There is something about a hen do that necessitates the abandonment of good taste and the introduction of penises. Plastic penises, pen-and-ink penises; even diminutive penises attached to strippers. ALL ARE WELCOME.
What is with this? I’m not complaining at all; anyone who’s read my books will know that I’m fond of a good bum joke or knob gag. But why? Why only on a hen? What happens in our brain chemistry when one of our number is soon to get married?
This weekend I was at the hen of a dear friend who has the best taste in everything. In clothes, in interiors, in cocktail bars, in – did you not hear me? EVERYTHING. Every time I see her I take a mental inventory of what she is wearing so I can go and replicate it. Every time I go to her house I whip out my camera and start taking pictures of her possessions, ready to commence fruitless internet searches for the very same. She is beautiful and lovely and feminine and tasteful and yummy. And yet, even though there were no sashes or veils or games of pin the cock on the bumhole (hang on. That’s not quite right, is it…?) planned for her hen weekend, there was still a very large supply of plastic penises through which we could drink our cocktails. (I had a lovely cup of mint tea through mine.) We photographed them, we used them as microphones, we studied their balls and we even stowed them in a handbag (my handbag) so that we would not have to be parted from them when we went out for the evening.
I love this about women. If we’re honest, we mostly struggle to love penises, because they are not wildly attractive and they tend to want to have sex with us all of the time. And yet, call us hens and – KERPOW! We can’t live without them! We sneak them into expensive venues in our handbags! We scream at them, we drink cocktails through them, we take endless pictures of them!
It is a strange thing. A good thing. And one of the many things I love about women.