Jimmy is HIV positive. He shares my daddy’s name and lives in the Castro. He offers me a beer, sits on a leather couch facing the fireplace and pats the space next to him, saying, “Come sit next to me.” I pretend to be timid.

James is my daddy’s name, only everyone calls him “Jimmy” because people that love you call you things like Jimmy instead of James. He’s a good-looking man, a man who drinks Coor’s Light and says “I love you” freely. Jimmy Shook, the man that everyone loves, the daddy that everyone wants to be their daddy. Because he plays with us like he’s a kid too. But we know he’s not a kid and I know I’m special. Because my daddy is the daddy that everyone loves.

My daddy is a firefighter. His hands are dying to be held, calloused and fire-scorched. There is a picture of him holding me in the ocean, waves crashing in the distance, white water gentle on his feet. His abdomen is chiseled out and appetizing, carved in an upside down V-shape from the corners of the collarbone to the grotesquely parallel lines at the pubis. He is covered in hair that is dark and curly, that crawls up from beneath, gently, sternly, politely, and irreverently. We share the same hair patterns and it makes me feel like sex, irreverent, like I own something that must be devoured, that must be sucked and swallowed. Those hairs – his hairs – curl and twist on my body like ladders and intersections and maps to ecstasy.

I was his little girl once. He was my daddy. And I was beautiful.

The house in the Castro breeds nostalgia for dead man queers, for lover saints. It feels like a secret place, like a time warp in the soul. The air is filled with a tired history born of the kinds of losses that intoxicate us and we find ourselves searching for a pleasure and pain that could have once been enough to live on.

He asks, “Do you feel comfortable with me?” and I say, “Yes.” Because “Yes” is what I’m supposed to say. Good boys always say “Yes.” He asks me about my life and I tell him a story about death because death is in the air and those are the only stories I can think of. He is enamored of me. They are all enamored of me. It’s what they pay boys like me to be – enamoring, intelligent, articulate.

My mother says my daddy’s semen is like acid in her vagina and I say she should swallow it, just to feel the burn on the back of her throat as it goes down. She will always go to my father because there are many ways to fuck and he will always be there because he knows it. And I’ll be in between them, like a channel, where blood and sweat and cum once flowed.

“Wait here,” Jimmy says. “I have something I want to read you,” and he disappears up the staircase behind us. I stare into the fireplace, feeling like a traitor, sucking on the lip of my beer bottle. I am getting lost inside my body where my dead lovers and friends and children are coming alive, in this house in the Castro, on Jimmy’s leather couch.

He reads me pages from a war story, a battle story, about manlove, about loss and dead brothers, about the absence in the earth that we always know is there without them, and about our fears of movement into territories where we can’t take them. I watch the hairs of his mustache as they become stuck to the saliva on his lips. I watch his eyes as they turn to pieces of glass in an ocean and suddenly I feel connected to this man and I’m not pretending to be enamoring and I’m not pretending to be a good boy. I’m only pretending to be myself.

I want to be close to my daddy, to inhabit his body as my inheritance. In my dreams I follow his hair patterns, discovering how they lead to the strength and the beauty of a flaccid cock, that dangles and moves with his body and touches softly to the thick, dark, curling hairs of his thigh. Those hairs grow darker and layered upon each other, making me hungry for the taste of body kinship and lust.

I cry on Jimmy’s couch, staring blankly into the fireplace. I stuff my face into his crotch, into the crease between his pelvis and thigh and there I realize that his entire body is covered in the smell of the sweat beneath his balls. He exhales deeply, repeatedly, rehearsing a death rattle as I fondle them with my cheeks, with my lips, with my hair. I feel him getting harder next to my face and I get a hunger for this man that becomes a regular one day. His death rattles turn to cries, man cries that make no sound but that whip throughout the body like an earthquake from within. The hunger is intense and muddied with my desire to soothe him, to eat him, to swallow him and feel him deep inside my throat. It is a hunger that wants to suck the pain out, to suck that thing out, that thing that has taken my friends and lovers and children, that thing that will take him one day too. And I want to digest it, to devour it. I gnaw on his dick like a rabid dog to a piece of meat and he moans, “Boy. Yeah boy. I want you to fall asleep like that, with your mouth on my dick.”

He says “my dick” like he’s from Texas, like the “k” is stuck to the bottom of his tongue, and it makes him sound even more like he’s a man with a heart.

