I place my arm around her pulling her in for a tight hug. I really missed having her around. She’s been my rock for so many years and that person I can always count on. Between her back-and-forth trips to the Middle East, we rarely have time to talk much anymore.
She hasn’t changed much. She’s still beautifully aged with her long, gray hair tied into her usual braid. The dress she’s chosen to wear tonight is slightly out of character—black with long sleeves—but she’s added a piece of her unique personality—an amethyst necklace that sits in line with the skirting of her dress and what appears like a diamond hanging center.
“Tell me about this new man,” I ask with a mouthful of sushi.
“No longer new. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. Did I tell you he’s a Sheikh?”
“Uh… no,” I say, eager to hear more. “That’s interesting.”
“Honey, interesting is an understatement. This man makes me come alive. My horoscopes forewarned me of new beginnings.”
“Does mine say that my fiancé has become a crabby eighty-year-old woman?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Drew can be intense when he’s passionate about something. Like when he was falling for you.” She smiles, reminding me of a time when life was so simple.
Gigi has seen it all. My waste-of-time relationship with Jess, and Drew and I hooking up. She’s seen me at my absolute worst when life had kicked me to the gutter and shit all over me.
“I need a drink,” I yell to no one in particular.
A waiter walks past at the same time bringing a bottle of wine. I drink the glass quickly demanding another and realize I haven’t relaxed like this for quite some time. Drew and I are stuck in some sort of work rut. We rarely go out and have fun. He just wants to stay home and have sex. Granted, I enjoy the sex part, but I wish he’d like to get out a little more.
“It’s going to work itself out. Small bump, but an exciting journey ahead,” Gigi tells me.
Big fucking bumps and a stressful journey ahead. I’m not going to tell her that and be the killjoy tonight.
Finishing up dessert and another bottle of wine, Mia announces it’s time to go. With an array of excitement, we grab our purses and follow her lead. A twenty-minute drive later, we park in front of a bar in a seedier part of town. The streets are dimly lit, the sounds of dogs barking and alarms ringing can be heard in the distance.
“Okay, ladies, time to have fun!”
Callie leans in and whispers in my ear, “The last time she said that squishy sea life got into my hair.” She follows with a hiccup, grabbing my hand as we walk into the bar. I miss hanging out with Callie. It’s been a few months since we’ve gotten together. Thankfully, she’s in a much better place having suffered depression after her split from her husband.
Mia hands us all a whistle shaped like a penis. Everyone puts it around their neck with enthusiasm, and I follow because the wine is clouding my judgment and penis whistles at this moment look like they’re a lot of fun. Then, she hands me a sash that says ‘Future Mrs. Anal.’
“I can’t wear this!” I hand back the sash followed by constant hiccupping.
Mia throws it over my head. “Drew’s a neat freak. Very anal about cleanliness.”
“I know, but people will think I like anal.”
“But you do like anal.”
“The whole world doesn’t need to know that.”
She scrunches up her face exhaling like it’s no big deal. “Suck it up and don’t be a party pooper. Listen…” she pulls me to her, “… it’s our song!”
Whitney Houston blares over the speaker, and with the crowd singing along, I scan the room and notice predominantly women inside. It’s a fu
ll house, the majority dancing around and drunk-singing with glasses in hand. There’re a few brides-to-be, and it seems to be a popular ladies’ joint. Interesting venue choice, but nevertheless, the music is rocking.
We find a table near the front, and just as we take our seats, the lights black out. There’s a hush in the room followed by a few piercing whistles. One of them from our table. Two, now. Then, three. When the music starts and Like a Prayer begins, the dim lights center on the stage, and the silhouette of a man dressed in a priest’s robe becomes clearer as the lights brighten. On cue with the beat, the man rips off the robe wearing nothing but a leopard thong leaving zero to the imagination.
Hung like a goddamn horse.
Shit.
Along with the girls, I blow my whistle singing at the top of my lungs while dancing to the music. The dancer makes eye contact shuffling toward me as he dry-humps my ass, and sadly, that hung horse is actually a prawn dick in disguise.
When the song ends, another male hops onto the stage dancing more sexual at a slow pace to Red Red Wine. It gives us a moment to calm down, swaying along to the tune, and when I reach toward my purse to grab my cell, Mia’s quick to slap my hand and take it off me.