Hookers and Coke

There are certain “man rules” in place when it comes to discussing the events that happen at a bachelor party. There is a little lee way, but the main focus of the rules is that you just don’t discuss the events that happen at a bachelor party. It’s kind of like Fight Club in the way that when you get home you may be bruised, you may be battered, and you may smell like a combination of daylilies and stripper sweat, but the rule is that you don’t talk about what happened. Sure, there are the knowing glances and accompanying smirks from those that were there and had experienced the evening, but unless you’re in the company of people “in the know,” it’s just not talked about.

I’m going to break those rules and talk about mine.

For anyone (and that’s a LOT of you) who I’ve been on bachelor parties with and who are worried that I’m going to throw you under the bus here, don’t worry: I’m going to use fake names. For instance, if I wanted to talk about Chris I would use the name “Jackass” so that no one would know it was him. It’s a foolproof plan that no one will see through. Everyone’s anonymity is secure – I promise.

Seeing as Jackass (See? No one knows I’m talking about Chris here) was my best man, it was his duty to plan the bachelor party. He did a good job too as he had a nice evening lined up of dinner at Harry’s East, a trip down to Soulard for some drinks, a room at the Casino Queen for sleeping it off, and maybe a stop in a gentlemen’s club or two prior to calling it a night. Additionally, we were all being transported around in a nice limo bus stocked with enough alcohol to kill a team of horses. It was going to be a good night.

I won’t bore you with the details of the nice dinner that my father and uncles showed up for along with my friends and partners in crime for the evening. I will tell you, however, that it was the kickoff to one of the most emotional stretches of my life as it’s an indescribable feeling to be surrounded by the ones you love and knowing that they’re all there because they care about you. They care about you so much, in fact, that they know what you like and make it clear to others that you want it no other way.

More on that later.

After dinner, Dad and the uncles bowed out and left the evening of debauchery to us young punks. It’s probably a good thing as I’m not sure Dad would ever be able to erase the mental images that he would have gotten later on that night. Either way, the elders left us as we boarded the bus, broke out more alcohol (it had already started getting ugly in the restaurant), and started our inebriation inducing trek to Soulard. Everything was going great as the beer and shots were flowing, we were all laughing, and we had managed to get the driver a little on edge as our chants of “hookers and coke” rang through the bus. There was only one problem: we had been on the bus for an hour but still hadn’t gotten very far out of Fairview Heights.

Apparently, the Illinois Dept of Transportation had not checked it’s calendar otherwise they would have been aware that it was the weekend of my bachelor party and they, in turn, would have decided against doing roadwork on the highway which essentially put traffic at a standstill. At first we didn’t really notice that we weren’t moving because we were too busy tackling our mountains of cold frosty beverages, but after a while we realized that we weren’t in Soulard yet (Soulard had bathrooms and our bus didn’t) and really needed to get there soon.

After going over our options in our quickly slowing minds, we decided that by the time we got to Soulard we’d only be able to have a drink or two and even that would cut out some of our time at the gentlemen’s clubs. We only had the bus for a set time and everything was based around us getting back to the Casino Queen Hotel at a given time. As a result, we decided to skip Soulard and just go straight to the East Side.

This is where I determined that Chris’s codename should be Jackass.

There used to be a quaint little gentlemen’s club called the Jewel Box that, on the off chance we would go to one, would have to be our club of choice. These days it’s called Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club and they now have all sorts of rules about getting in for free, but back then there were no such regulations. We were lucky enough to know the DJ both from playing softball with him and from the fact that he was the cousin of one of the guys on the bachelor party. As a result, once we arrived at the door we simply asked for Shawn who said that we were with him and we got in for free. Not only did we escape the horrible cover charge, but we were also given the VIP treatment. The VIP package included our own party area, champagne, and our very own personal dancers.

Once it was determined that I was the groom to be and should be the center of their attention, they immediately started taking care of me. At first the attention was nice and I was having a really good time. We were all still drinking, some guys were disappearing into the “private dance” area, and we were surrounded by naked women. The night was going very, very well.

That’s when they first slapped my nipple.

Initially I was a little shocked as it stung but didn’t really hurt. I wasn’t expecting that at all but I figured that since the girls were drinking with us that they were just getting a little loopy and having some fun. They continued to talk to other guys in my party but every time they came by me they’d either slap at my chest or pinch my nipples or something. After a while, it began to hurt. A lot.

After a while longer of putting up with this (which was offset by how nice they were being to me by being topless) I laughingly asked why they kept beating up on me. At this point one of the girls pointed at Jackass and said “he told us you liked it rough.”

“Oh he did, did he?” I asked, glaring in Jackass’ general direction.

She responded with “yep” and proceeded to unbutton my shirt, grab a nipple in each hand and just twist the living hell out of them.

Now, I consider myself to be a fun guy. I have a decent sense of humor and will go along with the party as long as everyone is having fun. It’s at this point that I’d like to add a “but” statement, but unfortunately I can’t. Due to my willingness to go along with the fun I took that double tittie twister, let out a little yelp, and kept going. Of course once the cat was out of the bag regarding me supposedly “liking it rough”, our dancers got ruthless. After awhile my shirt was pretty much entirely off and my entire upper body (but mostly the nipples) were being slapped, smacked, twisted, turned, yanked, and generally assaulted at every turn. From out of nowhere a Sharpie had appeared and not only were they beating me, but they began drawing pictures on me and writing very, VERY, inappropriate things all over me and in places that I couldn’t even see to read. All through it though, I was having a blast (thank God for the numbing effects of beer/tequila/jagermeister). They were beating the hell out of me, but also being very nice in the process. I figured that there wasn’t much more they could legally do to me so, despite the pain I was in, I didn’t hold it against them and continued my good time.

