Bachelor parties — what really gets men excited about weddings. It has booze, cake, music – but with the additional pair (or pairs) of tits on your face. As a male-dominated society, we love stag parties so much we even made at least three movies about them: The Hangover, The Hangover 2, and the Hangover 3. I only watched the first one, but I’m assuming the other two are still about bachelor parties and I am too lazy to Google the plot summaries.
But has a stag party ever lived up to all the hype? I had a great wedding but I had a damn awkward stag party. Why did things turn out this way?
I think a big difference between weddings and bachelor parties are the people who plan and throw them. When you have a girl getting married, you’re pretty sure she has a hand in that. When a guy gets married, he doesn’t plan his bachelor party himself. No, he’s too busy pretending to contribute to his wedding preparations. Who plans his bachelor party? It normally falls to his best man. So in my case, I didn’t really know what to expect. More on that later, though.
The first bachelor party I went to was for my man-crush (ZOMG sehr heiss!). It was in a small studio apartment. I was greeted by his friend at the door – and by greeted, I mean charged an entrance fee. Right then I swore to myself I would not pay a single centavo for my own party.
My disappointment faded somewhat when I entered. I think there were eight girls there – a respectable number given there were only ten or so guys. By the door, sitting on top of a ice chest was Buchi (not his real name), one of my officemates rolling a joint – which was my first encounter with marijuana, by the way. He was the only one I knew there, aside from the groom, so naturally I sat by him and talked about weed. I asked him for a puff of his freshly-rolled doobie.
Turns out he got there maybe a quarter of an hour before I did, and just missed out on the first round of the moderately slutty party games going on at the dining table. Since he could not join, he was handed a box of weed to pass the time. For free.
Isn’t that great? How many of our world’s problems could be resolved in this way? For example, if you’ve been waiting for a long time to get your driver’s license renewed, and then somebody cuts in front of you, I bet it would be hard to stay mad if somebody gave you free weed. “Here bro, relax and chill”. Then you’d be like “by all means go before me”. Best of all, you’re guaranteed to look happy in your picture.
Another late-comer entered and joined us by the door, one of the groom’s friends whom I shall call doobie-bro. He looked about the room and went straight for the weed. Turns out he knew Buchi from a while back, even took some trips together. Both of them seemed to be weed aficionados, no better company for my first weed experience.
“Wow,” I thought. Epic bachelor parties are actually real. I should have left right there and then. I should have driven myself home, and imagined the rest of with one hand on the wheel, and the other switching between my dick and the gear stick #idrivemanual. But no, I had to get my money’s worth.
After maybe two whole joints and feeling nothing, I asked them what to expect. How will I know if I was getting high? I was told I would laugh at everything, get really hungry, and be so horny. Nope, didn’t get any of that. I just got a bit cotton-mouthed, which was a neutral experience at best. I got up to join the parlor game, thought it would be fun. The game goes like this: Boys and girls are randomly paired up each round. Each pair throws two dice, one with a verb like kiss, lick, and touch, and the other with a body part like left boob, right boob, and lips. I subbed-in just in time to see my joint-rolling officemate lick peanut butter off a girl’s boob, and thought “Hmmm, this might be more interesting than smoking weed” #donttellmygirlfriendwhoisnowmywife #damnthiswillbeontheinternetsoiwillget #busted.
I played two rounds. First round dice rolls: Die 1 – Touch, Die 2 – Elbow. What!? Second round: Die 1 – Bite, Die 2 – Shoulder. Dammit! I surreptitiously checked Dice 2 to see what the fucking body parts were. Left Boob, Right Boob, Lips, Pussy, Elbow, Shoulder. I had two rolls and got the two duds! The statistical equivalent of rolling two dice… and then getting bird doodoo in the face. At the time I was really bummed, but now at least I’m #notbusted after all #cheatcode #gamer. Anyway, whenever I feel disappointed by this, I just have to think to myself “at least I didn’t have to bite some chick’s pussy”. Not the worst rolls in the world.
Before the next round could begin, the emcee dude called for attention – yeah there was an emcee dude, he worked with the girls. “It’s time for the main event,” he said. He asked us to move our chairs from the dining table and line them around the bed beside it. Then he turned off the lights, brought out a little rotating disco ball thing and some portable speakers. Two women in robes – the two women who never joined the dice game – then went to the bed and started hooking up. It was full girl-on-girl action!
