I Stripped at a Bachelor Party and Got Blown by the Groom
He got more than he bargained for.
My guncle didn’t like that I was a go-go dancer in Provincetown that summer. He didn’t like the idea of his sixtysomething-year-old friends ogling his twentysomething-year-old nephew, but it was entirely his fault.
If I was to stay with him for the summer, I needed to get a job in town. He demanded such, despite my reiterating that I have a job as a full-time freelancer.
“That doesn’t count,” he said. “Besides, working in town will help you meet other locals.”
I was 24 and in the best shape of my life; I wasn’t worried about making friends, but since I was staying at his P-Town home for the summer, I needed to follow his rules.
I tried to get a bartending gig, but no chance. These are deeply coveted roles in P-Town, and most bartenders return year after year. I tried to work in an art gallery. No avail. But I managed to get a job go-go dancing at Purgatory, the basement club of the Gifford Inn, best known for their underwear parties.
Suddenly, my guncle thought freelance writing was a very valid job, and I could just do that. “No, no, no!” I replied. “You demanded I get a job in town, and so I did. I’ve already accepted the job, and I’m not backing out.”
So, I spent two to three nights a week at Purgatory. Wearing skimpy lingerie, a thong, or jock strap, I danced on the little podium. I was too tall for the space and would have to bend down when I danced. My neck hurt, and I wasn’t making much cash. Their big money-making night is the underwear night, but they don’t need go-go dancers on those nights because, well, everyone is in their undies.
One night at work, a gaggle of gays started shoving money down my jock strap.
“God, you’re so hot,” one of the men said. I replied with a thanks and a wink. Then I took his hand and placed it over my chest. I slowly moved it down so he could feel my abs. I’d linger as his fingertips reached my waistband. Then, with my free hand, I pinched my band and moved it forward, implicitly permitting him to squeeze my dick. When he realized he could, I saw his eyes widen. When he gave it a grab, his eyes widened further.
“Do you work bachelor parties?” he asked. “We need a stripper.”
“Depends,” I said cautiously. “What would you like me to do?
“We’re in town for our friend’s bachelor party, and we want to get him a stripper for a brunch we’re planning. We could pay three hundred dollars up front and guarantee two hundred dollars in tips. It would probably be for an hour total.”
“Yes,” I said without missing a beat. That was more than I would make the entire month go-go dancing.
That Sunday, I biked over, wearing a sparkly red thong underneath my Magic Mike tear-aways. I locked my bike outside their rental and took a few deep breaths.
My nerves began to hit. I can’t do this, I thought to myself. I am not a dancer.
That was true. I could move suggestively, but that was it. I took another breath. Zach, you did not get booked because you are the best dancer. You got booked because you are hot, friendly, and fun—and you KNOW how to be all of that.
I texted my contact. “Outside, let me know when you’re ready for me!”
“We’re ready,” he replied. “Turning on the music now.”
I took another deep breath and sauntered into the home. “I heard someone is getting married?!” I shouted.
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