The dance floor is, of course, hard wood – and not one, but two DJ’s are set up on a makeshift stage, their up-tempo music already has the crowd dancing.
A total of four fully stocked bars flank each corner of the tent.
No one is leaving here sober.
Not on purpose, anyway.
Nervously, I run my hand down the smooth corset of my costume, careful not to snag the delicate satin fabric.
For weeks I asked myself: what does someone as modest as me wear to a Halloween party? Actually. Let me be more specific: what does someone as modest as me wear to a Halloween party when they’re trying to impress a guy… but not wanting to look like they’re trying too hard?
Or like a hooker.
Because if I had let my friends have input, I would be one of the following for Amber’s party:
Slutty Goalie. Slutty Hockey Player
Naughty Nurse or a Naughty Accountant
Trampy Waitress. Trampy Barista
Slutty, Naughty, Trampy (insert word here)
Are you sensing a pattern?
Trust me. I searched high and low for a costume – tried coming up with one of my own creation without the help of my Halloween hooker-wannabe friends. You know – the friends that are determined to truss me up like a thanksgiving turkey and parade me around in front of Matthew like a lamb to slaughter.
I mean… what is it about this particular holiday that turns perfectly respectable (and smart) girls into pseudo sleaze balls?
I sooo did not want my boobs hanging out all night.
But.
When in Rome…
Matthew
My friends and I stand at the entrance of the black reception tent, gawking at the sight before us. At least one hundred and fifty people in costume are mingling around, drinks in hand, many of them swaying or dancing in place to the music pumping from the speakers placed strategically throughout the canopy.
“Holy. Shit.” Neve says beside me, bumping our friend Kevin in the ribs and pointing to some chick dressed like a Black Widow spider with her tits spilling out of her top – although I know he’s not just in awe of the woman in her costume, but from the sight before us.
It’s definitely sensory overload.
“Dude. There are so many fucking people here – How were you planning on finding McGrath and your sister?”
I hold up my cell and wave it in the air. “Molly texted me, dipshit. Says they’re standing by one of the bars.” I hold the phone at eye level and read the screen out loud. “Walk in tent, turn left. Bar on the far side by wall.”
“How come we nevah been to this pahty before?” Our friend Bernie, who’s dressed like a gynecologist, asks from behind me. “It’s wicked awesome.”
Bernie is from Boston and says shit like wicked and awesome and bubbla (instead of drinking fountain).
“Because this is a friend of Molly’s roommate.”
“Right, right… The chick you’ve got a hahd on for.”
“Shut up Bernard and put your goddamn mask back on.”
“Whoops, sorry. I forgot.”
Together there are five of us – friends of mine both from college or the coaching staff with the Badgers - all of whom are dressed like some kind of surgeon or doctor (mostly because they’re idiots). Bernie for example, as I mentioned, is dressed like a gynecologist; Neve, a fertility specialist. Then there’s Kevin, wearing scrubs and a hanging sign around his neck advertising free mammograms.
And Erik, whose name tag proclaims him Dr. Long Dong, M.D.
As we walk through the throng of people – zombies, fairies, villains, virgins - and every costume of every possible variety: slutty, gory, demonic and sweet. Some faux Hooters waitresses stand in a cluster near the dance floor not far from us, twerking and flirting with a collection of football players – while nearby, some dude dressed like Dog the Bounty Hunter does body shots off the stomach of a chick decked out in an I Dream of Genie costume.
Wading through the crowd is not fun, but relatively easy enough – there are a lot of people - but it’s not packed like it would be if we’d gone downtown to State Street to the bars. Maybe a hundred fifty or so guests in this giant tent (which looks awesome, by the way)… and thank god, too, because if we were at the bars, I’d be smashing and jostling into people every two feet – or worse, getting drinks spilled on me.
In a way, this party feels like I imagine a Halloween Party at the Playboy Mansion would; part classy, part skanky.
In other words: the perfect combination.
One Less Problem, by Ariana Grande, comes blasting through the speakers above, and as we shoulder our way through the crowd, the low saxophone backbeat of the music, and whispery ‘I got one less, one less prob-lem’ chorus suddenly has random girls dancing up on us, grinding their asses on my leg like dogs in heat.