Tuesday, April 11, 2006

By Popular Request

A couple of posts ago I mentioned a story I had that revolved around a stag party and a stripper. I also mentioned that I wasn't writing it down because after I had written it, it just wasn't that interesting. And then a few of you perverts let it be known that you were tremendously disappointed about that.

So here it is. It started as another way for me to pick on Duke, as a result of the snafu involving the men's lacrosse team and sexual assault charges against them by a stripper they'd hired for a house party. While I rarely pass on the opportunity to pick on Duke, (as an attorney, I can truthfully say that you don't know what an asshole is until you've dealt with a Duke Law alum. Holy Christ what a sniveling pack of shitheads they are!) But the way that story is going I'd rather just leave that out entirely. What an ugly mess.

What we're left with is, at this point, my friend Rob's stag party. And you'd better believe that's not his real name.

More years ago than I care to remember, Rob got married to his long-suffering and demure girlfriend. Although when she got loaded she would do things like stuff dollar bills down my jeans, but Rob doesn't need to know that. Except that I think he was there. At any rate, these two had been together since college, and I think that meant about six years and finally Rob's soon-to-be-betrothed must have laid down one hell of an ultimatum because Rob was getting married.

As an aside, I will point out that the exchange of vows from the bride was, bar none, the loudest I have ever heard. More than one person remarked on the obvious note of triumph in her voice.

The wedding ceremony was lovely. The stag party, eh, not so much. Actually, it was a fucking horror show. There are some people who should not be put in charge of these things, and at least two of them had major input in this case.

Let me say before we go much further that I am no prude. I love strippers. I like to drink. I like to drink with strippers. I went to the nudie bars at my stag and was tongue-kissed by a lovely young thing who then stole all the money my friends had piled in front of me.

But there are limits.

Rob' stag was held outside. Behind some bushes behind some kind of social club. Right there, that isn't a good sign. If your stag party is held in hiding, laws are obviously going to be broken. Th entertainment for the evening showed up with two gentleman who were probably violtaing parole just by being out after dark. And not the sort of parole one gets for failing to appear for traffic court either. At least one had a gun.

And then there was the girl. I'm sure that she was just wroking as an exotic dancer to pay her way through dental school, or to pay the bills for her little sister's kidney operation, but she certainly enthusiastic about it. I mean, she'd already been paid up front; blowing the best man in front of everyone seemed a little extreme.

He had performance anxiety by the way.

As to her physical attributes, there are men I'd take a run at before this one. She had breasts, but only in the sense that there were nipples on the front of her body, and they seemed a little swollen, perhaps by the assotment of piercings in the area. Generally speaking, nipple piercings don't do it for me, but I'm a live and let live kind of guy. Three on a side, however, and I'm going to call you a freak. Although if you show up with two guys who look like they would eat my major organs for fun, the odds are I'm going to do so quietly, becuase I am, in addition to all of my stunning attributes, a major-league pussy.

Those were not her only piercings. And let's not go down that road again OK? Suffice it to say, I am not aware of an orifice she did not have pierced at least once. LEAVE IT THERE. Syd, I'm looking at you. Just don't even ask that question.

Her face could and I think temporarily did stop time. She danced in the sense that a kid with cerebal palsy lurching across the road dances. That kid, however, is doing the best he or she can. This girl was there for the sex and money not the dancing. Yep, Rob's friends hadn't hired a stripper, they had hired a hooker. Top notch guys, top notch.

When the groom's father left, there was an auction. The "winner" got to go somewhere with the hooker. I honestly think it was a storage shed of some kind. Most of us were, at that point, looking to find the quickest way to politely leave without getting shot in the ass. We were more than willing to give our tickets away to any takers.

Which brings us to John. John did not hire this girl. That's the best thing I can say about him. He remains the biggest pig I have ever met in my 36 years on this planet. He had no respect for women, no respect for men, no respect for himself. His sense of personal hygiene was roughly the same as that of your average dung beetle. He had things in his porn collection that I don't think are legal in Thailand. He drank to an extent that would make Oscar Wilde say "Dude, (actually, Oscar would never say Dude, but he would appeciate artistic license so just keep your clever little witticisms to yourself), you're a fucking lush." And his family was incredibly rich, so he had limitless resources to pursue his descent into hell.

