Hip-hop/Spirituality/Freethinking. Speaking for all underdogs!
The Bachelor Party: One Last Romp in the Sack?
By Khalil Amani
The bachelor party is the single-man’s last fling at “whoredom” where he may do anything he pleases within reason. It is at this event that he crosses the threshold of Troglodytian-male into responsible man. It’s time to turn in that mythical “Player’s Card” and burn that black book. When the sun rises he will enter into the covenant of marriage.
At the bachelor party, the prospective groom can let it all hang out—get his party on, get shit-faced drunk and start crying and tell all his boys, “I love you man!”—talk mad trash about women, reminisce about all the backs he’s blown out (girls he’s had sex with) and finally, in a somber and almost regretful tone, talk about what limitations marriage will impose on his play-time with the fellas. It is at this time that his best friend (or some married man) will dig deep into the recesses of his gut and feign excited about marriage and remind him of all the perks that marriage offers—like love, companionship and eating that same ol’ steak (sex) for the next forty years! (Surely, this will make him happy.) After he’s reassured that he is doing the right thing by getting hitched, his other friend, who’s happily divorced, will try to convince him that he’s making the biggest mistake of his life by reminding him that once he gets married she’s gonna replace her sexy “Victoria Secretions” with her period-panties—that instead of getting head, brain, dome, or sloppy-toppy, he’ll receive clinical fellatio. (In other words, she’ll perform the task of oral sex with great indifference, as Chris Rock makes the distinctions). She'll go from salivating and blowing spit bubbles on your penis to---she'll go from trying to test her gag reflex by deep throating your cock---she'll go from slapping your big dick up against her face--she'll go from making herself tear up from too much meat in her pretty mouf---she'll go from allowing you to blast off your babies down her beautiful, towering throat---to a un-lotioned and dry hand-job and a few light sucks on the tip and say, "There! it's hard now!"--and expect you to be ready for action. Married and sexually frustrated as fuck!
The bachelor party represents the coup de grace (death blow) of freedom and the realization that his selfish needs will be usurped by the needs of his fiancée—no more sleeping in late or getting up on a and doing whatever he wants. Soon it will be all about the “honey-dos”—Honey do this! Honey do that!
The time-honored bachelor party is to the man what the actual wedding is to the woman—the greatest day (or night) of his life!
The bachelor party carries the same secrecy as the Las Vegas saying—“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!” “What happens at a bachelor party, stays at the bachelor party!” It is an unspoken rule that every guy attending the bachelor party maintain a code of silence when dealing with the opposite sex—women! (It is also true for the bachelorette party) Why? There are things that happen at a bachelor party that may cause some discord between the sexes.
The bachelor party causes such grief to some women that they forbid their husbands-to-be from having one! This little gathering of men is a sore spot for many-a woman. Some women “allow” their fiancé to have a bachelor party under the strict condition that there are no strippers. What? A bachelor party with no strippers? Where dey do dat at?
What’s wrong with a few strippers at the bachelor party or taking the groom to a strip club to see what he’ll never, ever--never, ever, ever have again in life? On the surface—nothing! But may I suggest that, indeed, some women have reason to be alarmed. Some women should be afraid to let their fiancé have a bachelor party! Some women instinctively know that their man is a horn-dog and will try to get that last romp in the sack with anything wearing a skirt (or G-string)!
The cliché that “All men are dogs” is true. Men are dogs by nature. But even dogs can be tamed. We wrestle with our doggish ways everyday! (History suggests that men are dogs, based on the “Hunter-Gatherer” archetype and women are cats, based on the “Sedentary” archetype i.e. settled and non-migratory lifestyle.) Even at damn near sixty years of age I’ve gotta have a daily conversation with my cock about what he can’t have. Like Lil Wayne raps, “I wish I could fuck every girl in the world!” A woman’s vagina is like crack to a man—once we’ve had one really good vagina, we are forever on a quest for the "Holy Grail of Vaginas"—that ultimate piece of ass that is better than all others. So we’ve gotta have her's—and then her's—and then her's—an endless and vicious cycle of bedding down woman after woman, in an attempt to find that ultimate piece of pussy that sings the Stars Spangled Banner and makes our toes curl. I’ve been there!
