A while ago, I started this blog with a post regarding bachelor parties. Obviously, quite a lot has happened between then and now, but I haven’t forgotten that I promised a second part in the series. To be honest, I’ve been trying to write this piece for the longest time but I just couldn’t find the words. Maybe it’s because this time the party is mine.
So, without further delay, let me now drive your already low opinion of me deeper into the ground with part two of my bachelor party story.
My own bachelor party happened years after the first, long enough to distill my expectations into two simple rules: I don’t want to pay for anything, and I don’t want to be raped – in public or otherwise.
At this point I know you’re thinking two things. One, that was one long run-on sentence. Two, those are overly simplistic rules. You’re right on both counts. As with many things in life, the devil is in the details. It’s like getting a haircut. You definitely should be specific.
With hair like that, you definitely won’t get raped.
The job of arranging the bachelor party normally goes to the best man. Because I’m such a kind and considerate guy who didn’t want to burden just one person, and totally not because my wife was getting two maids of honor, I had two best men. They have similar sounding names but with very different spellings. One was my cousin, the other was a very good friend from high school.
Armed with those two rules, they set out to organize a bachelor party for me and I thank them dearly for it. They stuck to the rules, mind you, but that whole event actually gave me some headaches.
First, there was the budget. I said I didn’t want to pay for anything, but that doesn’t mean the party was going to be free. I recall hearing from them that it would be better if I invited more people to spread the load.
When I first heard of this concern, I thought “why couldn’t we a bit more socialist about this?”. I mean I know some of the guys I’m inviting were loaded and would be more than willing to drop some cash on it. Well turns out one of those guys wasn’t coming because on principle he avoids the area we were going. But seeing as I didn’t want to pay, or exert any actual effort into planning this party, it wasn’t really my place to say anything.
I initially planned to only invite my cousins and my high school friends. You know, trying to keep the guy – girl ratio down, imagining it would be something similar to my first bachelor party experience. With this situation, I extended the invite to some of my officemates. “Hey guys, want to come to my stag party? I need you to fill the budget. Yey! Don’t you feel special?” Honestly, I didn’t want to do it (sorry guys!). Turns out my instincts were spot-on, but them bills gotta get paid.
The night of the party finally came. I knew absolutely nothing about the details except for the venue. I know my cousins picked up the girls who were to be our companions for the evening along the way, but I didn’t see them because they were in separate cars. It turns out, when they said “the girls were with them”, they really had the literal minimum number required to add an “s” to the world girl.
That’s right. For a party of 11 to 15 guys, there were only two girls. I say 11 to 15 because I can’t remember exactly how many of us were there. I can name 11 guys who were definitely there (including myself), and maybe four more who were possibly there. As you would expect, these women could not possibly split their attention equally between all of us, so naturally they keyed in on two guys in particular.
None of those guys were me. Lol.
The girls were obviously “performers”, with stereotypical fishnet stockings as part of their costumes. Neither of them was really my type. Unfortunately, neither of them pegged me as their type as well. Both of them clung to two of my cousins like glue, which, I gotta admit, made me cry a little inside. I mean, I know I said I didn’t want to be raped, but I didn’t want to be pussy kryptonite either. It would have been nice to be nominated.
Before I go on, I must say it was a great party. I was there with people I loved and cared about. Guys who have been with me through good times and bad, bound by ties stronger than blood, sharing a meal, having a few drinks, playing some games and singing some songs (gotta love that videoke – I wonder where I can find a videoke bar here in Germany?). If we could have left the “bachelor” part at the door, it would have been perfect, but custom dictates what custom dictates.
I got a pity lap dance from one of the girls. I got the feeling that it was supposed to be from both of them, but the other one just watched. Hot damn! I was the grenade in my own bachelor party!
LESSON#1: When it comes to bachelor parties, the more the
I was on a stool surrounded by everyone. Since the guy-girl ratio was so high, all eyes were on me – except for one of my cousins who was sucking face with the other stripper. The lights were turned-off, so I was getting a lap dance by videoke-light. Turns out, birthdays and lap dances have a lot in common.
I like the performing arts. I do. I consistently performed lead roles (mostly villains) in school plays. I’ve been known to carry a scene in my day but the role of “guy getting a lap dance in front of friends and family” wasn’t really in my playbook. A few years later I found out that one of my friends had a talent for this kind of performance, but I wasn’t able to ask him for pointers. So I just sat there, stiff as a post – my body, not my dick.
This strange lady was straddling me, grinding and gyrating like a roly-poly. A roly -poly wearing fishnet stockings. On my lap. Amusing, but not really boner-inducing.
Now I don’t know if this was part of the routine, or if the girl was somehow challenged by the apparent non-appearance of an erection in my penile region, but she just suddenly got some whipped cream, sprayed it on one of my nipples, and licked it. Huh. I know that’s a thing for girls, but for guys, not so much – at least not for me. After a few seconds of follow-up grinding and still no response, she tried the other nipple. Surprise, surprise… still no boner.
By this time I swear I saw a look on her face that I can only describe as a mix of frustration and wonder. Maybe she was frustrated that she couldn’t get me to pitch a tent. Perhaps she was wondering if I was actually gay.
