Wednesday, June 18, 2008

In My Room

One bachelor trip to Las Vegas was far and away the worst of the bunch. It was for a work friend, so right off the bat, I was only going to know four of the guys in attendance. After the trip, it would stay that way. All of these guys were just...weird. Extra sensitive and extra in touch with their feelings and not afraid to tell one of their male friends that they loved them. And in not in "We're in Las Vegas man and we're so drunk right now man and I love you man" sense, but in the "You really enrich my life, man" sense.

When the email went out for this highly-organized weekend went out, one thing I noticed was a scheduled roast of the groom. I thought this could be pretty fun and the groom-to-be definitely lent himself to some roast-style humor, so I worked up some material before the trip and during the drive.

Of course, by the time I arrived with the two guys I was driving up with, we had missed the roast. I guess it was an afternoon roast. A thoughtful and sober affair. Well, I had worked on this material and I liked it and I wasn't going to let it go to waste. So in the suite while everybody was hanging around consuming brewed beverages, I pulled the bachelor into the kitchenette and did my routine for him and a handful of assorted stand arounders. If I can shed my legendary modesty for a moment, the routine killed. The bachelor loved it and the people standing around loved it. But one man did not love it. The bachelor's brother, who stared icy daggers at me for the entire two minutes. Apparently, he did not appreciate his brother being insulted so wantonly. I found out later that most of afternoon roast material was more along the lines of, "Man, you sure are short! Ha ha ha! But seriously, I love you, man." Mine was a bit more cutting.

After that and after dinner, it was time for some stripping. But unlike the other bachelor parties I've attended, this one was going to have room service. They had hired two girls to come up to the suite. With about fifteen men milling around a hotel living room in buzzy anticipation, the girls arrived. And I'll just say right up front that there's a reason strip clubs are so dark. The bright lights of the room were not doing these girls any favors. Their faces were haggard and you could see every dimple, bruise and cigarette burn on their thighs. One girl laid out a blanket, another put on some music and we were unfortunately underway.

As the first girl performed, occasionally a guy would lean forward and scatter a few bills around her on the floor. The money soon began to pile up, so the lass stopped her routine to collect the cash. It broke the mood somewhat and did a great job of enforcing the point that this was a simple mercernary task and this girl had no interest in our wants and needs as human beings. Nor we in hers.

Sometimes the wing girl would collect the cash for the dancing girl, but mainly the process repeated itself. Dance, stop, scoop. Dance, stop, scoop. The only way it could've been more awkward is if the tips eventually dried up, and they did. And the only way that could've been more awkward is if somebody started getting on our case about keeping the tips flowing. The bachelor's brother, the one who hated my roast so and was clearly in charge of this affair, exhorted, "Come on, guys. we gotta tip these girls or they'll leave." I did not see the downside.

After the intial routine, the girls began offering individual lap dances. One of the party patrons got one and it didn't seem the most erotic moment in the history of human sexuality, so the demand for lap dances dried up. Until..."Come on, guys. we gotta get some dances or the girls will leave." Now, I wouldn't want to see these particular girls in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, much less have them rub their naked stomachs on my shoulders in front of fifteen guys in a room bright enough for surgery.

After the riff raff was attended to, it time for the main event. The bachelor. Who, it should be noted, was quite intoxicated by this time. The girls laid him down on the floor and, with minimal resistance, quickly had him stripped down to his boxers and black socks. Big pale belly, freckles everywhere, gleeful, drunken smile, it was quite a sight to absorb. And it was only the appetizer for what would be one of the most amazing things I've ever seen in my life.

Although much of the bachelor's brain had been muted by beer, the part of the forebrain that sends naked lady signals to the groin was still on high alert. Within a few moments of the dance, the bachelor's penis emerged from his boxers like a moray eel coming out of its cave. It struggled out as if it was a living creature that needed oxygen to survive. It may have unbuttoned the bachelor's boxers by itself. As if this wasn't enough, his penis was red like a dog's. It was wrinkled and dented like a dehydrated frankfurter that's been on a convenience store roller for two weeks. It was remarkable and it was hideous and it had fought its way free of the containment that keeps society functional.

I have never laughed so hard in my life. Tears were streaming down my face, my voice was becoming hoarse and my stomach was cramping up. I had to get off the couch and put a knee on the floor to catch my breath. Assumedly, the bachelor's brother did not like this, either. It was, at once, the best and worst bachelor party I had ever attended.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Hasn't anyone ever told you don't judge a book by its cover? Well, don't judge a penis, by its, uh... cover.