What gives when stag-goers turn down free action?
Stags are a drag. Most often they’re vacuous non-events rife with junk food and stale conversations that start off with “Remember the time…?” Stags are clandestine gatherings of guys — in the planned absence of womenfolk — who watch porn, play cards or relive lore about severed life paths paved with broken empties. They’re sad spectacles when mixed with heavyweight boozing, low-stakes gambling, the drone of testosterone and collective cosmic blue balls.
But the more raucous flip side of stags is just as ugly.
There’s palpable desperation when boys huddle around “entertainment” that can be anything — finances permitting, of course — from the old standby excursion to the peeler bar to faux-lesbian floor shows in crammed hotel suites. A flat-fee one-woman humping crew plowing through all comers — to the shock and amusement of the voyeuristic, not-so-ready-for-prime-time posers on hand — isn’t unheard of either.
But however bad they are, what I glean from my peek into the stag’s darker recesses contradicts the sandbox sociology theory that says men are just servants to their peckers.
I’m kicking back on a Saturday night, and the fellas — O-man, Sails and Fury — are off to some all-you-can-eat/all-you-can-drink stag. This 30-buck-a-head fete for a cat I’ve never met holds zero interest for me, but they insist on paying my cover.It’s at a large Scarborough banquet hall and the joint is packed with all manner of gents. It reeks of cheap cigars, too many cigarettes and en-masse belching and flatulence. Tinny chart-toppers fittingly accompany the steady procession to roulette wheels, card tables and the massive booze stand.
Seeing the inconceivable mountain of chips, pop and sandwich meat laid out for consumption makes me long for solitude. Why would these stiffs cough up 30 bones for this sorry mess?
The story goes that admission includes a raffle where one lucky loser gets to bang a hooker while the groom has his way with another. Interesting, if distasteful — but there ain’t no working girls on the premises and the “organizers” have no idea how to make that happen. Truly pathetic.
Fury suggests that we troll for some ass and return in a flash. I luxuriate in my emancipation from this odious den of strangers.
So Fury, O-man and I are off in a humanitarian mission — ass hunting with fists full of 2os. Sails stays behind as surety that we’ll either pimp positive or return the filthy lucre.
We snag two hotties and explain that for their pre-paid $200 apiece one must service the groom, the other be a carnal door prize for an attending lecher — and they both can cut their own deals on site once the dirty deeds are done dirt cheap.
They agree after insisting that I get into the back seat with O-man while they hop into the front of Fury’s luxury-liner company cruiser.
There’s much idle banter on the way, and they reckon we’re not the usual slime, while we find them strangely comfy for a couple of street-corner tricksters.
Back at the hole, we walk in and the place falls dead silent. These horned-up skids can’t believe what’s before their profane eyes. We fetch the ladies some bevies and, unceremoniously, the MC starts calling out raffle ticket number after number — but nobody fesses up.
It’s getting kind of weird. The girls, a bit on edge, see the no-takers as a trouble sign and an insult to their feminine wiles. To make matters worse, the man of the hour won’t pull out his groom-stick either — maybe a good thing, since his brother-in-law-to-be is here, too.
There’s menace in the air, and an accord must be struck before the hired help hightails. They flat out refuse to dally down dyke alley — “There’s a difference between a stripper and a hooker. Some hookers are shy, you know.”
They end up prancing about semi-clothed, stripping the guest of honour down to his drawers and simulating a blow job. Having just passed on a private chance to unload a sack full of ‘nad-butter, the transfixed inbreds squeal in delight as the temptresses spray canned whipped-cream ejaculate on them and the groom.
The dudes are wild-eyed and nostril-flarin’ frenzied after the “show,” and their provocateurs, rightly unsettled, want to get ghost before the whiff of evil that men may do rises to the fore.
Fury and I scoff at the peanut- gallery protestations as we escort the bewildered ladies to the car.
We’re on the road back downtown when one of them asks, “Where are you taking us?”
“Back where we found ya — that was the deal,” I shoot back.
They glare at us like we’re spacemen, then knowingly smile at each other. One reveals their inkling: “We’re already paid for, you know.”***
We still have to swing back to the hall to rescue O-man and Sails. The restless natives there feel cheated, and several whine: “What took ya so long? Ya fucked them, didn’t ya?”There’s no sense answering. We make moves to get the fuck outta Dodge.
One of them huffs, “Let’s smell their cocks,” and we shove by an assembling cordon on the way out the door.