For the most part, I hate bachelor parties. They tend to bring out the worst in the men in attendance, and often the questionable antics involve drunken obnoxiousness and repulsive behavior toward the female “entertainment,” a frequently disturbing scenario that sets off all of my danger signals, filling me with urge to leave as soon as possible. But every once in a while I attend one of these events and have not only a great time, but also come out of it with an amusing adventure story or two.
What follows is one of those tales. The names of the participants are not mentioned in order to protect anyone who might get into trouble, but the bachelor shindig in question saw the groom and all the guys on their best — albeit wasted — behavior, so this is really all about my crazy night.
About ten years ago a fellow Marvel Bullpenner (who’s really more like my big brother) finally had the good sense to pop the question to his longtime — and formerly underage — girlfriend, and she’s so fucking cool, if he hadn’t asked her I would have done so myself. Truly this would be a mating of eagles (or maybe some sort of tequilaed-out carrion birds), and everyone was happy for the blissful goofballs. Then came the announcement of the inevitable bachelor party, and while several of the other such celebrations that I had previously attended filled me with instant trepidation, this sleazy soiree promised all manner of boozed-up, stoned-out, bad behavior madness of an X-rated yet wholesome nature, and I was intrigued to see what the hell would occur.
On the eve of the event I made my way to the semi-rural area of New Jersey where my buddy and his fiancée resided — a town they jokingly nicknamed “Squirrelville” — and joined the other degenerates who were along for the ride. Assembled from the groom’s old friends, colleagues and the general dregs of society, the group was a modern day Jason and the Argonauts of the vile, and we were ready to set sail into the vast, depraved unknown in search of the Shaved Golden Fleece.
NOTE: we were all basically a bunch of very nice people, but for the purposes of proper bachelor party attitude we had to put ourselves into a heroically piratical state of mind, y’see.
An hour or so of preliminary beer drinking and inhaling of illegal smokeables ensued, and soon enough, our designated driver was hurtling us down the highway in a crappy rental van while the kickass surfin’ sounds of Man…Or Astro-Man exploded from the speakers. However, before we hit the mysterious venue for debauchery we decided it would be a good idea to fortify our already somewhat inebriated selves with some food, so we kept on the lookout for the first available fast food craphole.
The van pulled into a particularly scurvy-looking Burger King establishment, and our four-wheeled pirate buggy unleashed Captain Redneck and his crew upon an unsuspecting, middle-of-nowhere Jersey populace. The first thing I noticed when I set foot on the tarmac was that there were no Blacks, Hispanics or Asians in sight, and when I went into the King there were no people of color behind the counter either, something I have only seen in my hometown, maybe twenty years ago. Be that as it may, I ordered a bacon double-cheeseburger, scarfed it down and went outside to wait for the rest of the pirates.
While I stood there in my black leather coat, black jeans and biker boots, a station wagon pulled up to the driveup intercom and a father began to rattle off his brood’s order. As this was going on, a couple of the party pirates came outside and were just as amused as I was by the family in the car staring at me like I had just stepped off of the mothership, the children craning their heads out of the windows to get a look at the strange man. Unable to resist, I smiled and walked up to the station wagon, the passengers’ eyes widening as I drew nearer, and when I reached the car I paused for effect and then politely said, “Hi! I’m a Negro!” The horrified father raised the electric windows, nearly decapitating two of the kids, and drove forward to the pickup window. I laughed my ass off, and the two pirates who witnessed the non-exchange nearly pissed themselves while howling like hyenas. We then resumed our magical journey into mystery, following the siren song of idiotic male bonding.
We drove for over an hour, and eventually our destination was revealed. We were not going to just any old strip joint, no siree; we were making a beeline to Allentown, Pennsylvania’s premiere NUDIE bar, one of those places where they don’t serve booze but you can bring your own. Upon hearing that bit of information, I finally sussed out what the monstrous cooler in the rear of the van was for. Seriously, the thing was the size of a fucking sarcophagus and it was nice to know that it wouldn’t be used to bring the groom’s corpse back to his lady.
But a nudie bar? I had never been to one, and if you could bring your own libations of choice, what was to stop an enterprising pervert from downing a gallon of Jaegermeister and molesting the terpsichorean artistes with his scabrous, jizz-beslimed paws?
When we finally arrived, the hoard of boozing buccaneers hauled the sarcophagus into the raucous flesh palace and staked out some space for hardcore partying, our motley visages filling the place with unease. Among our crew were a couple of authentic rednecks, a Cajun, assorted NY/NJ detritus, a half-Mohawk Injun with long black hair and fangs (for real), and yours truly, all visibly stoked and stoned, so look out, nekkid chicks!
The air resounded with the usual bump ‘n’ grind classics — “Hot Blooded,” “Rag Doll,” “My Best Friend’s Girl,” and the inevitable “mustang Sally” — and the place was littered with working class drinkers, each suckling on a low rent beer and blearily ogling the talent that paraded around atop the huge, horse shoe-shaped bar. How the girls maneuvered around the minefield of ashtrays, stubbed out cigar butts, spilt beer and the bottles and cans that it drooled from I will never know, especially considering the suicidally elevated, to say nothing of painfully tasteless, stiletto heels worn by each of them.
The totally nude women on the bar appeared to be between the ages of nineteen and twenty-six, most equipped with boob jobs of dubious quality, and several of them were obviously wasted on either Bolivian marching powder or hefty doses of heroin, rendering them unsteady on their feet and utterly incapable of anything even resembling dance. But let’s face it, none of the jamokes in the whole place gave a flying fuck about whether the girls could actually move to the beat or not, just as long as they got to see some titties-a-shakin’, and all the shorn snatchola they’d ever dreamed of.
