They came alone. They came in pairs. They came in small groups. And they came by the carload. College students. Local celebrities. Artists. Professional athletes. Businessmen, a few of them shady. Suited up and dressed down.
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Despite the name, proof of bachelorhood wasn’t required. I noticed one guy with a tan line around the fourth finger on his left hand. Wedding band gone, he was ready to kick it. I felt as though I had slipped into the boys’ locker room, where towel snapping and seedy tales of conquest and fantasy were ritual. The men laughed among themselves and, aware of my presence, talked low about the show they hoped to see.
“I want to see plen-tee of ass!” one guy said to his neighbor. He took a long swig of beer and slapped his partner on the back. “Plen-tee of ass!” he repeated.
“Check out the ass on that one!” a guy in a suit exclaimed.
“Damn, baby, why you got to be married?” another yelled at the comedian in the slinky, high-cut skirt and sculpted top.
They crammed in every corner, perched on every chair, and flooded the aisles to get a glimpse of some action. Usually when guys bond, the talk eventually turns to work, sports, or cars. But not with these brothers. Instead of “Man, did you hear that new Ice Cube cut?” it was “I just want to bite those ankles.” Not “How much did you lose on that Bulls/Knicks game?” but “I bet she could blow the roof off a house.” And in place of “I’m up for a promotion in the legal department” it was “If I could only be the soap and towel she uses in the morning.”
“Is that humanly possible?” I asked the man next to me, who also had his head tilted sideways.
