“Block out about 12 hours for Saturday night, Greg.”
Oh, how I was dreading my bachelor party. I was not some ‘party till you puke’ 22 year old kid. I was a 35 year old guy who enjoyed a drink or two, but that was it.
So my best man’s above mentioned quote made me miserable.
He pulled together about 12 guys, and we gathered at a local Italian restaurant. Now, we were given our own room, but people walked by and looked in- proper, nicely dressed parents, innocent, wide-eyed school children, all soon to be horribly debauched.
Gifts were given. To be honest, I don’t remember most of them. I am sure that I threw them away as soon as I got home.
But one gift I will always remember. My best man bought me a blow up doll, and he proceeded to inflate it. But it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety blow up doll. It was a male blow up doll… A black male blow up doll.
Now raucous laughter accompanied the opening of all of the other gifts. But with this gift, it was different. There was silence. And everyone stared at me.
Immediately, in my mind, my friends were asking themselves, “Is this what Greg likes?”
I was bubonically horrified. As much as I hated bachelor parties, I now hated them with a much greater intensity.
So we moved on to a cheesy local strip club. Once again, doesn’t do a thing for me. We watch the strippers dance around the pole, masses of swirling, jiggling, cellulite.
One of the strippers is invited down to visit with me. She asks me if I want to retire to a more private setting for a good time. Somehow, I resist.
At about midnight, I told the lads that I can’t take it anymore. I’ve got to go home. I feel bad, because they all expected to party till 3 or 4 a.m.
So I go home.
You know, if I ever have another bachelor party, it will be in a nursing home. Milk and cookies with a side of prunes , an accordion player, and a 9 o’clock curfew.
But this time, if I get propositioned by one of the fellow nursing home residents, I just might go for it.