Self Expression Magazine

Painting the Town.

Posted on the 06 May 2013 by Ellacoquine @ellacoquine
As expected, my pre-wedding laryngitis has turned into a full-on pre-wedding cold and am reporting to you live from my bed. While I'm not exactly jazzed to be sniffling, sneezing and hacking up violent Alien: Resurrection coughs, I'm taking advantage of these last moments of peace -- the calm before the storm so to speak.
As previously mentioned, Aurélien had his bachelor party last week that his friend Matthieu organized for him and their four best friends. It was a top secret mission with plans so air-tight, that despite my best efforts he wouldn't divulge any of the details. What could they possibly be doing? My imagination restricted me to the obvious guesses: Vegas, strip clubs, gambling, boozing. But since we don't live in LA and the fact that they were leaving at 8:30 am, I knew that what he had planned was a little more profound than overpriced drinks and nudie bars.
Their "boys gone wild" adventure was kicked off at a shooting range. Of course it was. Did they shoot animals? Thank God, no. Did they shoot targets? Nope. They drove two hours outside of Paris to shoot little ceramic discs in the air (one that we now have a souvenir of in our living room). Having been a teen in the 90s, the image of plates being shot in the air elicited the four words "dishes are done, man" and a mental note to download this forgotten classic.
Heading back into the city, they made a stop into this abandoned building....   
painting the town.
painting the town. ...passed this Parisian scenic beauty,
painting the town. ...crept through this door that to me screams "do not enter",
painting the town.  ...and painted this. Matthieu was absolutely right when he said that I would never guess what he had planned for their boy's outing.
What happened after was more typical; boozing it up with whiskey-filled flasks at a showing of Iron Man 3, eating hamburgers and drinking beer, hitting up bars at Bastille and swearing that they didn't go to the Penthouse Club on the Champs-Elysées (not that I would care.) I didn't press him for too many details, after all, wasn't it me who was sipping rosé out of a veiny flesh-toned penis straw only a few weeks ago?

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