When the double-sided dildo makes an appearance, your reaction will tell you if you’re truly ready to get hitched.
By Drew Magary
Illustration by Mark Poutenis
I had my bachelor party when I was 25 years old. We flew to Vegas. We played blackjack. We had dinner at a restaurant none of us could really afford. We sat poolside and watched a couple of Greek tourists take a blonde hooker into their cabana for a midday double-blowjob. We drank, and then we drank some more.
For the party capper, my friends hired two strippers to perform in our hotel suite. And by strippers, I mean “strippers who moonlight as hookers.” One of them was attractive. The other was pushing 40, with bad fake tits and a cesarean scar. This always happens with chartered strippers—you get one dud.
The girls stripped me down to my boxers, made me get on all fours on the bed, and whipped me with my own belt. It fucking hurt. Then they strapped a dildo to my head and sat on it. My friends were unsure as to whether or not they should clap, or laugh, or simply sit awkwardly still. They ended up engaging in a mix of all three.
Now, I like strippers. And hookers. And even the occasional head-dildo. But I can safely say that that experience was the least sexual of my life. And that’s saying a lot, given how prolifically unsexual my life has been. I remember sitting there, on the bed, involuntarily unicorning this lady, and thinking to myself, “Yep, I’m ready to be married. I am definitely not enjoying this.”
That’s the part of bachelor parties no one tells you about. The part when you decide for certain that you don’t really want to be single anymore. The part when you realize you’ve had just about enough of sitting in a small hotel room at 4 A.M., stuffed full of alcohol and drugs, while a couple of desperate chicks try to earn bonus cash for meth and a 500-pound bodyguard named Big Ray sits in the corner with a loaded Glock in the back of his waistband.
We’re supposed to always enjoy looking at strippers and being out with the guys and away from our respective girlfriends/fiancées/spouses/parole officers. But every guy has had that moment in a typical guy scenario, like a bachelor party, when he realizes he’s not having as much fun as he thinks he should be. If you’re me, this always results in an internal argument during which you challenge your own manhood: Come on, you pussy! There are strippers here! My bachelor party served as the time in my life when I finally decided it was all right to never have that argument with myself again.
This goes against the idea of what a bachelor party is supposed to be. In theory, it’s a chance for you to sow your wild oats, one last opportunity to experience a commitment-free existence before consigning yourself to the lifelong detention that is marriage. But that isn’t how it usually turns out. Instead, a bachelor party often serves to demonstrate that you don’t really need to sow your wild oats at all. It’s the final sign that you’re actually doing the right thing by walking down the aisle.
This is a good feeling to have, as far as I’m concerned. Strange as it may sound, I think it’s possible for prospective grooms to enjoy their bachelor parties way too fucking much. If you’re still that jazzed about staying out all night and ogling new pussy, then why are you getting married to begin with? What’s the fucking point?
This doesn’t even take into account the handful of guys who are actually willing to bang or be blown by a hooker at their bachelor parties. I’ve known men who have done this. Ethics aside, I can’t think of a clearer sign that you should not get fucking married than the act of banging a disease-ridden stranger mere weeks before you commit your body and soul eternally to a single human being. If that’s still something you truly feel the need to do, I strongly suggest you ditch the bride and keep on doing it. More power to you, my hooker-adoring brutha.
The bachelor party should be your last hurrah because you want it that way. Not because it’s all you have left to cling to. I’ve been to multiple bachelor parties now. Without fail, the least enjoyable portion of the weekend, particularly for whomever was getting married, was the “bring strippers to your hotel room” part. The drinking and gambling? That’s fucking great. I could do that again tomorrow. But paying $200 a head to stand beside eight other guys with hard-ons while the hired women try to upsell you on a handjob? Not so much. It’s something you do because every guy in the group feels socially obligated to do it. But I’ve always left those supposed main events wishing I had spent my money more wisely, like by blowing it at the roulette table.
Then again, maybe that was money wisely spent. Maybe before you get hitched, that’s what you need to go through to know you’re not missing anything. Because the truth is, you probably aren’t.