That night, my deception wore a veil - one covered in rainbow condoms and puffy paint that read “virgin bride.” My thoughtful advice was ignored and I was obliged to accompany my dear friend and bride-to-be on the road to a humiliatingly drunken weekend before she headed off to Vegas to elope.
I thought we had everything worked out. The night before, when she had called to invite me, she was sketchy on details and wanted my input on destinations to maximize the tawdry fun. I suggested the skeazy bachelorette destination that is the Viewpoint and she agreed. She informed me that the limo would be by to pick me up.
At least they were punctual that night. As we were whisked off, I was introduced to the bride’s party, already tipsy, all from Gresham, and all wretchedly out of tune as they tortured “Like a Virgin.” It was clear that I would have to make my own fun, so I accepted the drink that I was offered and settled in as we crossed the Steel Bridge. I don’t care who I have to sit next to: a mobile karaoke bar with free drinks and attentive service is tough to beat.
It was only when we pulled into the Pearl in search of a martini bar that I became suspicious of the elected leadership. I was content with my drink and was hesitant to give it up for a pricey lemon drop in a martini glass and a crowd unimpressed with loud bachelorette party antics. So much for the Viewpoint. I was now partying under false pretenses.
The looks were frosty and immediate but because I was the only one who seemed to notice, I decided to ignore the tight-asses and have a good time, because that is what my dear friend and bride-to-be deserved. When she and her mom’s friends (or whoever they were) had trouble finding willing men to smear lipstick on, the decision was made to find a more accommodating venue. The limo arrived and we were deposited four blocks away at C.C. Slaughters. It was at this point that I attempted to overthrow the fortysomething dictatorship by suggesting karaoke, but to no avail. Luckily, the cover charge (and not the curious gay men/ bachelorette party paradox) dissuaded them and the limo again was summoned.
Despite my pleas, I was forced to cope with another new plan and soon after chugging my vanilla and coke, found myself in line at Barracudas. I swallowed my pride and was determined to suck it up for my dear friend and bride-to-be. As long as no one ever spoke of this again, we were cool. The trauma would no doubt fade over time.
To this day, I believe that God himself had a hand in the miracle that followed; Barracuda’s cover charge was a full $5 more than the gay bar. I was not disappointed, however, and with the bride properly drunk and an hour left on the limo, we headed to Duke’s. Duke’s, I can work with. Duke’s has “cowboys” and a mechanical bull.
We pulled into the parking lot, the smokers got out and lit up, and my dear friend and bride-to-be opened the door to greet the bouncer, barfed on his boots and was denied entry. By my way of thinking, it was a fitting fate for deceiving me into this fool’s errand.
The bouncer did confirm the existence of a mechanical bull, though.