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Head of the Class

Not to beat a dead horse, but I had two more bachelorette parties this past weekend as part of my international wedding tour (the last wedding of the season takes me to Rome in October). If my estimation is correct, that’s two feathery boas, three tiaras, countless penis-shaped suckers and straws, lots of lacy lingerie, and at least 45 embarrassing situations.

Not the least of which was at the bachelorette party I attended Saturday.

Fellatio can be a funny thing, I’ve learned. Especially when you’re forced to simulate it in unison with a group of girls. Which begs the question: In this day and age, is it proper for a groom-to-be to spring an oral-sex class on a group of unsuspecting women?

For the first of the weekend’s two bachelorette parties, the girls had planned to take a blow-job class together, held at G Boutique and taught by the shop’s owner, Cheryl Sloane. I missed that portion of the party due to a prior engagement-and honestly, I was glad I did, a gut feeling mostly confirmed by the tales I heard later that night when I met up with the ladies at The Underground.

But there was no way to escape bachelorette party no. 2-this one for a friend from high school. Most of the guests had known each other since grade school. After a very chill day on a yacht that nine of us chartered from Burnham Harbor, we retreated to one of the hostess’s houses in Bucktown. Somewhere short of sufficient glasses of wine, Sloane appeared. “Hi, girls,” she greeted us. “I’m Cheryl from G Boutique in Bucktown. I’m here to give you a blow-job class, courtesy of The Fiancé.”

A roomful of stunned suburban housewives and full-time moms looked partly confused-as did The Bride, who was just as surprised as the rest of us-and partly offended, once Sloane explained that she was hired not because the bachelorette needed assistance, but because The Fiancé thought the rest of us could use some pointers. As if. (“I was totally surprised-but pleased it wasn’t a stripper,” The Bride tells me now. “I was a bit nervous about how everyone would react.")

We played along, if only to support our friend. The group assembled in the living room to find a coffee table full of colorful adult paraphernalia-the uses of which were not immediately clear. At each place setting was a sheet of paper with terms on it like “Gummers,” “Laplander,” and “The Skimmer.” (And here I thought I’d seen it all working at Playboy.) We were taught not only what these terms meant but how to perform the acts associated with them-and if that’s not humiliating enough, we were tested once the tutorial was over. “I don’t do very well on quizzes,” one housewife chortled. She wasn’t kidding.

But once the embarrassment-OK, and shock and horror-wore off, most of the girls got into it. The biggest round of schoolgirl giggles came when certain areas of the male erogenous zone were explained, piece by piece. “I’m pretty sure my husband doesn’t even know he has that, much less where it is,” a housewife said in reference to one anatomical component. She called him later to find out, and it turns out he doesn’t. Or didn’t. But I bet he does now.

The class may not have been an unqualified hit with the girls-at first, anyway-but I’m guessing there are more than a few happier husbands out there. As to whether it was an appropriate gesture, well, let’s just say I know what I’d like to get the next guy who gets engaged.

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