Phillipa said: “I wanted to get some new hens, and I always fall in love with my lovely girls – d’you think thats what its talking about? Sans the sexual demands, of course!”
True story follows:
Speaking of hens with sexual demands, when living in Tokyo and roaming the bar district late one night, me and my buddy heard, of all things – bagpipes. That sort of catches your attention at 2am and 8 beers into the evening surrounded by people of identical hair color and averaging about 5’ 4” in height. So we followed the sound, probably the only time in my life I’ve ever walked toward bagpipes rather than away from bagpipes.
To our great surprise, and with our hearts leaping with joy, we discovered a parade led by an elderly Scotsman in a kilt playing the ludicrous instrument, followed by about 40 women, from age 18 (allegedly) to 63 and a half. We stood there watching these ladies (I’m being generous) marching and stumbling and staggering down the street following the pied piper like children of naughty parents, with feather boas wrapped around themselves, wearing all sorts of strange and wonderful feminine-like outfits of many layers and even more colors, reminiscent of an advertisement for a Nevada brothel in the 1890s.
My friend and I stood in amazement. Yes, it’s true we were semi-pickled, but not so much that we thought we were hallucinating. We hadn’t touched any absinthe that evening, although I must say it would have been an even more spectacular sight if we had indeed imbibed of the green nectar of the fallen angels, but then again we might have missed it completely if we’d been laying on the sidewalk counting the stars and giggling like prepubescent girls sneaking into an adult novelties shoppe.
But I digress. We weren’t hallucinating. There really were 40 gaudy, drunken, and quite possibly debauched, or at least eminently debauchable, human beings of the female persuasion, and we being two grown lads of the inebriated male variety were quite taken with this vision of color and variety strolling in front of our wide but somewhat reddened eyes.
It was at that very moment that two of the more outgoing personalities among this otherwise extroverted assemblage stepped out of the line following the piper, wrapped feather boas of yellow and maroon around my friend’s neck and mine, began dragging us into the death march with them, one of them saying (in a heavily intoxicated pre-menopausal Australian brogue), “Come with us, you sheep. It’s a hen party. We’re all hens and we need some cock.”
That’s when I turned to my friend, the one with the yellow boa looped around his neck like a noose from a John Wayne film, if John Wayne films had been directed by John Waters in the 1970s when acid was cheap, exotic and easily available on school yards anywhere, and I said to my friend in the chicken necklace, “I told you Tokyo is the greatest city on earth.”
We followed, or were led, or were dragged against our will, depending on to whom I’m telling the story, down the sidewalks of Roppongi while bagpipes played a mournful tune (do they know any other kind? can you play “You Are My Sunshine” on the bagpipes and still cry?). There were women in front of us, women behind us, all of whom had hours, or perhaps even days worth of non-stop alcohol consumption coursing through their libidinous veins.
What could we do? We had to oblige and go with them. Neither of us were familiar with the strange ways and customs of the Outback, and figured it might be a giant cultural faux pas to refuse their invitation. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Saudi, eat the goat’s eye when offered. When in Tokyo, follow the bagpipes and drunken Sheilas. It’s quite rude to do otherwise.
The first thing I asked, once I removed the maroon feathers from my mouth, was “What is this parade about?”
The woman who had me on the delicate leash, I forget her name so I’ll call her Sheila, said “This is a hen party.”
“I know, you said that already. What’s a hen party?”
“This one’is a bridal shower.”
“Oh, how lovely. It’s kind of like the bachelor’s party in America where the night before the wedding all the groom’s friends take him out, get him pissed, hire a prostitute, and he wakes up the next morning with a sore rectum and a one-eyed goat and still has to write his part of the wedding vows before noon.”
Sheila replied, “That’s it exactly. Didja bring the one-eyed goat with ya?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, surely there’ll be one around here somewhere,” she replied optimistically.
“This is Tokyo,” I said. “Usually one on every corner until you need one. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Okay, you do that. Oh, hahaha, that’s a joke right there. I get it. Keep an eye out for a one-eyed goat. That’s lurvely, that’s what that is. Has anyone told you how cute you are when I’m drunk?”
“Not since last night, my dearest, but one never gets too fond of hearing it.” I was just making conversation, as I didn’t actually remember anyone saying that to me the night before.
“Tell me again,” she said, having already forgotten our earlier conversation since at least 20 seconds had elapsed, “why do we need a one-eyed goat at a hen party?”
“Dancing with a one-eyed goat bring happiness, prosperity, and fertility to the marriage, plus it guarantees eye-popping orgasms to the bride on the wedding night. Everyone knows that.”
“Oh yesh, of course. I had one of those once. Lost a contact lens.”
“So which of you lovely ladies is getting married tomorrow?” I inquired, as I was hoping to change the subject. I was quite tired of talking about one-eyed goats, or for that matter, goats with any number of optic organs.
“Ah, there’s three of them getting hitched tomorrow. And one of them is a real virgin. But she doesn’t want to be. Not on her wedding night.”
“Well, that would be totally unacceptable. I can see why she wouldn’t want that. I’m sure the groom would be absolutely devastated to find out – after he’d already vowed a lifetime of commitment – that the one woman he has promised to be true to for the rest of his life will spend hers wondering if that’s really considered large or not.”
