The Randy Romance Novelist(51)
“What?” I brought my hand to my chest. “No, I’m not engaged. I’m the maid of honor. My friend is really intense about her bachelorette party. She gave me this giant list of things to cross off.” I held up the binder, aka penis bible, and showed the lady. “See, this is for her, not for me.” I paused for a second and said, “Please don’t judge me for being here. I have a perfectly good wiener at home waiting for me. I don’t have to have one flopping in my face to get my jollies. I mean, I do like it when he flops it in my face, but I only like it when my boyfriend does it. He shows respect while flopping around, you know . . . never pokes me in the eye or anything. Arrgggggh, matey.”
Jenny put her hand on my arm to silence me. “I think you’re done.”
I nodded and shut up. Pretty sure I would never be coming here again, ever.
Looking awkward and uncomfortable, the lady wrote something in her notes—most likely about me—and then said, “The music will start soon and three men will come out to dance for you who meet your specifications. If you are satisfied with one of them, we will book him for . . . oh, it’s a Sunday night.”
“The bride-to-be didn’t want to have to deal with Saturday night drunks in the city.”
“Ah, yes, that makes sense. Smart thinking on her end, but inconvenient for everyone else. They will be right out.”
Once she left the room, Jenny turned to me. “I didn’t like her. Who is she to judge a Sunday night bachelorette party?”
“Everyone,” I answered honestly. “Everyone can judge a Sunday night bachelorette party for many reasons. One, it’s a Sunday night, therefore people will either have to go to work still inebriated, or they will have to take the day off. Two, Sundays are God’s day. Debauchery and flying penises don’t really say godly things.”
“Yeah, I don’t think God would appreciate flying penises. Although, if you think about it, he created penises, thrusting pelvises, and the imagination; therefore, he created the flying penis, so maybe he just might appreciate the soaring salami.”
“Maybe,” I laughed just as the lights dimmed down and music started to play. It was low at first, a sexy base beat that sent chills through my veins.
Was I living out a Magic Mike moment?
I was, because Ginuwine’s voice boomed through the speakers and spotlights hit the back of the stage, where three men wearing baggy jeans came up on stage, all holding their crotches and thrusting their way in our direction.
I wanted to giggle; I wanted to put a pack of ice on my face to cool it down; I wanted Henry’s penis in my hand to squeeze while I watched these three men gyrate to an extremely naughty song. I was all over the place with my emotions.
Jenny leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, “I think I’m going to need a man after we’re done with this.”
I couldn’t agree more with Jenny. The song, the lighting, the abs rolling up and down, creating a tidal wave of sex, were impossible to ignore. This was hot and I was getting more turned on by the minute.
I hadn’t watched Magic Mike until some of the ladies in my Facebook groups started talking about Channing Tatum’s dance moves, so I decided to give it a whirl, of course when Henry wasn’t home. I’d never been exposed to such erotic boogying, nor had I ever seen a man in a thong. I had sex with Henry four times that night. He thought it was the new cologne he was wearing—which, yes, smelled amazing—but it was me envisioning Henry as Channing Tatum, humping my face on stage wearing only a red G-string.
I fanned my face just thinking about it.
Ginuwine continued to play as all three men stripped their pants off at the same time. They were wearing matching blue man thongs and moved in tandem to the music. I almost felt like I was in the book, Becoming a Jett Girl, but instead of the girls being on stage, it was men, and I was one of the creeps on the side of the stage, getting an eyeful.
Remembering the task at hand, I started to evaluate each man. The one on the right had a massive amount of abs, but I couldn’t get over the fact that his nipples looked like little puff balls. Why weren’t they hard? Non-hard man nipples should be flat, not like someone tried to inflate them but failed miserably. He was a no for me.
The man in the middle, now he had great nipples, hard and pointy, just the way Delaney liked them. His abs were great, and he was completely hairless, but as he stepped forward, I noticed his package wasn’t as jiggly as Delaney probably would have wanted. They were all thrusting in the air, and his barely moved. Made me wonder, did he stuff? No jiggle to the junk meant no bachelorette party. He was a no.
“Oh, my God,” Jenny said, while pinching my thigh.
“Ouch,” I rubbed my leg. “Why are you pinching me?”
Jenny nonchalantly pointed at the man on the left. He had dark brown hair, great nipples, fantastic abs, and . . . oh, my God.
“His balls are enormous.”
“Are those two apples in there or a man’s sperm sack?” Jenny asked, unable to tear her gaze away.
All three men were now on the edge of the stage, holding onto their heads and really thrusting their hips in the air, as if they were trying to consummate with the lights above them. Middle man had no reach, but by the earthquake shaking in left man’s banana hammock, I was afraid his boulders were going to roll right on out and sit on our laps.
Henry had great balls, such a lovely nut sac to touch and play with. I appreciated the fact that he kept things clean for me, free of unruly hair or atrocious man cheese smell—I’ve only heard from Delaney about the man cheese.