Naturally every stag do goes hand in hand with copious amounts of alcohol, strippers and outright debauchery. They’re the opportunity to bid farewell to your friend, who will undoubtedly soon be creosoting fences and admiring the birds that reside in the wooden house he made especially for them in the garden.
This weekend started off pretty similar to any other stag do I’ve been on. We all arrived a little giddy, ready to board the mini bus we’d rented and generally took the piss out of each other’s luggage bags that we’d blatantly borrowed from the Mrs. The bus was boarded and before long we’d started on the beers ready for our trek to Newcastle. I opted out of necking a crate by myself as I’ve previously drank too much for my pathetic little bladder whilst on a bus. That time, I was forced to stuff my little Jap’s eye through that small opening in a can and fill it right up with my very own, only slightly warmer, home brew. For anyone caught in a similar predicament in the future there are two things you should note that I wasn’t aware of. Firstly, that the can only holds so much and if you don’t measure it right you’re going to get caught short. Secondly, that the opening where the ring pull was is pretty ruddy sharp. Believe me; you don’t want to be catching the old bishop on that bad boy, no sir.
Thankfully this time I managed to avoid ravaging my foreskin on a beer can and my friends didn’t even nearly see my penis once. All in all the stag do this weekend was going rather swimmingly. That was until, we hit the gay clubs. We were on a stag do and instead of foraging around for women with loose morals we were heading to the rainbow coloured lighting of a bar called ‘Switch’. Ordinarily I’d be expecting bars called ‘Snatch’ but instead we switched our pride for gay pride. Actually, in fairness to the homosexuals of this world I quite enjoyed myself. They were more than polite letting me push in the queue at the bar and the gents were the first to offer a helping hand on the step up to the dance floor. How very chivalrous. It was interesting how some of my friends all echoed “I’m not staying here with these puffs” whilst I happily minced over to the dance floor to cut up some shapes with the bumders. I thought it best to not cock tease them all completely though, so I danced predominantly with my back against the wall.
It was a pretty enlightening experience as it’s not every day you see men grinding down on each other, snogging each other’s faces off. I have to admit, I was pretty surprised that I didn’t projectile vomit my kebab meat all over them and I couldn’t help but think that having beard on beard must be like Velcro. The time came to leave and assuming anyone gay would blatantly fancy me I got my mate to hold my hand as we walked out. It was a security measure you see, so that if anyone cracked on to me then my ‘boyfriend’ could start a gay fight. As if I hadn’t teased them enough with my camp dancing, I thought it would be a good idea to make someone’s night as I walked past him by stroking his face. He looked pretty chuffed to be fair, but I made for a quick getaway in case he tried to slip me a cock. Mind you, he was beautiful.
Whilst I can’t tell you much more about what happened this weekend, seen as ‘what goes on tour stays on tour’ at least I found out quite a lot about myself. I’d clearly learnt from my mistake of cutting my bell end wide open on sharpened metal and I’d stomached my meat quite well when I’d seen other men eating meat of their own. It also turns out that even if I were a gay, I’d have a good taste in men. Bonus. At least I have a back up just in case this heterosexual thing doesn’t work out for me.
Oh and for the stag. Goodbye friend. It was nice knowing you.