When five or more women refer to themselves as GIRLS simultaneously, the conversation is practically guaranteed to get ridiculous. No matter how civilized we start out, eventually the pajama party gene will begin to express itself. One “girl” will get tipsy and nosy and start conducting a competitive analysis of everyone’s sex life, while another scans my facial expressions like unmarked produce. Are you okay? Are you sure? Are you POSITIVE? You do NOT look happy. Are you not having fun? You really don’t look like you’re having fun.
I’m fine. I’m having my sexual appetites investigated by Colonel Mustard, so I’m enjoying myself immensely. In the parlor. With a rope.
I recently received an invitation that I’m still tempted to frame, because it contained not only the words “Girls Night Out” (with a black lacy border), but also “Naughty Hotties” and “a Romance Consultant (AKA Sex Toy Expert) will be present”.
It might as well have said
To your worst nightmare, ever.
If this makes me sound uptight, let me just tell you exactly how much of a fuck I do not give. Seriously. If “loosening up” and “having a good time” = “giggling over studded 'cock rings' with women I hardly know” than I will gladly stay home with my ass cinched up like a Silpada ring pouch.
Just. Can't. Do. It.
And it has nothing to do with the host, or the guest list. In fact, I love the host, and we have friends in common, some of whom I'm sure were squeeing their little hearts out over this titillating shop-ortunity.
Still. Not. Going.
Call me when the Spicy Dice and Pop’n Cherry Warming Gel are PUT AWAY. In your private place, wherever that is LALALALALALALALA. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW, I CAN'T HEAR YOU.
It used to bother me how much I hated doing girly things. But the farther away from actual girlhood I get, the more I realize that one of the greatest freedoms of being a woman is that I can finally, unapologetically, react like an eight year old boy in the face of a girls night out.