Everybody Calm Down: Nobody Wants to Have Sex With Your Fiancé Anyway
by Kat K.
As wedding season approaches its peak, many a young lady’s worries turn to the bachelor party, as if every last one is an really just an unprotected gangbang with refreshments and Mardi Gras boob beads. Having myself been to more bachelor parties than any dozen men will attend in a lifetime, I can’t help but snort whenever I read something from a distressed bride-to-be, much less someone who’s already married, fearing what will become of her relationship if her man attends the bachelor party against her wishes. (This is to say nothing of men’s websites that debate the pros and cons of fucking the party stripper as if it’s a viable option.)
I wish I could tell these women that while they’re losing a whole night’s sleep, the strippers are only paid to be at the party for one hour. We like to shave it down to 50 minutes, tops — it’s the amount of time it takes a group of drunk men to get bored with our asses anyway. They will invariably dwindle around the hour mark, disappearing to do keg stands in the yard or mix Cheetos and bean dip in the kitchen.
How do they find us? Do they just round us up like day laborers at Home Depot? Close. The best man has brilliantly Googled some combination of “bachelor party” and “stripper” that has led him to my agency by virtue of SEO advertising. He has perused the pictures on the site, picking out one or two girls who used to work for the company six years ago. The lady who answers the phone will pretend that she’ll totally get the woman from the photo (who’s retired with two kids). She calculates, with adjustments for travel expenses, the cost based on his address (as best she can considering that she’s in Arizona). She runs his credit card for the agency’s cut, then texts us the details.
I say “us” because I prefer to do two-girl parties; they’re easier to navigate and obviously safer. (Besides, we all know rubbing one’s breasts against another lady’s to be the pinnacle of eroticism for every woman.) I was fortunate enough to have, before she got married and moved to Chicago this spring, a wonderful party partner named Roxy. But I’ve been paired with girls where it was… not so much. (One falsely accused me of pocketing $20 while she was in a McDonald’s bathroom between our first and second parties.) Right, so, not to bum anyone out, but the girls probably aren’t going to go home and scissor all night.
The average party goes something like this: We get there, get paid our show-up fee, and are ushered to a bathroom by the best man. We change into our cop costumes and give him the cue to start the music. Inner Circle’s “Bad Boys” starts blaring and the guys cheer like something really epic is about to go down. It’s actually very sweet of them to pretend that they didn’t just see us roll up in our ratty civvies. The bachelor is dragged to a chair in the middle of the living room, with a circle of chairs for the other dudes. We dance on him all sexy-like for a couple songs before we bring out the handcuffs. We strive to remember to take off his shirt before we cuff him. This is something that I’ve still managed to forget on more than one occasion, resulting in the bachelor’s having to sit there looking like Cornholio while we fumble to unlock the cuffs. We don’t bother with the pink furry variety that can be easily dismantled, either. Our badges may say “Department of Erections,” but the cuffs were purchased at a police supply and are suitable for law enforcement personnel.
Once the shirt is off, the Sharpies come out. And no, not in a let-us-demonstrate-our-Kegel-strength kind of way. This isn’t Patpong. We make beautiful art on the canvas that is his pudgy torso. It’s best to stick to classic motifs: an ejaculating penis and hairy balls on his upper arm, eyelashes and eyebrows over the nipples to complement the Sharpie frown below the belly button. We sign our work in big clear letters. If a bachelor has been particularly macho or whiny, he might also end up with “BITCH” across his back.
Roxy and I used to incorporate whipped cream into our repertoire because it’s a clueless male fantasy staple. It’s kind of fun: You can put a big ol’ dairy unibrow and a Jack Sparrow beard on the bachelor’s face. We also lick it off each other’s boobs, which is almost as fun as rubbing them together. I guess I should spell out that there is nudity involved and that we’re not just licking whipped cream off fabric. If I just confirmed your darkest fear, go ahead and serve him the papers. The thing is, whipped cream from a can is actually pretty flavorless and boring by itself. And it goes bad after about 45 minutes, so you’re coated in a sticky, sour film by the time you get home. (If you don’t do laundry right away, the rancid smell will permeate your whole house. I caught my dog trying to eat a soiled schoolgirl outfit last summer.)
After the bachelor has been adequately Sharpied up, we go back to highly sensual dancing. Then we do some “booby shots.” This works great for buxom ladies like Roxy, who’s probably stashing a pint glass in her rack right now just because she can. I, however, have to manually push my boobs together. It’s tricky to keep the shot glass in place, and I’m not that coordinated, so I easily give up and hold the glass against my sternum in between my index finger and thumb. The bachelor has to crane his head back in an unnatural position to take the shots. Somebody else is going to have to look when he changes lanes the following day.
Next, corporal punishment. We violently pull the guy’s belt off, get him to stand with his hands on the back of the chair, pull his pants down, and flog him repeatedly and relentlessly with his own belt. Depending on how good a sport he is, one of us will lead the poor fool around on all fours while the other straddles his back. Or we might just drop it if he’s become visibly agitated.
We’ll reprise various elements for the best man, the virginal little brother, etc., until it’s time for the “Grand Finale.” These are our safe words. When Roxy and I are ready to leave, one of us will turn to the other and say “I think it’s time for the Grand Finale.” We instruct the bachelor to lie on his back on the floor and the others to cover him with money. We sort of crawl over him, doing nothing special. Or, we might stand, legs spread, dripping ice down our bodies, onto his face and into his eyes, blinding him. Again, nothing special, except that it looks like we’re emptying our bladders in the middle of the living room, Exorcist style. He’ll jump up, yelling “What the!” and then realize it’s only ice. Then we clap and say, “Let’s give a big hand to our bachelor!” whose name we have already forgotten.