My mother says the neighbor kid from the Rome Street house forced dad to go down on him when they were young. It’s difficult to picture my daddy on his knees. The image makes me feel lonely, and powerless, and lost. I prefer to imagine the neighbor kid’s ass up against a tree, his cold pale skin rubbing up against the bark, his eyes closed, pain and joy on his face as if he were going to cry.

I imagine the heat and the sex of my daddy’s working-class man hand on the hairs of my head.

I imagine that I can feel his palm cover my skull and that my hair flops on my brow as he touches me, that my own hairs stick to the wetness of my prepubescent lips. I imagine that he pushes me, guides me, slowly down along his abdomen where the hairs brush against my face, growing thicker and thicker as I make my way down onto my knees. It feels good on my knees, with my abdomen flexed, my sex pulsing. I imagine that he pushes me to that place always hidden underneath his Levi’s, that he unbuttons them but only enough for my face. He lifts it out of his jeans so that it rests softly at the base of the fly. And once it’s there, I can rub my lips against it, my eyes closed, my sex guiding me with a new kind of vision, one that is marked by oxygen and carbon dioxide. I fall in deep lust with the age of his man-ness. I can feel it getting harder against my face, never in my mouth, always rubbing my lips, my cheeks, the dip from my brow to eye sockets. And I can feel its warmth against my ear. I want to pull it closer to my face with my hand. But I don’t, knowing that it will compromise the beautiful shape and the magical power it generates from inside, a power that I want to intoxicate me, overcome me, and to render me like a doll in his big rough hands. I take the life of it, the hardness of it up against my lips. The cream pours from it’s head and I lick it from the inside of my lips and off the sides of my cheeks. I brace my hands to grab it and I’m electric all over. I relish in the warmth of the cream that I spread like finger paint across my face and I watch him spray himself all over the mattress, like fountains of water in the summertime, his juice blinking in the sunlight creeping between cracks in the mini-blinds.

I was his little girl once. He was my daddy. And I was beautiful.

Jimmy and I smoke cigarettes on the porch and I can still taste his dick on my mouth. “Boy, you cold?,” he asks. But I don’t answer because I’m trying to remember the feeling of his dried cum, sticky on my face and down my throat, coated in his sex. He turns the shower on while I finish my cigarette and gets a towel from the closet. When I step into the tile shower he cleans me with a soaped up sponge. He rubs against my chest, matting my hair to my skin, over my face and lips, down my legs. “Turn around,” he says. He rubs the sponge down my back and my ass and my ass crack. And then he takes his hands and rubs them, covered in flowing water, along my shoulders and down the rest of my body. And he does it again, moaning. I surrender to the electricity. I watch the soap dribble off my skin and to the ground. I fondle his dick with my hands, hanging on it as I lower myself to my knees in front of him. He stands in the stream of the shower water and the taste of his dick is mixed with soap and with water as it flows across my face and into my mouth. I pull on his balls and his dick, sucking it with my mouth like I am milking water from within him. I suck the head of his dick like a bottle, a bottle that won’t give. I feel a dribble on my tongue, the taste of salt, a smell like no other and suddenly the piss flows into my mouth as if a fountain has broken. I suck and swallow until my mouth is full. I hold his piss in my mouth, tasting it on every inch of my tongue. I swallow it in two gulps, smelling the salty flavor as it goes down. I pull his shooting dick out of my mouth, pointing it against my forward, against my eyelids, my tongue. The hot sour piss rolls along my skin with the shower water streaming above his head and it’s mixed with the taste of soap and hard water.

Jimmy wraps me into a towel and carries me to his bed. He uncovers me and rubs his dick against my legs, closer and closer to my crotch, leaving traces of the fluid inside him. Its mark is cold and brisk on my skin, matting my hairs together. He takes the head of his dick and rubs it against me. I moan.

“You like that boy? My big dick against your little boy dick?”

“Yes,” I say, ravished for the feeling of his dick on my wetness. Jimmy kisses me, his mustache burning my lips.

“You like that? My big dick against your little boy dick?”

I’m wet and sloppy and he rubs easily against me, dipping in and out and against me. He moans the death rattles again and I say, “Fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you boy?”

“Fuck me!” I say louder.

“You want me to fuck you?”

I’m crying.
“Yes, fuck me. Yes, daddy please fuck me.”

