Bachelor party


As best man, BJ has the unenviable task of throwing a bachelor party this weekend. The groom wanted something simple: grilled steaks and family and friends.

No strippers. No wild carousing.

Sound more like a wake than a bachelor party.


The only bachelor party I’ve attended that was one in the classic sense was years ago. It ended up at the high-end strip club, where the ladies actually looked the part.

This club was down the street from my old apartment. It’s the kind of place where I’d be filling the gas tank at 9 a.m. Saturday, and two guys in a pickup truck would pull up and ask directions. Five minutes later, I’d pass the club, and there, all alone in the parking lot was that beat-up red pickup.

This is the same gas station where one of my former colleagues would run in for smokes, and a dancer would come in to pay for her gas or purchases with a wad of sweaty singles.

Sadly, this party was the only time I set foot in the place. A friend of mine once had the chance to photograph all the dancers for the then-cutting-edge CD-ROM format. And he could’ve brought me along as a “photographer’s assistant.”

He turned them down, and the thousands of dollars offered in pay.


Before entering, security checks over your ID. He was a rather large fellow, about the size of a tall industrial refrigerator. Almost as pleasant.

Inside the darkened club, the music was pounding. Our eyes adjusted somewhat to the light, but thankfully not to the point that we could make out each other’s reactions. Lack of light was our friend.

As suspected, the drinks (two minimum) were lousy and probably not even watered down with actual water but some condensation from the rusting metal air conditioner, or something. But we weren’t there for the aperitifs. We wanted boobies.

The groom received a lap dance or two. A couple of us watched the dancers from the front row, right by the stage. Not that you could see much, thanks to prudish state laws.

At least one off-duty dancer tried to solicit us. And the DJ was more into it than the audience. I guess we got our five bucks’ worth.

Trust me, I’ve been to wilder places that weren’t even strip clubs.

Meanwhile, BJ had planned on a cake for the party. But not the kind a pretty gal emerges from, just a plain old Winn Dixie cake.

Maybe the baby shower will have boobies.


About this entry