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What happens in Atlantic City stays ... on YourTango.
By Sascha Rothchild — Written on Jan 12, 2021
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 strip club 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 I instated some rules for myself.
Rule one: Under no circumstances was I going to sleep with any of the guys attending the strip club bachelor party.
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. 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.
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.
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 f*** 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.
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. 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 into 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 the decision 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.
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. 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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Sascha Rothchild is a writer and author of 'How To Get Divorced By 30,' has written for 'The Carrie Diaries' and is currently a Supervising Producer and writer on 'GLOW.' Her work has appeared in Psychology Today, Huffington Post, and LA Weekly. Follow her on Twitter.