“Please fuck me,” I moan. “Please fuck me…”

I float up and out of my body, seeing myself underneath Jimmy on his bed. I cry. Tears with no sound trickle down my face and there is a voice in another world, on another bed, speaking calmly, moving like a phantom in the expanse between earth and sky. It’s like an ocean of milk rushing over my skin. It brushes the hairs of my forearm, ghostly, and tries to soothe me. I am restlessly moving my body, as if my skin is improperly formed to fit the muscles. There is something haunting and dangerous attached to my insides. It stretches itself inside me, against me, threatening to pull me outside my body. It’s like a million tiny voices screeching on each nerve. I want to find the voice and wrestle with it. I want to fight that thing, to hurt it. I want to stand in the face of it and laugh.

“Yeah boy,” he moans and smiles. “You like that, huh?”

My mouth is dry and I can’t speak. I lay on Jimmy’s bed, underneath his heavy body, his big dick on my little boy dick with my face turning from side to side, tears making a mess against the sheets.

“I want you to fuck me,” I whisper.

The voice repeats itself in a rhythm, a pattern that haunts me. And I would make my body move but for the weight of Jimmy on top of me. I lay flat on the bed, my fingers outstretched like tentacles, and I feel the hardness of the head of his cock rubbing against me where the lube and the liquid and the sweat and the continuum between us has run dry. I cry, “I want you to fuck me.”

Outside, through the filter of the screen door and the smoke that burns from lonely cigarettes, I smell my memories in the heat, dancing around me, thick and molded, lukewarm like half-dried laundry. I imagine that I am falling out of the sky like rain, and onto my body, onto my knees, onto the floor of his tile shower, and that my throat is bottomless and all the liquids flow into me and inside me.

There is a girl with me in the air above my body, a little girlboy. She cries and I hold her hand and run. Our palms flap against each other in the frightening air of that other place. That place where the thing is, the thing I want to devour, that I want to battle in the heavens. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood. I want to be covered in it, to spread it against my skin like war paint and dance a bloody primal victory dance with it’s decorative mark on my skin a sign of annihilation. I want to touch that blood, to hold all of my anger in my hands, and to dissolve it.

The girl and I laugh or we cry and there is a wind that stings our cheeks, leaving red circles on them and making our noses run cold dribbles of clear mucus. Everything around us is ambiguous and I am lost without my body. In the heavens, in the air, we run away from there so fast that we reach the edge of the sky and we almost fall off.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, okay.”

“You like that? My big dick against your little boy dick?”

I curl my body into a ball and I pull her underneath me. We reach our arms to the edge of the sky and we hold on tight.

Jimmy slaps his dick against me. Whether I am wet or not I don’t know because I am not my body anymore. “You’re a good boy,” he says reaching his palm around my neck. “You make daddy feel so good.”

Suddenly her body disappears from me, over the edge of the clouds. I follow her, tumbling weightless to a sea beneath us.

“Okay,” I say. “Okay … okay,” I cry.

I chase her in the waters, diving deeper and deeper, until, with Jimmy inside me I feel her dissolve into the water molecules, becoming one of them, all of them.

Jimmy moans on top of me. The moan is a stuck “k” Texas moan and I can feel his heart on my chest. I swim inside her, unconscious, inside the waters of my girlhood. She evades me and I try to chase her. Until my hands are not my hands and my feet are not my feet, and all I can feel is Jimmy inside me.

At Burning Man I watched Dominic and Reynaldo call men out of the street, fine, shirtless young men, and command, “Flex for us.” The men would oblige. Calling out to women, “Show us your tits,” never works quite as well.

Another gay friend of mine tells tales of his raucous orgies in high school.

High School!

With girls!

And he’s gay!

I have to say gay men seem to have much more straight sex in high school than straight men. I was never privy to such delights.

I can remember taking a liking to the one girl on Fire Island. She worked in a store in the harbor. I was a shy, retiring young boy and spent two hours in the store pretending to make up my mind about what birthday card to buy. All the while the men were checking me out, happy to take the initiative. It would have been so easy.

Alas, it was not to be. The reason is rather simple. I love women. To be even more to the point, I adore women’s bodies.

The straight lines of men, the hard of our muscles, the square of the jaw, I have no innate appreciation for them. I can look at a beautiful man and think to myself he is beautiful.

I can follow the pelvic lines with my eyes, see well-proportioned arms, overlook the dangling aesthetic absurdity of the penis, I can think about it, but I don’t feel it. Nothing stirs. It is like gazing upon a placid lake.

