Performance

Today, we're all about bachelor/bachelorette party hi-jinks. And I got a pretty good one.

A couple years ago I'm at a bachelor party, doing typical bachelor party stuff: beating up priests, knocking over mailboxes, slipping roofies to giraffes at the Roger Williams Park Zoo. Then the inevitable trip to "Boy's Town" in Providence, where the strip joints are plentiful.

The plan was to have the man of honor get into one of those "rasslin" matches in which strippers beat the piss out of men both young and old while the rest of us point and laugh our asses of and secretly film portions for use as blackmail or ruining political aspirations. So me and a few other guys cover the advance scouting, heading to the ring and scoping out the talent. One girl, a six-foot blonde beauty in American flag short-shorts sees me drooling and flips over, wrapping her legs around my head in a perfect scissorhold. This is the girl, I figured.

But our buddy never arrives. Turns out he was onto the plan, and embarassed at the prospects. To the point that while me and the advance crew are scouting potential sparring partners, he's arguing with the other half of the crew, storming out of the club and back to the van. So now we've got a group of ten guys who want to see a guy get knocked around by strippers, with no guy to throw in the ring. So I take another look at Blondie's shorts and say, for reasons I still can't understand, "I'll do it."

So before I know it I'm "backstage," slipping out of my clothes and into these wrestling trunks and some guy's asking me how I want to be introduced to the crowd. Seconds later, I'm being ushered out to the ring as my drunken buddies and a bunch of inebrieated strangers howl their approval. And why shouldn't they? I'm the motherfucker who's about to cash away the last vestiges of his pride, no matter how meager.

Next thing I know, Blondie's on a top rope, jumping at me, knocking me to the mat, which is covered in shaving cream. So as we glide across the mat, my back subjected to second-degree friction burns, any and all sexy thoughts are banished. Now I'm just trying to survive.

It ain't easy. Blondie just keeps barking orders at me. "Get on your knees!" "Bend over!" "Lay down." I just do what she says and get kicked, smacked and flattened six ways to Sunday. And did I mention the shaving cream? Because by now I've ingested so much of it, I can feel my lungs expanding. In the crowning maneuver she flips over, knocks me on my ass, and, facing my feet, slams her ass down onto my face. Typically a cause for celebration in my world, yes, but her ass cheeks only pushed more shaving cream up my nostrils, effectively cutting off my air supply. So I'm gasping and writhing as the crowd eats it up, and all I can think of is how my mother's gonna react when she hears that her son died from shaving cream asphyxiation with a stripper sitting on his face.

Just as I'm hearing my Uncle Len tell me to follow the light, there's a bell. And she's off me. And I gasp and wheeze and cough up soft clouds of Barbasol. And I slide my ass back to the showers and get dressed. My friends approve. The night is saved.

So that's mine. Feel free to add your own.