DIARY OF A PERPETUAL BACHELOR

‘Bachelor party’ a bad idea

Visions of a sassy stripper lap dacing on me kill my marriage intentions

In Summary

• Why would anyone think it’s a good idea to tempt a man who’s about to settle down?

Shadow of a pole dancer
Shadow of a pole dancer
Image: PIXABAY

Diary,

My fiancée Harper and I (I can’t believe that I, the Perpetual Bachelor, just uttered that word “fiancée”, but oh, well…) haven’t even set a wedding date, and yet my buddies are already raving about throwing a bachelor party for me.

If you’ve never been to one, you’ve definitely heard about it. It’s the last romp for a man who’s about to give up his freedom and sanity for the sake of love “till death do us part”. Though it’s not native to us, like the iPhone and Siri, it’s managed to wriggle its way into our lore. Usually, it involves men only drinking and merrymaking, and if like me you live on the edge, there might be a stripper or two.

Now, that last bit there poses a dilemma for me. I mean, why would anyone think it’s a good idea to tempt a man who’s about to commit to sharing a bed with the same woman for the rest of his life? And to do the said tempting by presenting him another woman who can do things with her body that the dear Lord never intended for a woman’s body to do?

I’m not yet sold on the idea of a bachelor party for more reasons than I’ve already mentioned. For starters, calling it a “bachelor party” is a misnomer. Like saying pregnant women experience “morning sickness” when the symptoms pop up any time of day, or “Arabic numerals” which originated from India. White chocolate, Koala bears, freedom… you get the gist.

A bachelor party is the life I, the happy-go-lucky bachelor, have been living all along, not a soirée to mark its death. If anything, this stag gathering should be called the “Bachelor wake”, celebrating the day bachelorhood dies.

And since I’m still not so sure how committed I am to this whole marriage thing, the sight of a beautiful, naked, lithe, oiled-up woman gyrating her assets around a pole for my pleasure might be just the thing that wakes me up from what I am assuming is only a nightmare over a very – very – long night.

I can almost guarantee that should my friends and I be so inebriated that we don’t prevent the beautiful, naked, lithe, oiled-up woman from performing a lap dance on me, my proposed marriage to Harper will arise to very bad news the following morning.

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