I hate my hometown. Some people say they are from a one horse town? Mine is a half ass village. I mean, technically it's a city, with a population of over 13 thousand. However, it's one of those cities where everyone knows everyone, is possibly related, and once a rumour starts you will never live it down.
And here I am, back after 10 years away.
Kids today have it easy, anti-bullying campaigns, peanut allergy warnings and fucking participation awards. Not this guy. As the awkward loner in high school I was beat up, stuffed into lockers and one time forced to eat plaster of Paris. Needless to say, as soon as I got my chance? I was the fuck out of there and hoping to never look back. College, using my brains to get into the world of finance, use that money to get my teeth fixed, start working out, discover who I am, fuck girls that never would have given me the time of day in high school.
Revenge is a powerful motivator.
So why the hell am I back here?
That would be Phil's fault. He's my best bud since we played with action figures in the sandbox behind his house. All through our formative years, it was just the Phil and Steve show, a couple of lonely, awkward virgins trying to survive being teenagers. While I may have left this place, he stayed. Opened a restaurant, hired a waitress, and now he was set to marry her.
Good job, Phil.
I had the noble duty of being the best man. Even after a couple of years of not really talking, Phil thought I would make the best choice. So I flew out, grabbed a hotel room, and now here we are - me getting ready for his bachelor party.
It's not like in the movies. There's no stripper out of a cake, wild misadventures where we lose the groom and certainly no donkey show. Just a few of us hitting the local club and getting as shit faced as we can. I of course use the term club loosely, more like a hole in the wall that smells like stale beer and warm piss where girls almost half my age would be getting white girl wasted, dance barefoot to whatever shitty R&B garbage was playing and dudes trying desperate to bring the one home that has the least puke in her bleached hair.
39 years old and a club for the local youngin' population really isn't my scene, but it's where Phil wanted to go. He picked me up from his hotel with two of his work buddies, Josh and Gary - I vaguely remember them from high school, though Josh nearly went bug eyed when he saw me.
"Holy shit! Is that Steve Eastman? Dude! What the fuck? You look like...like..."
I blinked at him a few times while he tried to find the words, fuck this was awkward.
"Like a bad ass!" Phil cut in as he came over and gave me a hug in the lobby of the hotel I was staying at.
"Uhh, thanks?"
Phil wasn't looking so bad ass. Here I was, some what muscular build, head full of brown hair, wearing an outfit that probably cost more than the car they came in and Phil was in jeans, t-shirt and at least 30lbs. overweight. The same went for the other two, I looked like the head of some pyramid scheme about to sucker 3 dads out of their mortgages.
Off to the club.
Josh was the class clown type back in the day, that one kid every one liked but wasn't popular with the ladies. His family owned a local food market that he of course would later take over as owner/operator. Gary I barely knew, he ran with the shop kids, and was now a full time auto mechanic. Both married, both with 2.5 kids. This place never changes.
So, what you been doin', man!?" Josh asked far too loudly. "You vanished after grad! I heard stories you joined the military, a cult, a hobo..."
"Nah, I work for an insurance firm that deals with clients globally." I replied.
"Well look at Mr. Fancy Pants here! Show me the money!" Josh quoted in the wrong context. Ugh. This was going to be one of those nights.
Four guys walk into a club. That's not a joke. It was around 9:30pm, way too early. The place only had a few locals at the VLTs gambling away their lives, the music wasn't blaring quite yet and only a few of the younger crowd were around. I needed about 6 shots of tequila to maybe drown out Josh's annoying voice and outdated jokes, but I needed to pace myself so a beer would be a good start.
We found a table, standing around, drinking, chatting. Sports, relationships, the fucking weather. Bringing up old war stories about our younger years, what happened to certain classmates; who died, got married - pretty much the same thing if you ask me.
Yeah, sure. One day I would like to settle down, but I enjoy my single life. The occasional college intern or hook up from a phone app gets boring, but seeing these three, jeans and t-shirts, beer guts and male pattern baldness? Not very inspiring.
About an hour in and I start to relax, share some stories, tell the boys about chasing tail, fine dining and travelling across the globe to meet clients.
"Dubai?" Phil looked shocked, "What the fuck is a dungeon master like you doing in Dubai?"
"Helping a prince insure his billion dollar car collection."
Jaws, meet floor. Pick them up quick, boys - who knows what shit is on there.
Honestly, I don't like to brag. It was a lot of hard work, starting at the bottom of a totem pole in a firm, working myself to upper management through blood, seat, tears and a bit of cocaine. Now I manage collections of art, cars, homes, etc of the filthy rich. The type of rich Oprah wishes she was.
"Well, I know who is paying for our drinks tonight!" Gary laughed.
"Speaking of..." Phil waved his empty beer bottle at me, "...I need a refill."
11:30pm and the 18-21 crowd is coming in, most already half drunk from pre-gaming at their homes or a local lounge. None of them even pay us any attention as the dance floor starts to fill up and we continue drinking our asses off, now and then slipping outside to the enclosed deck area for fresh air or a cigarette.
By the time 1am rolled around I was in a the men's room, draining about 10 beers and a few shots from my bladder, smelling of booze and pretty light headed. Normally it's a few drinks at a restaurant bar and I head home, it had been seen college that I had pounded this many back. Took my piss, shook my dick, remembered to stuff it back in my pants, wash my hands and then head out to find the guys. When I finally saw them again, they were out on the patio, smoking cheap, filtered cigars - and they were not alone.
"Steve! C'mere!" Phil slurred, "I want you to meet..."
"Sam!" Said this tiny girl with blond hair, tight fitting black top and skinny jeans, extending a small hand to me which I shook while probably having a stunned fuck look on my face.
"Sam is one of my waitresses!" Phil announced, throwing his arm over my shoulder.
Sam, full name Samantha, was a fresh faced 18 year old, though I am sure she got carded coming in here. Blue eyes, shoulder length hair that had been curled a bit for a night out. A solid 8...maybe even a 9, with a bubbly voice and not afraid to be flirty as she plopped her ass in Gary's lap, nearly causing him to spill his rum and coke.
She was drunk as fuck.
Apparently Sam had been here with some friends but they had been partying much earlier and harder than we were and split - she would have too if not for Phil who drunkenly offered to use my cash flow to keep buying drinks all night.
1:30am, last call. We're drunk, we're rowdy, and we can't keep our hands off Sam. Not that she minded. That girl went from lap to lap, stealing puffs of cigars. Half cut as I was, I got an instant hard on when her tight little ass in jeans pressed against my crotch.
"Ohhh, someone's excited!" She blurted.
"You blame him?" Josh said with what could be best described as smirk - worst, a lop sided, drunken grin of a lecherous old bastard.