“Precisely. He’s expecting an experienced and well-trained horse to ride, not wanting to break in a colt.” She eyed me, kind of winking, more of a permanent wink, like a stroke victim or a bad sty, reminding me once again of the one-eyed goat. Then she eyed my friend, opening her left eye this time and closing her right. “Are there two of you, or are you four?”
“Madame,” my friend finally found his voice, “don’t be silly. There are three of us.”
“Oh, that’s perfect,” Sheila replied. “Starling, c’mere Star,” she called out to a younger woman about 10 paces ahead of us in the parade. “Get your arse over here now.”
Starling, incredibly gorgeous, incredibly inebriated, so much so that she didn’t realize her skirt had hooked up on her belt on one side, so that her Old West outfit came to her left ankle but slightly above her right thigh, with a goodly view of the top bit of a pink lace thong hugging her shapely hip.
“Whachu wan, Bee?” Star managed to get out some semblance of English before staggering three steps forward, two back, knocking into a light pole, then leaning forward and emptying her stomach of all its contents. Fortunately, she’d apparently had no food in at least 24 hours, as clearish liquid of vibrant colors is all that splashed on the sidewalk, like a group of children had spilled their snow cones. Only there was no ice in her delivery, of course.
“Oh, Star, are you okay?” Sheila, or Bee as I now knew, was very concerned. “You can’t get sick and pass out. We’ve only got twelve more hours to get you split before your wedding.”
“I’m okay, I’m okay.” She wiped her chin with the hem of her skirt, momentarily exposing both of her thighs and one crotch, including the entire width of the pink lace thong, which had twisted slightly askew. I considered pointing it out to her, or just reaching out to fix it for her, as that would be the gentlemanly thing to do under the circumstances. But then she let go of her skirt and it fell back to her ankle, and I had thus missed my opportunity at chivalry.
With that, the bagpipes stopped playing and the parade marched up a half dozen stairs into a pub that had been reserved for the hens. Tables spread with food. An open bar. Forty women in feathers and whisky. I felt like an Islamic Big Bird who had died a martyr’s death in defense of my faith.
Soon the women were dancing with each other. A pole stood erect near the big semi-circle booth in the corner. It did look a bit like a stripper’s pole but it wasn’t, just a decorative piece of the architectural support structure. But the evening started going downhill quickly when one young, lithe, nubile creature grabbed the pole with one hand, held a martini in the other and a cigarette between her lips, kicked her heels into the air, somehow spinning herself up the pole to about two feet off the floor, where she hooked an ankle around it, let go with her hand, leaned back until her long, thick brunette hair brushed the hardwood dance floor where the disco ball lights flickered and flashed, cigarette still clutched in her luscious lips, martini held aloft in one slender hand.
Everyone cheered her as she pulled herself back onto the pole using only the strength of what must have been some tremendously toned thighs, slid down the pole and took a bow. She returned to her seat with her drink still in her hand, never having spilt a drop.
At that moment, a line of women from age 18 (allegedly) to 63 and a half lined up at the pole, each waiting her turn to do some of the most sexy, erotic moves known to mankind. It seems most of them had never actually tried it before. Very few of them were young, lithe and nubile. None of them were anywhere near a state of sobriety that allowed for muscle coordination or reasonable fear of injury and death.
They lined up, encouraging and cheering each other on.
“Do you know how to kill a roomful of drunk women?” I said to my friend, who was still brushing yellow feathers from his jacket.
“No, how? And why would you want to?”
“Oh, I don’t want to. Of course not. Talk about cooking the goose. Anyway, you walk into any bar in Roppongi, you put up a stripper’s pole, and you electrify it. It would be like watching one of those bug zappers on a summer night in the Mississippi delta. Bzzzt, zap, pfffzzzt. Next. Just moths to the flame. Drunk women cannot resist a pole.”
My friend replied, “I think we should get out of here before someone gets hurt. We’re Americans. The Japanese police will blame us first, and we don’t speak Japanese. Those little metal sticks they carry look like they’d hurt.”
“Oh no,” I said, “those little sticks just put you right out. You don’t feel a thing until the next day, and it’s hard to tell a concussion from a hangover anyways.”
“I’d feel better if we left now,” he said.
“And leave a roomful of highly inebriated hens with varying degrees of sexual demands? Are you crazy?” I paused and looked around again. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”
So we downed our drinks and headed to the door when a 50ish, slightly plump and completely trashed matron landed flat on her back on the dance floor, having fallen from a height of about 5 feet up the pole, which she had scaled like an obese monkey on a palm tree. We turned to see the commotion, all the women rushing towards her, while the next woman in line jumped onto the pole and began swaying her hair to and fro while licking her lips and closing her eyes halfway as she stared across the room at me.
We took the opportunity to grab another beer as we headed out the door. We walked aimlessly a couple blocks down Gaien Higashi Dori, sipping our beers.
“Just think, buddy,” I said, breaking the silence. “Just think what fun we might have had if we’d stayed at that hen party.”
“Yeah, we probably should have stayed. So where to now?”
“Let’s hit McDonalds. I’m starving.”
“Dude. That’s what I’m talking about.”