Girl Goes To A Bachelor Party: My Strip-Club Orgasm

Girl Goes To A Bachelor Party: My Strip-Club Orgasm

Girl Goes To A Bachelor Party: My Strip-Club Orgasm

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The sole woman at a bachelor party wows the guys, and herself, with an unexpected strip-club orgasm.

I'm not one of those girls who hates other girls. Most of my close friends are women, and although I have guy friends I'm far from "one of the guys." I don't like sports, I don't eat pizza or drink beer, and I'm very particular about keeping things neat and tidy. However, my best friend from college happens to be a guy. I first met Josh* a few weeks into my freshman year. We went on one date, kissed for three seconds, and quickly decided we were better off as friends.

Twelve years later, and still very close, Josh called to tell me I was officially invited to his bachelor party. It was going to be me and 27 dudes in Atlantic City for the weekend. I was honored to be deemed awesome enough to be the one chick at a bachelor party, excited to see behind the testosterone curtain, curious to learn what really goes on at these things and determined to live up to Josh's expectations of me seamlessly fitting in, even though I lacked an Adam's apple, stubble, and a penis.

Before arriving at The Borgata Hotel I instated some rules for myself.

 

Rule one: Under no circumstances was I going to sleep with any of the guys attending the bachelor party. I was single and I knew Josh had a ton of hot friends, but if I had sex with any of them I would immediately be relegated to "that girl who banged so and so" instead of "that girl who was cool enough to hang with the boys." If any of them struck my fancy, I always had the wedding the following month to make a move. Better to look sexy, be mildly flirtatious, and keep it in my pants.

Rule two: I would pile into hotel rooms with the rest of the guys and not complain about the smell, squalor, toilet seats being left up, sleeping conditions, snoring, puke-stained clothes piled in corners, burping, ball scratching and urinating in the shower.

Rule three: I would gamble, smoke cigars and drink a lot, but not so much that I would lose sight of rule one.

While checking in at the front desk the hushed annoyance and pissed-off stares made it clear I was going to have to prove myself. I felt like the person fumbling with a stack of coupons at the front of a long grocery store line, hated by everyone behind her. A few of Josh's friends already knew me but the rest immediately asked, "Who invited her?" Having breasts at a bachelor party is a bad thing, unless you're the hired help. Even though Josh inviting me should have been enough to vet my worthiness, I had to convince these guys I wasn't a spy. I wouldn't report back to their girlfriends and wives. I didn't work for some underground feminist organization determined to infiltrate and destroy the entire bachelor-party tradition. The Important Lesson I Learned From His Strip-Club Bachelor Party

I ingratiated myself to some of the guys by becoming their wing woman and helping them scope out girls at the bar. I earned more fans when I convinced a bouncer not to throw us all out of a club after Josh's brother peed in the stairwell. Others gained respect for me when they realized I played poker, and well. When Josh's best man was losing money left and right at the casino—and I mean literally since he was so hammered he didn't notice it falling out of his pockets—I picked it up and kept it safe for him until he sobered up. He was so happy to see that stack of bills later on I thought he might invite me to his own bachelor party.

Guys wandered in and out of the bathroom to pee while I took a quick shower. Sure some probably copped a look but whatever, I was piled into one of four suites with the rest of them and didn't expect any special treatment. I wasn't going to lock the door or shriek if someone saw me naked. I was basically living in a locker room for the weekend, and I was one of the players on the team. I didn't make a big deal about throwing on sweats and a tank top and diving into a bed with two passed out dudes, one sweating whiskey, the other sweating gin. Bachelorette Party Dos and Don'ts [VIDEO]

The sun came up over Atlantic City and I realized I had survived the first night. Without compromising the trust Josh and his friends put in me, I will say I was surprised by how tame it all was in the scheme of things. No hookers were hired. No one got arrested, hitched, tattooed, or woke up with missing teeth. None of the guys actually did anything so terrible or wild. Yes, they all drank too much, probably lost too much money gambling and enjoyed ogling the cocktail waitresses, but none behaved criminally or turned into a party monster. They talked a big game, "Dude, look at her ass, I'd totally hit that in the elevator." But none of them actually "hit that" in the elevator. It was no worse than bachelorettes running around bars, hammered, with penis lollypops in their mouths and condoms on their tiaras.

