A good hen’s party is like an episode of Game of Thrones – there’s intrigue, sex and questionably handsome men, and it leaves you wondering whether anybody actually wears underpants any more.
I was recently given the immeasurable responsibility of organising my sister’s hen’s party. I was born for this – since learning all the words to Salt n Pepa’s ‘Let’s Talk about Sex’ in grade six and perfecting my bump and grind at the Our Lady of the Rosary school discos and possibly scarring a number of boys for life (I still argue that homosexuality is most likely innate and probably not a product of one’s environment), this has been the moment I have been waiting for. When you think of people’s calling you might think of a nun taking her vows or a neurosurgeon knowing they were born to save lives. I knew I was born to create a night filled with penises.
We have all been to the ‘classy’ hen’s party. You know the ones – the ‘I’m fun but I’m not into strippers’ life drawing class, where you giggle over the REAL LIFE penis that you have to draw (OMG you guys – can you even believe that Jess asked him to pose with his butt checks pulled apart? She is so grooossss). Or the ‘I’m really not into strippers’ high tea where everyone secretly wishes they could pull out their booty drop dance but it’s so not appropriate because Grace wanted a classy hen’s party. Ladies, I’ve looked up hen’s party in the dictionary: under antonym it says: ‘Classy’.
So when the call up as Matron of Honour came, I knew it was my time to shine. First up – theme. I provided the Hen with a list of possible themes, all of which could have been classified as ‘potential to dress up as ladies of the night’. Amongst these were the usual: cheerleaders, sailors, escaped convicts and the not so average ‘sexy zombies’ (if anyone does use that theme in the future please send me an invite – I will be there). In the end, the Hen chose ‘safari’. I’m thinking whips, animal print rugs, primal, sexual pheromones, and safari suits.
My next task – assembling all of the penis paraphernalia possible. There can never be too much penis at a hen’s party. I’m not saying it’s going to be pretty, nor am I saying it is going to be socially acceptable, but I will guarantee that everyone has a good time when they’re sucking their champagne through a glow in the dark phallus. If anyone refuses to put it in their mouth, make sure they are the given the first bite of the penis cake. As Matthew McConaghey said in Magic Mike “make it rain”, and I sure did – a torrential downpour of penises.
With the theme and decorating covered, I handed over the logistics of catering to another bridesmaid and focused on making it the best damn hen’s party Australia has ever seen. I had to be a leader – aside from the hen, no-one else’s outfit should be more outrageous than yours. The fact that I was able to shower in my outfit at the end of the night and risked thrush due being completely composed of man made materials only demonstrated how far I was wiling to go. So maybe I had a bit more cleavage on show than the hen. Maybe people said it looked like I had been poured into my outfit (that, my friends, is a compliment). Like Ghandi said “be the change you wish to see”.
Although a word of warning, on the costume stakes: if you are going to go tight with the old fancy dress, remember to have a quick chat with your pre-drinking brain. Unfortunately in my case, after we spent an hour bumping and grinding on the Army bus with Paul, our toothless commando, I found myself running through emergency scenarios in case I literally busted out of my leopard print PVC leggings and snake print faux leather bustier. A sober brain would find it hard to come up with anything, a drunk brain had no chance. Luckily, one of the girls had somehow procured a man’s button-up business shirt and was twirling it around her head while dancing on a table, so I was sorted for my top half (sisters are doin’ it for themselves!).
And here’s a tip for free: don’t get so excited in the weeks preceding the party that you let all your co-workers know that you will be attending a hen’s party and it is going to get a bit crazzzzeeee. That way, when you turn up at work on Monday sounding like you’ve developed a pack a day habit, have bruises all over your arms and legs and a two day hangover, they just assume you were kidnapped over the weekend and returned home when your partner/parents paid the ransom. And when you accidentally lock your handbag in your locker (with the key inside it) for the second time, they will assume it’s emotional trauma not just dead brain cells.
I was lucky enough to have the help of a non-party participant (preferably someone who’s good at tidying up) to clean up the penises before you we home at the end of the night. Unfortunately he also ate the testicles off the penis cake (I had my eye on them for breakfast the next day), but he was great at sweeping up discarded pecker serviettes, lipstick-stained penis straws and plasticine cocks. When you spend the next morning trying to locate lost mobile phones, handbags and party participants, it’s nice to know that someone else has taken care of your penises.
Ladies, you’ve all got a friend/relative/grandmother like me. They’re gagging for it. Go on, ask them. Ask them to organise your hen’s party. I promise, you will have stories to tell for years to come. And it won’t be about how good the cucumber sandwiches were.
And for my final note. I honestly don’t want to brag, but it might have been called the.best.hen’s.party.ever. Suck on that you classy ladies.