Guess who won the raffle?

Guees who bragged about winning the raffle and what he'd done with the girl?

Guess who wasn't the least bit fazed when it was pointed out that he was braggin about screwing a hooker?

That's right, me!

Just kidding, it was John. Yep, he won, he got to go in the shed, and he got to have sex with a hooker. She would go on to do at least two other guys at the party, one of whom lost his shirt in the process. He spent the rest of the time I was there walking around with his big, hairy belly sticking out and telling anyone who would listen that the girl asked to keep his shirt.

At this point I was with two friends and the three of us were looking to leave. We could not find Rob. We could not see the girl. Again, I'm not a prude, but I do think that if you're fucking a hooker a week before your wedding, your friends have a moral obligation to kick your ass. So we looked for Rob.

I can honestly say that I have never before been that happy to find a friend passed out in in a sandbox surrounded with a pool of his own vomit as I was that night. Which reminds me, the food that night was really good.

So that's the story I was thinking of when I was first reading the Duke lacrosse story. I guess I was surprsed that a girl working in that field would go to such a party without bringing the firepower that this girl did. But the connection seemed to me then to be as tenusous now as it did then, so we're left with a meandering tale of the worst stag I ever went to. It was long, it was pointless, it really has no bearing on anything in my current life, (and Rob's still married), but hopefully it was somewhat entertaining.


Blogger eclectic said...

Ummm, wow. The stags I've attended (and yes, I've attended more than one) were nothing like that. Strippers, yes. Relatively attractive, apparently hygienic, and somewhat "professional" strippers. Drinking? Yes, to excess as you'd expect. Groping? Definitely some in attendance were engaged in some of that. But wow. Nothing like what you've described here. I feel so sheltered.

10:56 PM  
Blogger Syd said...

Dude, you totally rocked that story.

Now about those piercings....
kidding. I'm feeling a little disease-ish just thinking about it.

Well done, my dear.

4:18 AM  
Blogger Motor City Monk said...

I've heard of stags getting into dangerous territory like that but the ones I've been to were pretty tame. Great story.

Long New Orleans Stag Party Story: We're in N.O. for the weekend partying at a strip club when 2 strippers convinced me to pay for a half hour in their private room. It cost me like 300 bucks and one of the strippers was close to passing out from drinking too much. The other stripper was dressed in one of those catholic school girl plaid skirts. In the room they were both naked - I was wearing my boxers. I jacked off during the last ten minutes of my half hour while the attentive 'catholic' stripper massaged my balls.

After I left the strip club, my buddy and I went for sliders (greasy burgers) and I realized one of the strippers had stolen my credit cards from the front pocket of my pants. I run back to the strip club to confront the stripper - she says "maybe they fell out of your pants, let me go check the room" - she comes back with my cards and I spent the rest of the evening trying to contact my bank and other credit cards to report 'em stolen, worrying that they copied the numbers down for later use. Nothing was ever charged on 'em. And those strippers seemed so sweet.

4:29 AM  
Blogger limpy99 said...

And that Monk, is why we don't jack off in a room with two strippers unless both of them are massaging your balls. After all, busy hands are happy hands.

5:45 AM  
Blogger Motor City Monk said...

It's sad but I can no longer trust any woman who earns her living by taking off her clothes.

6:10 AM  
Blogger Pud said...

Wow! That story kicked ass!

2:20 PM  
Blogger SoozieQ said...

Holy shit. That's scary. I'm by no means a prude but gah....that's gross. I don't understand the whole concept of paying for something that is so readily available for free (sex). But to each their own, right?

Ew, but I do feel like I need a shower for "John" as it doesn't sound like he had/has the sense to take one himself.

3:56 PM  
Blogger Madame D said...

Yeah, that's about all I have to say.

4:38 PM  
Blogger Big Pissy said...

I found that very entertaining a sick, gross, EWWWWWWWWWWWWW kinda way.

Thanks for sharing!

5:35 PM  
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11:48 PM  

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