But show me a woman and there come the waves. I am ignited by the flow of a woman’s body. Plumb lines give way to curves, hard gives way to soft, dry becomes wet…

(If you take your time and don’t rush things and make sure there’s open communication and she’s made comfortable and there’s plenty of lead up and you don’t trust the Internet porn you grew up on as how-to videos. Your mother should have taught you this but she probably didn’t because she has her own issues so I’ll be publishing a manual shortly.)

I love to lay my head down beside a woman’s naked hip. My eyes wander her landscape, up over her hip, across the curve of her leg then down the slope to the soft crease of flesh where her thigh meets her sex. When laying back her pussy arches above a woman’s thighs like a balcony, a place for a lover to stand and beckon you. My eye lingers, imagining the folds inside, the arabesque of flesh as one writer put it. And then down again and up along the other thigh.

I’ll return my gaze along the soft belly, the part women are always trying to make hard and flat like a man. Even higher lie the breasts, laid out like pools of liquid on endowed women, standing proud with nipples high for small busted ladies.

When they’re on their stomachs I love to run my hands down the gentle slopes of their shoulders. To wrap my fingers round their smaller arms, trace the line down the center of the back to relish the ripe round retort of the ass.

There are lines like these all along the side of Mt. Tam facing the ocean. The land curves and folds and dips into itself tracing the outlines of the female form, thighs, hips and asses writ large on a mountain side. From what I have seen it is mostly women lying on their sides.

But perhaps my favorite view is when a woman is on her hands and knees before me. From here I can understand why some women say the back is their favorite part of their bodies. From here I follow the flow of a woman’s sides, curving in at the waist before suddenly flaring out at the hips.

That brilliant flow is so alluring, so erotic in its symmetry, I have been known to gaze at in silence so long women have felt compelled to pull me forward by my most sensitive part.

It is then that I place my hands in a woman’s waist and I could swear that’s what it was made for. It is my favorite landscape.

I am a huge proponent of lube. In fact, I even have a button that I wear proudly; lube is love. Perhaps you are asking why I’m such a lube lover. Let me give you the lowdown on why lube is so great.

First of all, lube can make things easier. You know when a ring is stuck on someone’s finger and they put vasoline or butter on it to help slide it off? Or when you’re trying to get a bullet vibe in or out of a dildo, and a drop of lube helps it pop right out (or in)? Lube helps to pave the way. Let’s say you’re trying to stick something (penis, dildo, cock, fingers, etc) into something (usually a vagina/cunt/anus). Why WOULDN’T you want to make it a smoother entry? To slide right in instead of having to force something is one of the great things about lube.

Now, you might be thinking “but my/my partner lubricates fabulously all on their own.” Great! Perhaps you don’t need a little extra help. However, natural lube can dry up fairly quickly, plus there are so many reasons someone might not be lubricating much (or at all); antihistamines (any allergy meds), hormonal birth control, a plethora of other medications and medical conditions, stress in your/their daily life, hearing kids running around in the other room, etc. Plus, some people just don’t have a lot of natural lube. And that’s perfectly ok. Easiest solution to this is to grab some lube and add it to your sex life.

Talking about adding lube — anuses, although pretty spiffy, are not able to lubricate on their own. At all. Period. Ergo, if you are putting things in a butt (your own or someone else), PLEASE use lube. Even if it’s just spit, use something. If you’re trying for some hot anal sex, and haven’t ever done it before, use lube. It’s really hard to slide something big into something small if you’ve got a ton of friction going on.

Let’s speak to condoms for a moment. Poor condoms get such a bad rap. However, one little trick to making them feel better for all parties involved is lube! Put a small drop…and when I say small, I mean small, inside the condom before the wearer puts it on. Then, put a little more lube either on the outside of the condom or wherever the condom is going to be going. Voila! Less friction equals more sensation, and you’re still having safer sex.

How much is the right amount? Start out with a little, as you can add a little more and a little more until it feels just right…kind of like a pervy goldilocks. Too much, and soon you’ve turned sex into a slip n’ slide; not enough, and it totally defeats the purpose of using lube.

What happens when you’ve been going at it for a while, and your lube starts to dry up a bit? Instead of adding more and more and more and turning it into a sticky, goopy mess, most lubes reactivate with a little bit of water. This can be spit, sprinkling some water from a drinking glass, or my personal favorite; using a squirt gun. Get creative.