Now let me tell you, I’ve done my share of fantasizing about lesbian sex. Never in those fantasies, though, not once, did I imagine witnessing this beautiful scene with a bunch of other dudes right beside me. It was awkward boners all around. You could almost see the aura of men intently forcing their dicks to go limp through sheer force of will. On the awkward scale of one to ten, where one is you’re all alone at home in a sound proof room with your lube and tissues and your favorite porn blasting full volume, and ten being in that same room while your parents provide commentary on your masturbation technique, it was a solid 8.5. I had to keep my eyes glued to one small spot and ignore my peripheral vision. I didn’t want to see dicks rising out of anyone else’s pants, or heaven forbid, accidentally make eye contact with another dude.
The routine lasted for quite a long time. Long enough for me to not know what to do with my hands. You can’t place them on your lap because you’d look like you were hiding a boner, or maybe even stroking your penis. And you can’t masturbate – that’s just rude. You can’t stretch your arms because you might hit someone, and physical contact with another dude in this situation can lead to… misunderstandings. So you’re left with only one choice: to cross your arms and hug your chest, which is what I did for what seemed like an uncomfortable eternity.
At this point, I’d like to ask everyone planning a bachelor party to please let the attendees know what to expect, and prepare for what’s going to happen. Here’s a suggestion:
- Inform the attendees that a live show will be had
- Ask them to form a consensus – will masturbation be allowed during the show?
- If masturbation is allowed, should everyone be compelled to do it? Or will it be optional?
- If it is optional, will the dudes be allowed to look around? I guess even if it is mandatory, will the dudes masturbating be allowed to look around? If yes, why?
- Maybe provide paraphernalia like horse blinders to limit peripheral vision and avoid accidental Anthurium sightings.
At last the girls were done, the music stopped and the lights turned back on. I was about to get up and leave when doobie-bro jokingly blurted out “my turn!”. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. The ladies called him on his bluff! Two girls from the dice games came and picked him up from his seat and threw him on the bed, and one of the girls who just “performed” jumped on him and sat on his chest while the other quickly pulled down his pants. It’s a good thing that someone was quick enough to flick the light switch in time before I saw any, shall we say, pubic undertones.
Still, this was not what I was hoping for. Teaching me about the merits of marijuana is one thing, but witnessing his live porn debut is not something I would care to do in my free time. There are so many other more productive things I can do, like sew my eyes shut or staple my dick to my thighs. I had to look away, as did quite a few other guys. Shit! The truce was broken! We had to find new visual real-estate. We played eye contact pong for a while: every time your eyes met with someone else’s, you had to immediately look elsewhere, but you’re so packed together that you immediately made eye contact with someone else and do it all over again.
The girl who sat on him tried to have sex with him. I say tried, because allegedly, he couldn’t get past half-mast into the full erection stage. Supposedly, they got a condom on him but he could not maintain enough rigidity to overcome the vaginal muscular tension which was the only thing blocking his way. After some minutes of valiant yet completely off-putting effort, the groom himself pulled the girl away from his friend and declared the session complete.
There should be some sort of Miranda warning for stag parties, to avoid these situations. Here’s a rough draft:
“You have the right to join this party. Anything you say can and will be done to you by the professionals. You have the right to use prophylactics (in fact it is mandatory). If you cannot afford a prophylactic at the moment, one will be provided to you at credit, but at a large mark-up. Should you not get a job because of your interviewer’s memory of the events of this night, it is your own damn fault.”
If you think that last stipulation is very specific, it’s because a year or two later, I got to interview doobie-bro when he was applying for a job at our company. I didn’t remember him during the interview, #honest, so his “performance” was in no way shape or form related to whether he got hired or not. Regardless, it would have been great to have something that explicitly covers my ass.
After this experience, I had to ask myself: what’s the point of all that? It seems I would like to enjoy my bachelor party like I enjoy my porn – dirty, anonymous, and alone in a sound-proof room with lube and tissues. But I could watch porn any time, yet I could only go to a bachelor party when someone gets married. Was I enjoying it incorrectly? Where was the camaraderie, the sense of adventure, and the feeling of achievement? There has to be more to it than that.
Maybe if we dial down the overt sexuality involved, make more activities and games, and get everyone more involved, things would be better. I got my wish, after a fashion, for my own bachelor party. Was it better? Nope. More on that later.