| The Bachelor Party B-Cups |
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| Written by Ross Cavins | ||||||
| Thursday, 23 August 2007 | ||||||
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I was young once, and with youth comes stupidity. Complete and utter stupidity, especially in your thoughts. I could usually hide this pretty well as long as I kept my big mouth shut. But every once in a while, I produced a classic and how I was heard over that size eleven in my mouth, I'll never understand.
 The strippers did NOT look this pretty. A Friday night of Cinemax would've been more scandalous than our night at Leon's. The town I lived in, Wilmington, was a college town of 150,000 so there's no business reason there couldn't have been a place with true talent. But Leon's and Biker Hell was all we had. Let me also tell you that my wife-to-be's brother was with us, which really didn't matter. I didn't plan on doing anything that I wasn't supposed to be doing anyway. But did I mention my Dad and two uncles on my Mom's side came too? Feel like a sitcom yet? Did I mention this was my first strip club ever? Leon's had some odd rules. First, there was no true nudity. You heard me right, a strip club without nudity. The women wore string bikinis at all times, even during lap dances. They never took them off. If we'd have known this, I'm pretty sure we would've never come. The South sometimes gets funny mixing full nudity and alcohol, we weren't even getting any nipplage. A bachelor party without bare breasts is ... well ... we might as well have played Pictionary. At least then we could have drawn some. And have I mentioned that all the strippers had B cups or smaller? There's no problem at all with B-cups or A-cups, if you're friends with the girl or marrying her. But on your last night as a single man and you've gone to a strip club? Let's say you're going to prison for the rest of your life and you get a last meal. You gonna eat tofu with watercress or filet mignon stuffed with bleu cheese and crab meat? Okay, bad example that you can read a lot into but you get the picture. The point is, we should have driven the hour to Myrtle Beach like we were going to but hindsight and 20/20 and all that. At the end of the night, after one o'clock, I was finally treated like a man losing his singleness should be. I was herded onto the stage and placed in a chair facing everyone. Six strippers surrounded me and removed my shirt while the DJ played some loud beat music. The girls then proceeded to dance around me, teasing me and taunting me, rubbing all over me, drawing things on me with a magic marker in places it would be difficult for me to reach without a loofah on a stick. Then, as the song was on its final few beats, they all stood in front of me, facing me, and removed their tops, collapsing on me, giving me a face-full of the smallest boobs that have ever been there. That part was memorable, don't get me wrong, because a face-full of boobs is a face-full of boobs regardless of size. But by this time of the night, the novelty had worn off and I was thinking of my wife. I was wishing I was having a private party with the woman who truly turned me on. But here I was with six sets of little tits rubbing all over me. I guess you had to be there. Let me say something here so you don't get the wrong idea. I don't discriminate against small breasts. I've just always been attracted to women with curves, women with hips that scream fertility, and as it happens, C-cups or larger usually accompany that body type. And, well, I'm a self-described breast man. Fast Forward many years later. I'm divorced and remarried, Wife Number 2 and I are visiting some married friends out of state. In fact, I was the one who set this couple up in college, and he was the best man at my first wedding. We're sitting out on the deck, drinking margaritas and talking about old times, filling Number 2 in on all our shared memories. That was when my size eleven shoe found its way to my accommodating mouth. You know what they say about men with big feet? They have big mouths to put them in. For some stupid reason, I thought it would be funny to bring up my disastrous bachelor's party. Let me remind you that Number 2 has a mother who was/is a staunch feminist and some of it rubbed off. In fact, Number 2 forbade me to have a bachelor night before we got married. I didn't want one anyway, but a man absolutely hates to be forbidden anything he feels entitled to, especially a manhood rite of passage that predates the dawn of civilization. But I'm getting off topic here. I opened my mouth and this came out, "Yeah, all the strippers at my bachelor's party had B-cups or smaller and all I could think about was that I had some C-cups waiting at home." Sometimes I'm honest to a fault. I guffawed at my remark, because I thought it was pretty funny, while Number 2's reaction was to stare at me hard and say, "I have B-cups." This is the part where I taste the strawberry gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. All my feeble and drunk male brain could manage to respond with was, "No you don't." "Yes I do." And then I come up with this gem. "No you don't." Men sometimes get stuck like an old record when we're thinking our way out of a jam. "Yes I do." Her eyes were now beginning to glisten and my brain searched frantically for another gem, one that would work. I said, "Well they don't look like B-cups." This, to me, answers any doubts about how I feel. I knew no other way to say what I thought and I took a sip of my margarita, displaying an expression that said so-that-answers-that-next-topic-please. It didn't work even though my buddy picked up on it and tried to bring up some inane college memory. Number 2 was a counselor and had an annoying habit of reading into everything I said. To her, there was always a subconscious process going on that formed a thought. With males this is not always true, we don't need to think to say something. Thinking before talking is not a necessary function. My stupid little comment translated to her - "I don't think you're sexy." And after that night, any time she was in the mood and I wasn't, it was because she didn't have big enough boobs. Never mind the fact that I thought she had C-cups which should logically mean that I always thought they were big enough. And they were, trust me, I had planned on spending the rest of my life waking up with those boobs cupped in my hands. I loved her and her breasts. Nothing I could ever say or do from that point on changed her mind. It became a side argument that would continue to resurface at unassociated times. We would be arguing about me always trying to "fix things" instead of just listen and empathize with her and suddenly, maybe I would if she had bigger boobs. She even bought breast-enhancing cream to make them bigger, because I didn't think she was sexy. Pshawww. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is or even if it has one. "Women are sensitive about their breast size" or "Think before you speak" or "Shut the fuck up about all women except your current one." Pick a moral or make one up. I could care less. I'm afraid to say another word for fear my future wife (Number 3) will hold it against me whenever I have a headache.
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