There are, for all intents and purposes, three types of lube; oil-based, water-based, and silicone-based lubes.

Oil-based lube (such as Boy Butter) are great jack off lubes. They stick around a long time, are very slick, and well, they’re designed for wanking. However, they are NOT ok to put inside cunts, and there is a great debate as to whether oil is butt friendly. Granted, people have been using Crisco for years, but if you want to be sure of being body-friendly, don’t put oil based lubed inside you. Additionally, oil of any kind dissolves latex…meaning oil based lubes and any latex condoms/gloves/dams are mortal enemies. Safer sex and oil based lubes don’t belong together.

A good amount of the lubes available, especially at your local drug store, and many sex toy providers, is water-based. This means the main ingredient is water, and that it will wash off easily. It doesn’t have the staying power of oil based or silicone based, but it is definitely vagina/cunt/anus friendly, is easy to get off when you’re done, and reactivates with a little water. Additionally, it is latex friendly AND will not harm silicone toys.

Silicone lubes are available primarily online – you’ll be hard pressed to find them at the drugstore, although your local sex toy/adult store might carry it. It does not wash away very easily, making it good for sex in the shower/pool, or if you’re planning on going at it for a while. The number one thing to know about silicone lube is that you CANNOT use it with silicone toys. It may melt them, or turn them into a Swiss cheese consistency, etc. Keep them separate. However, silicone lube IS latex friendly, and although there are a few dissenting voices, it is generally considered friendly for vaginas/cunts/anuses.

Some of the water based lubes contain glycerin, and quite a few people have negative reactions to it, including getting yeast infections — since glycerin is made from glucose, which is sugar. If you’re having problems with your lube, or you KNOW that you’re prone to yeast infections, make sure your lube is glycerin (and paraben) free. Some good glycerin-free, water-based options are Maximus, Sliquid, Probe and O’My.

As a note, some (although not all) flavored lubes do contain sugars of various types. Sugars + cock = not an issue. Sugars + vagina/cunt = yeast infections. Read the ingredients, and know what you’re putting in your body!

Lube is love, folks. There are so many choices out there, and so many great reasons to use it, from exploring new territory to increasing sensation, and much more. With all the positives and the lack of negatives, why not give lube a good college try?

-Essin’ Em

Let us take a moment to praise, nay, to give thanks, for sweet Alyssa.

Ahhhhhhh, Alyssa, your two S’s leave my tongue to linger, to slip and slide over the thought of you, the most beautiful thing to ever leave the shores of Brooklyn.

It’s the name of a girl with loose morals, the kind of girl who does things on the hood of a car, in your best friend’s parent’s shower.

How fortunate we are you were a child star; for only then could you have gone through your I’m-18-and-I’ve-Developed phase, The phase that gave us Poison Ivy 2 and, praise Jesus hallowed be thy name, Embrace of the Vampire.

Some beautiful girls have elegance. They wear gowns. You fear your truth is too dirty for them.

Then here comes this tiny girl with this face, these boobs, this ass; and there are no bell jars to be found, no desire to be polite. Those full, fertile lips, those big eyes, a set of cheekbones that seem to point straight to her pussy, she’s the most beautiful trashy girl I’ve ever seen.

Here’s a beautiful girl you wouldn’t think twice about asking to bend over in a parking lot. Here’s a beautiful girl who would sound good banging up against the trunk of your car, a girl who might even like the feel of the keys in your pocket.

That’s why she’s my favorite hottie, the one I click on first. Alyssa Milano is touchable, the exquisite hoochie, the beautiful girl you’re pretty sure you could make laugh, the belle of the ball whose tattoos let you know she’s no stranger to being on her knees.

She sits on the edge of a sink in her underwear for a Candies ad pretty as any model. But you know a model’s underwear will never slip off while Alyssa’s…just might.

And while a model’s expression is inscrutable, aloof even, sweet Alyssa seems to be saying, “you can put it anywhere.”

She’s not a movie star. She’s a girl for your living room. So thank goodness for the TV show “Charmed”. More to the point thank goodness for “Charmed” being a big hit in France. There is nothing quite like getting to watch Alyssa without having to hear her. The adorable French voice that dubs her only adds to her allure.

I hope I never meet her, never have to deal with however it is she conceives of herself. I don’t want Alyssa’s version of Alyssa. She is a real life projection of a young boy’s fantasy.