As the day progressed and the Bloody Mary drinking began a few guys who hadn't spoken to me earlier started asking me for advice about their wives, girlfriends, and cute co-workers. I became their relationship Sherpa and was happy to guide them across the treacherous terrain of communicating with women. Don't try to solve her problems, just listen. Ask her if she's lost weight every now and again, even if you know she hasn't. And when dealing with her nether regions, always go softer and slower than you think you should.

That night all 28 of us went to a steak house. Although Josh was the guest of honor, it looked as though I was a queen traveling with my harem of men. At this point there were about 5 holdouts who were still not sold on having a chick at a bachelor party and convinced I was ruining everything. They didn't mind letting Josh know about their disapproval. His mature and wise response: "Shut the fuck up dude and relax."

After the last of the red wine was gone we made a pilgrimage by cabs in a long caravan to the best strip club in town. I've been to my fair share of strip clubs and if this place was the best in town I shuddered to think what the other ones looked like. Atlantic City in general seemed like Vegas's aborted fetus.

The club didn't have a license to sell alcohol but we were allowed to bring it in so we each carried a bottle of something or other. The girls danced, eventually fully nude, and then had to wipe down the poles themselves with disinfectant before the next girl got on stage. This made me sad since it just seemed extra degrading. Couldn't a designated pole cleaner come on stage and wipe it down? Usually I would comment about this demeaning state of affairs but not tonight. Tonight I wasn't a conscientious woman wondering about these girls and their messed-up childhoods. Tonight I was one of the guys participating in a long-standing bachelor party tradition. Some of the strippers were smokin' hot, others not so much. A few C-section scars were visible as well as lots of bruises, faded butterfly tattoos and bad boob jobs, but nothing was going to thwart me from shoving bills into g-strings. Lap dances were being bought by the baker's dozen so it only made sense that I get one too. I picked a pretty little blond named Treasure. The best stripper name ever.

Treasure smelled like baby powder and strawberries, had a firm body and was fully waxed. The champagne room was set up with booths and partitions, giving the illusion of privacy, but really anyone who craned his head could see everything going on. Over the course of the 48 hours I had convinced myself I was one of the guys but regardless of my steak eating, cigar smoking and poker playing, I was very much still a girl with long red hair, lipstick and high heels. Unbeknownst to me all the guys were hyper aware of this and they all watched me get my lap dance.

The song started. Treasure dripped over me, caressed me, and dragged her knee in between my legs. I felt the distinct notion that if I put a little effort in to it, and Treasure continued to do exactly what she was doing, I could actually have an orgasm. But that would be crazy! Getting a happy ending in public at a strip club would be insane! Right? Treasure, as conscientious as she was, sensed that she wasn't far away from fully satisfying her customer so she continued the knee action, slowly and softly. My breath quickened and I whispered to her, "Oh my God, I could come." And she whispered, lips glossy and full, "That’s the idea."

I made a decision then and there in that disgusting Atlantic City strip club booth to let go of any and all restraints good society had placed upon me. All weekend I’d been trying my hardest to fit in at a bachelor party and "finishing" at a strip club is as stereotypically male as you can get. So I let go, and let Treasure do her thing. She was extremely talented. I Went Undercover To See If A Girl Could Get Happy Ending Massage

To the amazement of everyone in the room, including me, I got a full on happy ending, something none of the other 27 bachelor party participants were lucky enough to get. The last five holdouts admitted to Josh that I might be the coolest chick ever. I manned up, even more than the men, and the irony was lost on no one. Well, maybe on Treasure, just a little bit.

*name has been changed

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