Bachelor Party

Post by **Martin Hash** » Tue Aug 21, 2018 9:32 pm

It was all going okay until the two cuties double-teamed the midget at the third nightclub.

I should probably go back to the beginning, back to my first day at my son, Heath's, week long Bachelor's Party he was having in San Diego. It had already been going on a couple days when I arrived. A full 20-passenger van picked me up at the airport, and we immediately went to the beach for ocean kayaking and snorkeling, then ate tacos and drank bottomless margaritas. They had AirBnBed a big house so that there was enough room for everybody if you counted the sofas and the Walmart air mattresses. I shared a bed with Heath. “I set you up in the quiet room,” Heath told me. “Don't snore.” Ha! It was like nighttime in the zoo in that room. I could have been running a chain saw and no one would have heard me over the racket. Still I slept fine and Heath didn't get a wink, but he was drunk so who cares?

The next day started well, and I mean really well. Heath is a Hasher, not just his name or a drug, but a semi-famous hiking/drinking club. Heath has hashed all over the world, many of the guys were Hashers, and they wanted to do the closest one, which turned out to be a “Pastie Hash” on a nude beach! A girl came up to me with a spray can and asked, “Sparkle cock?” I didn't know what that meant exactly but it sounded suspicious so I shook my head. She went to the next guy, who pulled his pants down and she sprayed his member with purple glitter. It's amazing how many of those guys didn't bat an eye at getting Sparkle-cocked. First, I want to state categorically that none of my immediate family got sparkled, or even naked, but a lot of the other guys did, and all the women who attended, and these gals were not shy. While we were hiking along, we would stop for “alcohol checks” so everyone was feeling pretty good. Heath accidentally slipped and fell. One of the girls said, “Finally, the groom goes down.” That got my attention; this was a great bunch. Afterwards, I said to the gal, “this has been a great Bachelor's Party Hash for my son, and I want to especially thank you girls.”

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We had all been instructed to bring ridiculous suits with us to the party; Heath even provided a link to where we could buy them. They were cut like a regular suit but they were crazy-themed, like tie-dye or shamrocks. Most of us dressed up, and we looked like the circus was in town, and it was as it turned out... When Heath was in high school, midgets were all the craze in Rock-n-Roll. His favorite singer, Kid Rock, had a midget, and Heath always associated “having a midget” with success. All his friends knew this so naturally when Heath was finally getting married, they got him a midget for his Bachelor's Party. The midget showed up dressed like a pimp, in a red satin onesie, a floppy wig, and a mat of glued-on chest hair. That dude was a true professional; we wanted a midget at a Bachelor's Party, and for 24 hours he delivered. Of course, the midget, Leif, made himself the center of attention wherever we went; walking down the street, in the clubs, at the restaurant. For example, on the way, he climbed up one of the passerby's back, and wouldn't get off. After 5 minutes or so of this guy fighting the midget on his shoulders, the guy's girlfriend finally came back and broke it up.
“That's so inappropriate,” Heath's friend, Scott, said, watching the incident. “But a guy’s gotta make a living.” Scott was quite liquored up by that point in the day, and he told me about his sorted midget past. “I was at a bar with a midget,” he waxed poetically, staring blankly off into space, “and he was running up and down bar naked. Everyone else was giving him $1 but I gave him $5. He kissed me and gave me free drinks.”
Scott sounded rather melancholy about the incident, and a little euphoric. I decided I wouldn't pass on this little piece of his personal history.

It seemed more than coincidence that there was a Bachelorette Party also at the first club, and they had a girl midget. We thought maybe that was a thing in San Diego, but when Heath tried to give her a High-5; that was one pissed off midget bride. We got the hell out of there but things with our midget only got wilder. I kinda knew then where it was going but there was some good aspects; for one, because he was a midget, and we were dressed like clowns, the clubs let us all in ahead of the long lines without paying. Second, 22 guys, several of which were 6'6” and 300 lbs, escorted by a midget, not one person gave us any grief, not even the bouncers. In fact, big guys would cross the street not to pass by us. One kid, surprised, looked at all of us then came up to me and said, “you’re the iceman” in my ear. Unfortunately, there was the, for all intents and purposes, midget rape by the two girls. I would have jumped in to help Leif but I didn't know if he was enjoying first one getting herself off on the back of his head, shivering during her climax, then the girls switched places and second one mounted up. I saw them both go out to smoke a cigarette afterwards.

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Midget Rape

On my last day, we went to ride roller-coasters. I haven't been on a roller-coaster in years, don't want to. I told the guys, “I'm saving myself for when I have grandkids.”
“What's Felix?” my son, Haven, asked, indicating his son.
“Felix is only 10 months old and in Lima,” I replied.
“You made no such stipulation,” Haven insisted. “You just said when you had a grandkid, and you do.”
I couldn't argue with that logic, so whatever lingering sobriety I had left was blown up in several giant swoops and loop-d-loops of roller-coaster hell.
The other guys had been buying Heath “Irish Car Bomb” shots. That is a shot of Irish whiskey, topped with Irish cream, dropped into a pint of Guinness – a half dozen of them, plus several beers, and other random shots. There was no coming back from that. Ultimately, of course, Heath needed to go to the bathroom, and he could barely walk, so one of the big guys, Jason, went with him to make sure he didn't hurt himself.
While waiting outside the stall, Jason could see a puddle forming under the door.
“Hey, buddy, you're pissing on yourself,” he warned.
“What?” Heath said behind the door, surprised. “My dick's too big.”
Heath came stumbling out of the bathroom stall.
“My underwear's dry but my shorts are all pissy. Go buy me some new ones,” he ordered Jason.
Jason went off to see what he could find, and Heath walked through the hotel and back to the big table in the bar wearing only his tightie-whities.
“You're not wearing any pants,” I commented.
“My dick was too big,” was all Heath told me.
I'll just took his word for it, and flew home soon afterwards. They're still down there doing god-knows-what?

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