The kind of girl you always wished would be your babysitter, the kind of girl you dreamed about losing your virginity too.

She’s the secretary you hope winks at you, the waitress you order coffee from just to watch her pour, the girl you always keep an eye out for after you saw her one day on the BART.

She’s the girl the homeless man compliments you on when she has her arm through yours, the girl your friends always remind you about, the girl you hope sits next to you on the plane.

She’s the girl you hope is in your class, the one who is sexy before you know what that is, the one you go to dinner with and notice all the guys looking, even the ones with pretty dates.

She’s the kind of girl boy shorts were made for.

Alyssa does commercials and acts in her TV show and appears in movies but they are all just excuses, attempts to give us a legitimate reason to watch her. Alyssa Milano’s acting career is the thespian equivalent of purposefully dropping her pencil in front of us so she can bend over to pick it up.

We don’t care. Because she’s the kind of girl we hope will drop her pencil.
We imagine watching her breasts fall forward to rest against the bolero top she has on, her boy shorts rising to reveal the tippity-top of her thighs.

Then she looks up and we realize she’s the prettiest girl we’ve ever seen in that outfit. She has a face of privilege, of one who doesn’t have to give it up, but she does anyway.

She’s a cashmere sweater in the five-dollar bin.

Redundant, say you.
No, say I.

Bachelor Parties aren’t really for bachelors, they’re for almost married guys. And there’s a big difference between living alone with no promises made and having a fiancé, a caterer, a hall, a guest list and your parents in town.

Just because the ring is in your pocket doesn’t mean you’re still a bachelor. The ring going on your finger is a technicality. And technicalities don’t count in matters of love.

The bachelor party I attended recently began at 8 a.m. Yes, as other bachelor party attendees stumbled home in a bleary-eyed haze, I sauntered by bright eyed and bushy tailed, sober and chaste, on my way to a sensible breakfast in Glen Park. From there we went south to shoot clay pigeons.

The reason for this was that the bride-to-be had expressed extreme duress over our going to a more traditional venue. I believe the direct quote was, “No f—ing lap dances.”

At first I was as disappointed as you. There are few things as much fun as going to a strip club when it is not your idea. “I’m not really like this – just here with the boys – being supportive – trying to help the ball club – hey you’re pretty.”

On the drive down I listened to a guy describe how much he loved surfing. His wish was to find a “part-time parenting situation”, 2-3 hours a day, 3-4 days a week so that he could teach a kid to surf.

That, my friends, is a bachelor.

My friend, the groom to be, was not.

Lying on a picnic table, comatose from too much barbeque and too much sun, surrounded by the gentle lullaby of shotgun blasts I had my epiphany.

There was my friend, a man who had made a big decision in his life, a brave decision. He was going to stand up in front of his family and friends and declare his love for a woman.
It’s a beautiful thing. It should be up to us, his friends, to support him in that decision.

The night before or the week before a man’s wedding is not the time for a man to carouse as he once did in the past. It is a time for his friends to celebrate his future, to pay tribute to the life he has chosen.

A traditional bachelor party is actually a subversive act. It focuses attention on a man losing his freedom rather than a man choosing his life. By it’s very nature a traditional bachelor party denigrates marriage as not a choice but an obligation, a giving in, a failure.

The night before the wedding one should not be mourning the loss of bachelor hood. One should be celebrating the creation of a new role, that of husband.

Which brings me to this, Bachelor Parties should continue. They just shouldn’t take place any where near a wedding.

A Bachelor Party should be all about celebrating the fact that you’re still a F***ING BACHELOR.

26-years-old? No girlfriend? Have a f—ing Bachelor Party; girls, guns, blow, donkeys, whatever you want.

Does it make sense to wait till you have a fiancé to go out and have the biggest blow out of your life? Does it make sense to wait to hire strippers until you have someone in your life you need to keep it secret from? Why wait to have your dirtiest night until you have reason to feel guilty the next morning?

Men, for god sakes, start having your bachelor parties while you’re still legitimately bachelors. Celebrate the fact that you can do anything and not feel guilty. Celebrate that there’s no one waiting at home for you; no one to keep a secret from, that you don’t have to explain your night or what you did in that hot tub with Kia and Iris. That’s a bachelor party.

Luckily, we figured this out on the picnic tables and so you are all invited to Steve’s official and legitimate Bachelor Party; a grand shindig where we will celebrate the licentious beauty and carnal delight of Steve’s bachelorhood.