had fired my way all night, I wasn’t feeling exactly eager to make sure these girls made it home in one piece.
“Do I want to hack into a penis-shaped red velvet cake with beige frosting, complete with pieces of black licorice rope as an especially graphic accent to a certain round area on said cake . . .?” I tapped my chin. “Let me think. Why yes, yes, I do.”
Avalee gave a little squeal, clapping as she attempted to sit up again. I had to help her or it would have been a long night.
“See? You’re not doomed to a totally sad and miserable existence. There’s still a streak of reckless abandon buried inside there somewhere.”
I grabbed Avalee’s elbow to steer her toward the cake table. She was directionally-impaired at the present moment. “I just don’t trust you wouldn’t cut your fingers off if I didn’t help.”
She blew out a huff of protest, waving at me like I was crazy.
“Why don’t you wrangle up the wannabe pole dancers before they hurt themselves and tell them penis cake’s being served? That ought to bring them running.” I pointed the cake knife at Charlotte and the other girls, who were obviously trying to set bachelorette party records for debauchery and general hedonism. From my estimates, they were well on their way to making history.
Avalee answered with a couple of thumbs-up before heading in more of a zig-zag type direction for them, slipping past the sheer pink curtains lining our personal party cabana. I didn’t see the point of paying the extra few grand to rent out a “private” space when the curtains were so sheer anyone in the club could have seen who was inside and what was going on. Maybe that was the point though. To be seen, but to keep up the pretense that a person didn’t want to be seen.
Either way, it was a waste of money, especially since I’d been the only one who’d spent any real time camped out inside the cabana.
As I glanced at the cake, I grimaced. It was the most repulsive thing I’d ever seen. Who had Charlotte found in town who was willing to disgrace themselves to this level of low? I couldn’t imagine my family’s go-to caterer, who made an art of food, agreeing to something like this, but who knew? The Abbott dollar had a solid exchange rate in this part of the country.
“Here they are!” Avalee announced proudly, swaying her hips to the off-beat as she dragged a few of the girls past the curtains.
Now they had glow-in-the-dark penis necklaces. Was there no end to the number of items one could purchase in the shape of a Johnson?
“Yay,” I said flatly, waving a pretend pom-pom. “Who wants penis cake?”
Every hand flew into the air, followed by shouts requesting which part of the anatomy they wanted their piece sliced from. Since I was the only one sober enough to be holding a knife, they were getting what I gave them—the shaft.
Go figure a group of women who behaved like dessert was to them what garlic was to Dracula, were acting famished for a slice of good old-fashioned cock cake. Just couldn’t wait to get it in their mouths, I guess.
“Have you heard from Boone yet?” Charlotte said as she stumbled up to the table. Her eyes were glazed over and her lipstick was smeared. I didn’t want to know why.
“No,” I said, chopping into the ridiculously long shaft of the cake. “Why?”
She winked at one of the girls beside her. If it was meant to be subtle, she missed the mark. “Just wondering.”