Some people would just leave it at that, end the routine and get on with the rest of the night, but not her. She had to know – her personal and professional pride were on the line. Were her charms slipping, or was I just not into women? Maybe my dick was already erect but was just so small she couldn’t feel it. The time to inspect the source had come. She quickly tried to pull down my shorts. My waistband went far enough to reveal the tip of the bush (the Zohan taught me how to groom) before I was able to stop its descent. That’s where I saw these bold letters flash before my eyes.
LESSON#2: If you plan to invite officemates to your bachelor party, you better have a plan.
You really shouldn’t invite your colleagues to your bachelor party, especially if they report to you. The moment the stripper grabbed my shorts, all I can think of was “Shit, I’ve got officemates here”. Two of them were just to my left, with an unobstructed view, and nothing else to do but watch. Both of them reported to me in some fashion.
Seeing some woman lick whipped cream off my luscious tits was already bad enough. They didn’t need to see my junk! Can you imagine how things would go in the office if it went further? I’d be like “Hey man can you fix this issue, the user’s going nuts” and they’d be like “I’d like to, but your dick is still burned into my retinas”. I’d be their bitch forever. No way I’d ever be able to regain my credibility.
It would be better if the only ones I invited were non-professional friends and family. Still bad, but better. My credibility with those dudes was already low, but I had enough dirt on them, built over years and years of doing stupid things together, to call it quits. It’s love and respect born out of mutually assured destruction. Like the cold war – which proves that the US and Russia were really bros.
Don’t get me wrong, my officemates were also my friends. I wouldn’t have invited them if they weren’t. But for them to catch up with the level of dirt I had on the rest, I would have needed to knock them out, take some naked photos of them shooting up with heroin while getting their dicks sucked by transvestite midgets.
Happy to say crisis was averted that night. No mushroom clouds were spotted, only the outskirts of the forest. To give everyone the feeling of participation, the two girls went around licking whipped cream off of every guy’s nipple. Just one nipple per person – I was the only guy to get two. It was my bachelor party after all. The lights were turned back on and we went back to just playing around.
I stuck to my officemates for the most part. They were outnumbered and had no social circle within the greater group. I didn’t want them to feel left out and uncomfortable. It was in no way because I wanted to make sure they weren’t able to get a sneak peek at my dick. Anyway, we spent the most time on the videoke while my friends and cousins played beer pong, swam in the pool, drank booze, or generally just horsed around.
Imagine my shock then when I heard a knock on the gate from a tricycle driver. Inside his tricycle, what seemed like ten women came out. It was like a clown car, but smaller. And filled with hookers. Turns out, the “loaded” friend in attendance (let’s call him the G-man) got a bit bored with the entertainment and decided to improve the guy-girl ratio of the party. The problem was, these girls weren’t really there to provide company and conversation. They came to fuck.
Possibly the most inappropriate picture I could use.
As this was going on, the G-man was sitting at the corner of the pool. His eyes were closed, not moving a muscle, clutching a big wad of cash in one of his hands that was now half-submerged in water. Dude was flat out drunk! He also forgot to tell any of us about this deal he made with the good tricycle driver. At this point I really thought to myself “Dude you should have just dropped that wad when the party was still being planned!” You could even say that this part of the budget was to be used for the procurement of female companionship and nothing else.
But what’s done is done. Nothing else to do but deal with this group of women and their pimp daddy. At 3am. Shit. I was running scenarios in my mind. What would happen if no one decided to avail of their services? Imagine being in your bachelor party, going around the room, asking each of your mates if they wanted to get a little freaky with some surprise guests while holding a big roll of soggy 500 Peso bills. Imagine going through all of your friends and family and having no takers, that you once again have to go to your officemates.
I was like “Hey guys. So, funny story. My friend over there – the one puking over the side of the pool – decided to get some hookers and didn’t inform anyone. Well, he’s wasted and now they’re here. You guys want to bang a hooker? You don’t need to pay for anything. You’ll just help us avoid any untoward incident involving an angry mob of women and their pimp, who were asked to come here at 3am”. Thankfully…
None of my officemates opted in. At that point I was like “fuck it, this is my bachelor party. I don’t want to worry about this shit. They can shank me in the kidneys if they want. I’ll just go back to singing videoke”.
I went to my high school best man, slapped the wad of cash on his hands, and asked him to take care of it. With an earnest expression he told me “I was wondering why you were bothering with this shit in the first place. I got it dude, don’t worry. Just enjoy.” A few of my cousins and friends joined him and shooed me away. And they dealt with it. Seeing their backs forming a wall between me and the potentially angry mob of hookers almost brought a tear to my eye.
Well, we’re still alive. It turns out a “tip” of 2,000 pesos for the inconvenience was enough for us to avoid getting murdered. I grabbed a couple of hours of sleep when the women left.
In the morning I saw my cousins cleaning up. They were still picking up some random 500 peso bills on the floor that the G-man dropped on his journey from his bag to his corner of the pool. Being the class-acts that they were, they discreetly pocketed said bills. Just kidding. They returned the money of course.
Our two female companions rode with us on the way home. I could still feel one of them trying to figure out if I was gay. Long story short, my cousin best man dropped me off at home, made some jokes with my dad about me needing to ice my elbows and knees, and left. My dad then just told me to make sure I “sanitized”.
Oh dad. If you only knew. Well, now I guess you do.