A girl gets up on stage for a lap dance at a male strip club in New York City

What do you want to do?” asked my friend, bridesmaid and fiance finder. “Mild or spicy?”

If Thai restaurants here in America have taught me something, it’s that mild is, more often than not, hot enough. “Let’s not go crazy.” I intended sense and sensibility to be part of Version 2.0, the new married me, and the bachelorette should be a good place to start.

Two weeks later, I had a rather phallic hairband sitting on my head, martinis in both my hands and a gorgeous man named Nicholas giving me a lap dance in a dark corner of a male strip club in New York City. I took a moment to remember the countless red chilli flakes that have floated on the top of every ‘mild’ Tom Kha Gai I have ever ordered.

So here’s what happens in an all American bachelorette.

Step 1: The maid of honour creates a WhatsApp group with a funky name and assigns an appropriate display picture. Mine was called ‘final fling b4 the ring’. A cutesy collage incorporated lacy bras, a sash and matching feather boa.

Step 2: Conversations begin on the said group. Topics range from restaurants and outfits and some unrelated stuff. The bride’s inputs don’t matter. She’s soon going to be called a bridezilla and be thrown out of the group. #shocked

Step 3: The bride is given a time and place to show up. They are kind enough to ask you what your OOTD (outfit of the day) will be. The others will refrain from wearing the same colour. Just in case the sash, crown and bridal glow are not enough to identify the bride.

Step 4: The hunt for TPD begins. The (impossible to find) Perfect Dress is out there somewhere. Question is: where. Keep looking through millions of stripes, sweaters and sequins till one day suddenly, somewhere TPD appears in the form of, surprise, surprise, an LBD. Long live Ralph Lauren. It’s decision time. Boy shorts or thong. Bracelet stack or shoulder dusters. Sparkly minaudiere or convenient cross-body. High heels or higher heels. Smokey eyes or pop mouth. Or both.

Step 5: The weekend trundles in. Turns out that ‘dinner’ is not actually dinner. It’s the pre-gaming. No one really eats. People drink. The bride drinks a lot. She is then crowned (a sweet tiara or funny phallic or both), given a badge, sash and various other props that have the word ‘bride’. It’s a great photo op for Miss Universe-type pictures. This is also the night where she will receive a lifetime supply of Victoria’s Secret merchandise. Everyone drinks some more.

Step 6: This is where the real bachelorette party begins. HunkOMania. It’s the number one hot spot in New York City for all bride-to-be shenanigans. They do not have a fixed address and pop up in different basements across midtown Manhattan. The maid of honour buys the entry tickets in advance ($45 each) and then the bridal party is ‘escorted’ to their table. Drink coupons bought, the gang of girls settles in.

As you adjust your eyes to the darkness, a ‘hunk’ in jeans and a black cloth hung around his bare shoulders whispers something in your ear and leads you to a corner room. His name is Nicholas. At least that’s what he says. He begins to move his arms in the air, wiggles his body and tries to make conversation with you. He demands to know why you are getting married. He tells you how beautiful you are and that he’s in love with you. He proceeds to dance in your lap, urging you to touch him. He grazes his lips over your arms, the ticklish bride bursts out laughing and can’t stop giggling till the lap dance is over. It’s time for him to make the next $20. He asks if you would like to buy your girlfriends a lap dance. You feign shock. The hunk has clearly moved on to his next ‘love’, but not without preening for the camera.

While the girls buy each other lap dances, out in the main area, the ladies hoot as loud as they can, as the gentlemen get ready to put ‘up’ their ‘show’. Greek God appears on stage. He wears nothing but black underwear and knee pads, a tattoo running down the length of his leg. A woman is called up on stage. I still don’t know if she is a very brave bride or a cast member. Greek God lifts her up in a second, holding her by the hips, and begins mock thrusting.

A second man takes the stage. He’s the poster boy for S&M: spiked leather harness, thigh-baring leather pants, a leather G-string and black mask. His stuff holds up in a leathery feathery cover. Another woman goes up. She’s got HunkOMania dollar bills (you buy them at the club with regular dollars) stuck in her boobs. He gives her a lap dance, then takes out his whip, pulls her close to him. He then strips down till his thong and walks up to the bride seated in the audience and begins wiggling his bare bum in front of her face. The bride doesn’t know what to do. Her seasoned friends point at the HunkOMania money on our table. She takes a note and sticks it inside his thong (front and back), and adds a slight spank for good measure. The second giggle attack sets in.

Things on stage are once again heating up. The men are showing off their antics. Headstands, push-ups, flips, dance routines and mostly striptease acts. As Bon Jovi’s It’s My Life plays, a woman comes up on stage and takes the chair. A hunk dances around her and with her, and by the time Enrique Iglesias’s Hero plays on the list, he is down to nothing but a hat. But the hat is not on his head.

From stealing shy glances in the beginning of the evening to bold stares towards the end, the eyes of a first-timer at a striptease club are definitely fixed on the hunks’ junk because it’s ‘in your face’ but oddly enough, she is more amused than aroused.

The next girl is made to sit on the floor. Mr G-string is back. This time he is standing, facing her, his leather-feather stuff dangling near her face. He bends his knee slightly and pretends to enjoy his pretend fellatio. By then the girl on the floor is LHAO (laughing her a** off). The show goes on. Two hours fly off. The hunks finally line up for a group photo. Brides can get her picture taken for $20. Whatta souvenir!

Step 7: HunkOMania makes you hungry. The after-party involves a quick bite. Any place that tired feet or an Uber can take you. Often it’s a pizza place around the corner. You can hope the grease will absorb some alcohol.

Step 8: Cupcakes + screw-cap wine = the after-after-party in the hotel room. Crown + sash + pyjamas = surprise sartorial win. It’s amazing just how natural wearing a crown feels. #DramaQueen

Step 9: The morning after. Hangovers are so 1999. Relive the night over Bellinis at a chic brunch place. Continue to wear the pink bride badge. They might send over chocolate caramel layers + roasted blackberries on the house. Blow the candle. Make a wish. A wish that last night doesn’t make it to Facebook. As a 200-picture album.

Step 10: Think of ways to crash Mr Fiance’s bachelor’s party.