I'm not one of those girls who hates other girls. Most of my close friends are women, and although I have guy friends I'm far from "one of the guys." I don't like sports, I don't eat pizza or drink beer, and I'm very particular about keeping things neat and tidy. However, my best friend from college happens to be a guy. I first met Josh* a few weeks into my freshman year. We went on one date, kissed for three seconds, and quickly decided we were better off as friends.
Twelve years later, and still very close, Josh called to tell me I was officially invited to his bachelor party. It was going to be me and 27 dudes in Atlantic City for the weekend. I was honored to be deemed awesome enough to be the one chick at a bachelor party, excited to see behind the testosterone curtain, curious to learn what really goes on at these things and determined to live up to Josh's expectations of me seamlessly fitting in, even though I lacked an Adam's apple, stubble, and a penis.
Before arriving at The Borgata Hotel I instated some rules for myself.
Rule one: Under no circumstances was I going to sleep with any of the guys attending the bachelor party. I was single and I knew Josh had a ton of hot friends, but if I had sex with any of them I would immediately be relegated to "that girl who banged so and so" instead of "that girl who was cool enough to hang with the boys." If any of them struck my fancy, I always had the wedding the following month to make a move. Better to look sexy, be mildly flirtatious, and keep it in my pants.
Rule two: I would pile into hotel rooms with the rest of the guys and not complain about the smell, squalor, toilet seats being left up, sleeping conditions, snoring, puke-stained clothes piled in corners, burping, ball scratching and urinating in the shower.
Rule three: I would gamble, smoke cigars and drink a lot, but not so much that I would lose sight of rule one.