As we whooped it up, I scanned the patrons and noted that most of them were grotesque, aging rummies who jabbered endlessly, occasionally blurting out, “Shake it, honey! Show me some pink!,” which the girls were all too willing to do; at various lulls in the action, any one of the women would suddenly lay down flat on her back and splay her legs as wide as possible, causing her intimate bits to open just enough to flash a hint of the moist haven within, sometimes punctuated with a swiftly searching digit. What really got to me about this were the unhidden looks of absolute boredom as they did it, their own equipment no longer a fount of ancient power, wisdom and nurture as worshipped and respected in pre-patriarchal times, but now crassly venerated by a bunch of toothless, halitosis-ridden creeps.
But the crowning moment of gynecological desecration had to be when one of the dancers spread out, roughly tugged at her nether lips to render herself a bit more “accessible,” and then framed her now gaping orifice with her hands arranged so that her rigid forefingers and thumbs formed a “goal,” through which the drunks would toss dollar bills folded into paper footballs. If one of the projectiles penetrated her, or if she managed to grab one with her well-practised snapper, the thrower would win a free lap dance. At least it was a step up from the competitions at a biker party I once went to during my early college years, one of which featured a bunch of biker chicks proving their mettle by picking up full beer bottles without using their hands or mouths.
As the evening wore on and I got further into the bag, my meal at Burger King began to make its presence known and I soon flew to the restroom, guts-a-churning. I kicked open the door and looked into one of the foulest men’s rooms this side of Manhattan’s infamous Port Authority in the 1970’s during a heatwave; the place had apparently not been cleaned since 1957, and to my horror, the stall had no door, thereby eliminating any chance the patrons may have had for a quick one off the wrist or whatever sordid sex act they could have cajoled from one of the hopped-up honeys who strode the bar. Even the urinal was a nightmare, being one of those wall-to-wall pee troughs that was half-filled with ice, most of which had been melted away into a state resembling a gigantic piss sno-cone.
Throwing all caution to the wind thanks to the urgency of my need — seriously, it was about to touch cloth — I hastily dropped trou and seated myself above the bowl, ready to drop the kiddies off at the pool, when suddenly the door burst open and in staggered the love child of the Crypt Keeper and Poopdeck Pappy, a decrepit apparition who was clearly out of his mind on the gods know what.
The turd torpedo had begun to leave the launch bay, and the old man wobbled over to where I sat, totally oblivious to the fact that I was there, and began undoing his fly so he could relieve himself. As I screamed and cursed, kicking at him with my pants around my ankles and a log trailing from my ass like a goddamned angel fish, the old coot’s gnarled pecker bobbed out of his zipper, already leaking urine from his uncontrolled bladder, at which instant my boot grazed him in the nutsack, finally focusing his attention.
“Uuueerh???,” he said, and I screamed, “For fuck’s sake, the urinal’s THAT way!!!” His head whipped round on his turkey-like neck, caught sight of the pisser, and he flopped about to align himself with the trough, tripping and nearly doing a header onto the reeking pissberg below. Like a newborn giraffe struggling to stand, the Gabby Hayes clone fought to maintain his balance, anointing the floor, walls, and finally the trough with his waste-water, and as I finished what I had to do I gave silent thanks that I was no longer within his target range.
Feeling ten pounds lighter and greatly relieved, I rejoined the festivities, but was beginning to get bored. There’s only so much non-dancing that I can take in go-go joints, and since I’m not really interested in the women at such places I tend to grow weary very quickly, but since I had to stuck it out until the bitter end in order to get back I steeled myself with yet another beer. As I tilted back the Bud longneck, the dancer I had been watching (she was the only one who really could dance) left the bar top, toweled off, and sat down on the bar stool next to me. This cute, athletic blonde turned to me and said, Hi!,” and I returned her greeting as she began massaging her bare feet, each movement of her hands eliciting a chime from the tiny bells that circled her ankles.
She was totally naked and slightly oiled up, possessing a build like that of a volleyball player, and she reminded me of one of those dancing girls so lovingly described by Robert E, Howard in his Conan pulp stories. She was lovely, with a face that shone with cleverness, and here she was, not self-conscious in the least, and she quickly struck up conversation.
She said her name was Arizona — yeah, right — and after I introduced myself she turned her gaze to the dancer who had replaced her on the runway. The replacement was a glaze-eyed brunette in a way-too-small parochial schoolgirl’s uniform, plaid skirt and all that, and as she lurched along to the rhythm Arizona looked at the wasteoid and said, “Can you believe her? She just got here two minutes ago and she’s already fucked up… Hey! Hey, junkie! Yeah, I’m talking to YOU! You can’t dance! Yeah, you heard me…” And so, for the next hour or so Arizona mercilessly heckled her zonked and graceless colleagues while regaling me with the story of how she was nudie dancing to work her way through school. She steered clear of drugs and booze, and took decent care of herself, and said that she got a kick out of participating in a world that would give her mother a heart attack.
The funny thing about this was that after about five minutes of talking with her I forgot that she was as bare as a bagfrog, and just settled into having fun with a new acquaintance. Due to the obvious fun we were having, some of the pirates thought I might be getting somewhere, but that hadn’t even entered my mind; I was simply thankful that she was there to chat with and help me kill time until the four-wheeled galleon set sail again.
Departure time rolled around at roughly 2AM, and as we prepared to leave, Arizona hauled me over to the house photographer and had him take a photo of the two of us together as a souvenir.
After the snap was taken she bid me farewell, blew me a kiss and disappeared behind a curtain.
And so ended the most fun “naughty” bachelor party I ever attended. Don’t worry, Matt M., your bachelor hoo-ha on that rented boat still counts as the most fun “nice” one I’ve experienced.