I wasn’t overly keen on having a bachelorette party. Color me an old “stick-in-the-mud” but there was something about dressing up with tiny penises dangling from my earlobes and going out with a gaggle of women to get wasted on Blow Job shots and generally make asses of ourselves that just didn’t send me running for the door. I’d tried to beg off the idea every way that I could, but my seven bridesmaids were having none of that. I was the first of my friends to get married and they wanted to celebrate, dammit.
Begrudgingly, I agreed. A plan was hatched—a plan involving Chicago’s own Italian food, plenty of booze and all kinds of drag queens–and the thirty of us involved were to meet at my condo to open gifts and start drinking before the party began. The best laid plans and all that, of course, found me in the bathroom in my swank wrap dress and heels as the girls began to arrive, trying to mop up an avalanche of water and plunge my overflowing toilet.
My husband-to-be and young son had just departed and there was no one else to take care of the mess, so there I was, an inch deep in water trying to clean up the mess, my makeup running down my face in the August heat. My condo, while it had bad plumbing, didn’t have air conditioning. I’m sure I looked quite a sight.
Suddenly, I could hear a commotion in the hallway, where I’d stationed one of my bridesmaids to let guests in. A distinctly male voice came booming through and my friend Chris frantically appeared in the bathroom, “Uh, BECKY? THE STRIPPER IS HERE.”
“EXCUSE ME?” I panted, confused. We hadn’t ordered a stripper. I’d been soured on male strippers years before and wondered if she’d misspoke.
“Dude. No. There’s a fucking stripper here and he’s hot as hell,” she smiled happily. “Anyway, you have to come deal with him.”
I handed her the plunger, and gritting my teeth as I washed my hands I took a deep calming breath to find out what “hot stripper” meant to Chris. I figured “hot” was some sort of euphemism for ugliest stripper she’d ever seen in her life, probably toothless and mulleted and I wasn’t entirely pleased by this turn of events. Instead, in my hallway, there stood a semi-short, but very hot guy.
My mouth dropped open and I stood there goggling at him for a second, hardly believing my eyes. Where the hell had he come from?
“Hi,” he spoke, “your friend Dana ordered me. I need some place to get ready.” Aside from having a sort of flat face and being about my height (I’m 5 foot 5 inches), the guy just didn’t have a bad angle. It was a shame Dana wasn’t here to reap the benefits of his hotness. She was stuck in traffic. Sucker.
Awkwardly, the only place that I had for him to get ready was my 3 year old’s bedroom. So the hot stripper shuffled off to go fluff his dangle off in my kid’s bedroom. That was mighty strange for us both, but I didn’t have much else to offer him. I explained as much to him, blushing furiously, and shaking my fist at Dana for not warning me that he was coming.
I went into the living room where I told the girls that “SUPRISE we had a stripper!” Everyone laughed nervously. It was 4PM and no one was even remotely tipsy.
The next thing we knew, Tommy, the stripper, burst out of Ben’s room with a boom box and began to gyrate around, stripping off his SWAT team costume while we all tittered. Again, not nearly drunk enough for this. I was shoved into a chair in the center of the room and the next thing I knew, Tommy’s balls were on my face. The stripper, whose balls smelled remarkably like strawberry, had put his nuts on my face in front of thirty of my friends. Mortified doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. Especially when I realized that pictures were being eagerly snapped away.
Next, he flipped me over and pseudo-humped my butt, doggie-style. Nothing left to do but laugh, which I did. Thanking the powers that be, when he laid me down on the floor to have my friends shove money in my undies and bra for him to remove with his mouth, I’d shaved. Because my friends had an awesome view of my cootchie. The very last thing I had to suffer through was to take a shot from the waistband of his thong. In all of the pictures, it looks like I’m giving him a blow job. Which, obviously not. I know these things happen, but I assure you not by completely sober girls who have no interest in stripper peen.
Humiliation, oh, humiliation was thy name. In every picture that I have of those ten minutes, hot as he may have been, I was so bright red and laughing so hard that I am nearly glowing. If I’d been able to jump out a window to escape my situation, I would have done so in a heartbeat, but I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have helped anything. It was terrible. That is, until Tommy, The Hot Stripper, then began to make his way around to my friends, pulling each of them one by one to the center of the room and molesting them. While my blood pressure didn’t drop until he was safely out the door, I was much happier not being the center of attention.
Years later, I’m still not sure if hiring a stripper is supposed to be an exercise in humiliation for the bride-to-be or some sort of tantalizing treat for her because I assure you that I’ve been more turned on by door handles than I was by Tommy. But my ears have finally stopped burning when I hear the name, and I can now look back at the pictures and have a good laugh. Especially at the ones where he’s rubbing his balls on Chris’s face. Priceless.