Hen pecked

So, my extended siblings and I organised my sister’s hen party. It was an unequivocal success, if I do say so myself. There was a champagne brunch with the grown ups in the morning, including a lovely little incriminating video of the groom answering salacious questions. And there was a swanky Jilly Cooper-esque cocktail party with obligatory sexy stuff in the evening. There was drama, bitching, tears, more bitching and silly amounts of giggling. And then later there was dancing and more cocktails and far too much champagne and a barman in riding boots and a sleeveless top. And my sister. Radiant and happy and completely and utterly smashed.

And through it all I couldn’t help disassociating for little moments. Looking in from the outside at this oddest of rituals. As we publicly humiliated one grinning bride to be. Forced her to drink glass after glass of champagne. And then later, shot after shot. Invited a-um-marital aids demonstrator-to um-demonstrate marital aids. (Ag, let’s bring in the spades; we had a fuckerware party.) And there were nipple clamps and large rotating things with animal names and anal beads and vinyl policewomen outfits and stuff.

And my sister’s face was a fabulous picture. She of the utterly vanilla relationship bought herself some handcuffs and a cockring. I swear. The demonstrator was wide eyed too; all these Constantia mink and manure set girls, in their pearls and cocktail frocks, scrabbling to purchase a nice 8inch vibrating love aid and some strawberry lube.

And then we dressed my baby sister in her riding gear: jods, a feather boa, her chaps and her high heels. Fed her another shooter and dragged her off to the night club de jour. We danced and flung our heads back and sang and stomped our feet and sent men away in droves.

And as I stumbled out of the night club at 3am, barefoot and happy and not a little dazed, I had another brief moment of prayer to whatever deity controls our funny little lives; dear god! Please don’t EVER let me be tempted to get married. Please!

20 thoughts on “Hen pecked

  1. ramon says:

    Wow! fuckerwear party!

  2. flutter says:

    She wrote those chunky trashy novels about jockeys right? Rember reading those a 12. Use to pretend that I was borrowing them out the library for my mom.

    Sounds like a blast. Threw a hen party for best friend but she’s tiny and gets toasted on a glass of champagne…so we didn’g get very far that night.

  3. dolce says:

    there are more things to burn your eyes than some harmless fuckerware?

  4. dolce says:

    aye, that she did…the best trashy novels ever. My sisters are both SA champs in some kind of equestrian sport, so it seemed appropriate….

    …I just like to ride

    *evil grin*

    It was a fun night!

  5. ramon says:

    But, then again, I’m preuts.
    Never been to one of those places.
    Never heard of fuckerwear and lost my virg…

    I hate cats.

  6. dolce says:

    you just finish that train of thought so I can laugh out loud at you. Never been? Never heard? HA!

  7. ramon says:

    the life of my daughter. (ask Flutter about my daughter)
    I have never been and I have never heard.


  8. dex says:

    Can I please come to one of these parties? The Bat’s been to a couple, and always comes home kinda frisky. The curiosity is killing me. But I’m not allowed [gmpf.]

    So please smuggle me in?

  9. dolce says:

    Preuts? Some kind of Afro-thai phrase for grapesmuggling, vaso smearing, no clothes-wearing liar liar yfronts on fire man?

  10. dolce says:

    we get to dress you up as the eye-candy barman. Or the stripper. You could wear a mask or something.

    Actually, who we kidding here.

    Frisky, hey? Lucky Dexter!

  11. ramon says:

    Funny, but no.
    It’s Afrikaans.

  12. dex says:

    I think it means pious. The word, not the blogger. That just wouldn’t work.

  13. ramon says:

    Don’t knock too hard there, big guy…
    I’ll smuggle you in.

    Preuts of te not.

  14. dolce says:

    according to google, the font of all knowledge.

    I’m not convinced, Rambon, I’m just not!

  15. dolce says:

    what our much missed Preutsappels would have to say about that! The ungrateful wench.

    I wrote a whole blog for her about an accidental lunchtime shoe frenzy, but then realised there is no point until she’s around to share it with.

  16. micatyro says:

    …well, boots. I used to have four different pairs of 12-hole Doc Martins, in purple, blue, oxblood and standard black. It was fun to mix and match, purple-blue one day, black-oxblood the next, etc…

  17. dolce says:

    got any of them left? I lost my docs somewhere in one of my moves (I suspect, actually, that my mom threw them out. She thought they were unladylike. Sjoe!) They were lovely.

  18. micatyro says:

    Some were stolen, some wore out – eventually they’d all moved on to aircushioned heaven. I own one pair of black patent leather ones from the famous Oriental Plaza, and I’m not a hundred percent sure they are the real thing as they don’t seem to be as comfortable as the ones I remember (first pair purchased as school ‘shoes’ at age 15 in the UK) – they get dragged out for weddings, important meetings and visits with other bloggers to the Jolly Roger…

  19. dolce says:

    I will expect Doc encased feets then.

    Which reminds me…will email re: trip. It’s pretty much all sorted!

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