One night, we're all standing around at a bar, and some girl waddles up and whispers something in "Clint's" ear. I would never think anything of it when that happened, because girls always used to whisper shit in Clint's ear. Clint, you see, is what one might call "pretty." And when you're Clint, and you're pretty, sometimes women will come up to you at random and say things to you that aren't for public consumption. Not being conventionally pretty and all, I wouldn't know. Nothing out of the ordinary for Clint, though.
I went back to what I was doing, meaning I turned toward the bar, resumed a somewhat disjointed conversation with Clint's peanut-laden brother-in-law, and continued trying to find the solution at the bottom of my pint glass. That was when he began jamming his tongue down her throat.
Clint, that is. And the girl on the receiving end of Clint's toxicity was not the waddling whisperer, but some poor bastard's bride-to-be, complete with tiara, veil, and all the other crap women wear at bachelorette parties. They'd scanned the bar for the "prettiest" guy they could find, settled on Clint, then sent the bride over to open her mouth and accept her sore. This was a few years ago. I'm assuming it's fully developed now.
We host bachelorette parties all the time at the club. They do scavenger hunts at these things. They pin a list to the bride's chest. The list is made up of all the things she's "required" to do at the bar that night. Most of these things are wholly innocuous. Others are not. Working in clubs, you see both. Risking an STD for a Clintian tonguedown was on one of these lists. The following week, the girl was married. One would assume she wore white.
"Lemme tell you somethin," said Ray, standing at the door on another Saturday night in the city. "I'd take away their drivers' licenses and their citizenship, and I wouldn't give 'em the right to fuckin' vote. Fuck that."
"What happened now?"
"I can't stand these fuckin' cunts and these bachelorette parties. Makes me fuckin' sick."
"So?" I asked. "Guys have bachelor parties, right? What the fuck's the difference?"
"I don't like them either. I ever get married, I ain't havin' one."
"'Cause they way they do it is all wrong," he replied. "I can see goin' out with a couple guys, maybe the wedding party or whatever, and gettin' a couple drinks, but this shit with the strippers? And these guys who take these fuckin' limos to Atlantic City? Fuck that. It's fuckin' disgusting."
"It gets a little ridiculous."
"You know what happens at these fuckin' things? You keep the list of people too loose, an' the next thing you know, twenny people show up an' the groom don' know half of 'em. Where the fuck's the fun in that?"
"I've been to those," I said, thinking about an incident in a hotel room, back in another life.
"Yeah, but the women are worse, and that's the shit I don' like. They go on and on about how bachelor parties are wrong, an' about how it ain't right to have the groom out gettin' blowjobs and handjobs an' shit from strippers, but they're out doin' the same shit, and worse."
"How?" I asked.
"Lemme tell you somethin'. You get a bunch a' guys for a bachelor party, an' you go to a titty bar and buy some lapdances, and you can't do shit. You sit there with your hands on the arms of the fuckin' chair, 'cause you ain't allowed to touch nobody. Maybe you go to the VIP or whatever, an' you can do a little more, but when you do that, you gotta spend so much it ain't even worth it. You might as well go home and bang your wife."
"But these broads? They can do whatever they fuckin' want. Some guy takes his clothes off and sticks a cock in their face, and they don't have the same rules. And believe me, they're touchin'."
"Why?" I asked. "You been to a male strip place?"
"I had a friend who was a male stripper. Guy from my gym. He used to get laid at every single one of these fuckin' things, and half the time it was with the fuckin' bride."
I looked up the block, counting limousines. There were three. "Are you serious?"
"Fuck yeah, I'm serious," he replied. "Next time a limo pulls up for a bachelorette party, see if there's a guy with them. There fuckin' always is. An' you know who he is?"
"Bingo. And you watch 'em go in and out. Those motherfuckers are takin' them dirty whores back to the limo every time. Every fuckin' time. They're all the same, these pigs."
"Sounds like a great job," I offered.
"I ever get married, an' my wife says she wants one a' those things, I'll say, 'Sure, you can have one, but don't expect me to show up at the wedding.'"
"You planning on getting married anytime soon?"
Ray turned his head and spit. "You never know."
"Have to be one hell of a girl."