I was wrong

Prior to leaving the house that evening, Carol told me that I should wear boxers that I wouldn’t mind losing. At first I was appalled at what she thought I might be doing that evening. I mean, yes I planned on getting crazy and having a good time, but under normal circumstances with my buddies that rarely involved taking my underwear off. And, despite our chants of “hookers and coke”, I really had no intention of being put in a situation where a woman of the night would be taking my drawers off either. Thinking that those were the only ways in which my underwear would possibly come off, I didn’t think losing them was an option so I put on the most comfortable pair of Nautica boxers that I had.

Big Mistake

At this point in the evening we were all having a great time and had each had beyond our fair share to drink. The dancers/torturers were great and had moved in behind me. I immediately thought that they felt bad for what they had done to me and were just snuggling up to give me a hug. Much to my surprise, that was the last thing they had on their minds. Before I knew it, they had pulled out the remaining part of my shirt that was still tucked in, each grabbed a handful of my underwear, proceeded to yank up as hard as they could in an attempt to be sexy and pull my underwear off without removing my pants. Let’s just say that it didn’t work.

Apparently, Nautica boxer shorts are very well manufactured and even the hardest tug will not tear the material. In fact, all that a good strong tug will do is pull the underwear in whatever direction that the tug is occurring from. In my case, that tug was straight up and out. Now, I had had wedgies before, but never like this. That fabric got yanked so far up my ass that I thought it would need to be surgically removed. I kind of hoped that the dancers would see that the first attempt hadn’t worked, have a good laugh, and move about their business. Unfortunately, they now saw it as a challenge.

As the girls tugged and pulled and as I held back the quickly developing sobs of agony, the elastic slowly but surely began to pull away and my boxers were being ripped. The bad news for me is that they weren’t satisfied with just tearing up my underwear, they wanted them entirely off. As a result the yanking, tugging, pulling, screaming, and general overall pain continued for a few more minutes before they finally got them entirely off. As I wiped the tears from my eyes I thanked them for all of the fun and laughed with them as a way to mask the pain. They responded with another pinch to my increasingly sensitive nipples which made me hate them – and Jackass.

Late that night/early the next morning as I was passing out onto my bed at the Casino Queen hotel, I laughed to myself because I had had such a good time. Most of the people I was with were still partying, but I was done and needed sleep. I normally sleep in my boxers, but since that wasn’t an option anymore I just slept/passed out fully clothed.

As I awoke the next morning to the sound of someone heaving in the hotel toilet, I realized a couple of things. The first thing I realized was that I felt like absolute crap and that the pounding I heard was not someone knocking at the door but instead was the throbbing in my head. The second thing I realized was that I was really thirsty but had no water to drink and wasn’t about to go into the bathroom with Mr. Icantholdmyliquor yakking away in there. The next thing I realized was that my chest was sore. If it was an internal soreness I could understand because I’m sure that I’d polished off an entire pack of cigarettes that night and some coughing and wheezing was to be expected. But this was an external soreness. This was different.

As time has gone on I’ve been clued into what all occurred that night which allows me to relate this story now. On that morning though, my memory was cloudy at best so when I took off my shirt to see why my chest was sore I was astounded at what I saw. Along with more Sharpie drawings and sayings than should ever be allowed by law, I saw something that almost made me join the upchucker currently lying on the bathroom floor.

Have you ever seen a bloody nipple? How about two? Now, have you ever seen two bloody nipples surrounded by bruising and welts and handprints and god-knows-what else? Well, I have - and they were mine. Puker be damned, I ran into the bathroom to get a better look in the mirror at the damage that had been done. The dancers had done a serious number on me and I was in pain. It was a thorough beating and one that I will never forget. It wasn’t the dancers’ fault though. Yes, they beat the shit out of me. Yes, they should have seen me wincing and maybe lightened up. Yes, they should have not chased me down when I ran away from them and cowered in the corner whimpering “no more, please. No more.” But, they didn’t and that’s okay because they were just doing their job. They were doing the job that someone asked them to do. The one I do blame is Jackass.

I blamed him when it was happening. I blamed him when I woke up that next day and I discovered what had happened. I blamed him when I spent the better part of the next day washing Sharpie off of me using rubbing alcohol and cotton balls. I also blamed him when Carol got home from work the next day and I had to ask her to be ever so kind and wash the Sharpie off of the areas that I couldn’t see or reach (she’s so cool). I even blamed him two weeks later when I was on my honeymoon walking down the sandy beaches of Cancun with nipples that were still bruised and sensitive to any contact with anything.

But I will have my payback.

Jackass will one day have a bachelor party of his own. And while we may not still get the same VIP treatment as we did for mine, I know that we will eventually end up at a gentlemen’s club at which time I will have my revenge. I don’t care if I have to sell my car, take out a second mortgage on the house, or sell my soul to the devil himself, I will pay whatever money I have to ensure that Jackass “enjoys” his bachelor party as much as I “enjoyed” mine. I might even look for the same girls and see if they’ll come back for a night.

A piece of advice Chris – wear cheap underwear.

Thanks for reading