And so, at the bachelor party, even though a man is about to “Jump the Broom” (marry), he may want that last piece of poonanny—In an attempt to psyche himself into believing that one more rump in the sack with a stripper will quench his thirst for any other vagina, save (except) his wife’s. And there will be plenty of his boys to egg him on! “Go on man! Wax that ass! It’s paid for! You might as well do it! Nigga, you scurrrred! She already got you whipped!” Like that old movie, “Bachelor Party”—starring Tom Hanks—his boys will apply the peer pressure until he concedes to do the do—one last time.
But he loves his fiancée! How could he do such a thing? How trifling a thing it is to defile one’s self and your future marriage bed for the sake of one more rump in the sack? What if your fiancée had a bachelorette party and she let some male stripper who’s packing fifteen inches of dick named Long Dong Silver knock the lining out of her snatch?—hit places that you can never go! Beat the elasticity out of your fiancée’s twat! Shoot her club up raw! (Cum in her without a condom) Would you like that? Hell-to-the-naw! But there’s a double-standard! At the cost of his fiancée finding out his dirty deed—at the cost of his marriage going to hell before he even gets married, many men will get down in the cesspool of sexual licentiousness and screw the paid stripper to save face with the homies. Many men will do it to show the homies that he’s gonna wear the proverbial “pants” in his marriage. Many men will do it because their dick tells them to do it! And lastly, many men will do it because they are ill-equipped to handle the temptation and seduction of a temptress in a G-string, because they have not had enough life experiences (sex partners) to know that sex is just sex.
May I suggest that if you screw a stripper at your bachelor party you don’t need to get married? May I suggest that there’s some sexing you still need to be doing to get it out of your system? Sometimes I think that there should be an (real) age requirement, like say thirty (30), and some experience requirements, like every man has to have bedded down at least twenty (20) chicks before he gets married, that he may know the difference between steak and hamburger, because, truly, every vagina is not equal.
If I were a Washington lawmaker, I’d introduce a bill on Capitol Hill barring any man from marrying before the age of thirty. I’d name my bill the “C.H.U.M.P.” Law a.k.a. the “Sow Your Wild Oats Law.” C.H.U.M.P. being an acronym for “Completely Hung Up on Mama’s Pussy.” Most men, if they’ve dated enough women have been a C.H.U.M.P. at least once—totally convinced that the broad they were bangin’ was the epitome of freak-nastiness, even though she only knew two positions—missionary and doggy-style and her head-game (thanks to her choppers) left you with abrasions on your johnson.
Every man, before he can marry, would have to have been 'Completely Hung Up on Mama’s (some woman’s) Pussy" at least once. He’d have to know what love feels like and know what heartbreak feels like. So many men (and women) marry the first piece of flesh they sex up and think its love! Three years later they’re laying in bed wondering who the fuck is this person! That person has changed. You’ve changed and you have no reference point for a great (sexual) relationship because they fell for the first bologna sandwich offered them. Oh, but the C.H.U.M.P. Law!
The C.H.U.M.P. Law would mean that every man has to bag at least twenty (20) chicks—so that he may know the difference between love and lust—great sex and mediocre sex—ground beef and Filet Mignon. (Not that marriage is all about sex, but goddamit, it’s waaaaay up there—at least for men!)
Every man would have a Report Card and every woman he sleeps with would have to date, time, and sign it!—all twenty women. I guarantee you that the divorce rate would drop considerably. It would curb men’s straying outside of marriage for sexual gratification and it would stop the horn-dog fiancé from screwing the local stripper at his bachelor party—because he’s experienced and equipped to handle the pressure of a pair of bodacious Double Ds and a phat ass being thrown in his face. With confidence, he can look the stripper in her eyes and say, “Oh baby! You’z fine mamma jamma, but I’m in-love with a woman that does what she knows and knows what she does!”
The experienced man will go from being a “dog” to being a “god” (dog spelled backwards)! In the Bible, King David and Jesus tell us that we are “gods” (Psalms 82:6, St. John 10:34). Gods don’t sniff after women’s vaginas like a lap-dog sniffing the butt of a bitch-dog! Gods are in control of their faculties!
Brothas! If you’re gonna have a bachelor party—keep it clean! A few lap-dances and a few pats on the ass and a few dollars in the G-string and call it a night. Let the single homies be single. The bachelor party is your statement that you are off the market and spoken for. Let that be the case.