You can read about the rest of our bucks party adventures in Part I of this story.
Partying with the Elderly
A bus full of drunk Australian lads rattles its way back up the winding road away from Bobbin Head in Mount Kurin-gai National Park. Our four eskies full of beer have been reduced to a lonesome collection of Oettinger and Sol – not exactly the beer of kings.
The dire beer situation forced a stop over in Asquith to pick up some much needed refreshments. A duo of Tooheys Extra Dry cartons and a Hahn Super Dry carton were piled onto the bus and we ushered a few of our less adventurous (or more catatonic) companions out of the bus and onto a train bound for their homes.
Our lunchtime BBQ had become a distant memory to our famished stomachs, and so we wound our way through crowded streets and pulled up out front of the Asquith Leagues Club.
Our motley crew made our way through sign in while I regaled the security guard on hand with the tale of how my wallet was stolen on Christmas Eve while I was at midnight mass.
“God was angry,” I informed him, “Somebody’s going to hell“.
Behind me the second half of our group – split up so as not to arouse suspicions that we were a rowdy bucks party.
“What the hell are you guys doing lurking back there?” I slurred drunkenly, completely dispelling the carefully constructed illusion.
“Do I know you?” the best man asked, hoping I’d take the hint. I did not.
“Jesus,” I complained to the security guy, “You give a guy syphillis one time and he treats you like a total stranger“.
I then wandered off in pursuit of a beer and a pretty barmaid, leaving the security guard to inform my friends that this was “the best sign-in ever”.
Hold your applause folks. I’ll be here all night.
Our time at Asquith Leagues was not particularly exciting. While the girls at the bar seemed to appreciate (or at least smile indulgently at) our feeble attempts at flirting and our enthusiasm for our bistro meals when they were brought out, the average age in the place would have been 55+. Not exactly a happening night spot for a bunch of guys looking for a good time.
And so it was that we clambered back into the bus and went off in search of women of lower morale fibre…
Showgirls and Bucket List Item #169
The trip into the city was a bit of a blur for me. Truth is, I fell asleep for much of it. Being up since 5am and being drunk certainly aren’t conducive to wide eyes no matter how much [V] energy drink you slam down your gullet.
But soon enough we were in Sydney’s beating heart of sin and excess – King’s Cross.
Walking down the garishly lit streets put me in mind of my time in Las Vegas. Impossibly good looking girls poured into revealing dresses strutted past chattering loudly about some boy they’d met or how their hair-dresser was the absolute best in the world. Men reeking of cologne and beer staggered past telling tall tales while security guards eyed all of us impassively from their stations out front of various clubs, bars, and strip joints.
For some reason we were relying on one of the two gay guys in our party to find a strip club. He opted for Showgirls and the men at the door were only too happy to usher in a bunch of drunk guys. We forked over our $25 entry fees, paid through the nose for $9 Coronas, and settled into a booth that put us a little too close to one another
No man wants an erection while rubbing shoulders and knees with his compatriots.
At some point during the night – just as I was contemplating going home – a cute looking stripper with pig tails and obviously fake boobs made a show of ‘bumping’ into me.
“Oops!” she giggled as she rubbed her chest along mine, “I’m so clumsy“.
She had glitter around her eyes.
“I’m Taylor,” she said.
It’s the oldest trick in the book, but damned if it didn’t work.
Ten minutes later I’d forked over $100 for a private dance and the opportunity to check item number 169 off of my Bucket List.
#169 – Get a lap dance in a strip club – Done.
Sorry kids, no photos.
Once my dance was done it was time for me to make tracks. I had work in the morning and my long day had taken its toll. I said my goodbyes, got a kiss on the cheek from the lovely ‘Taylor’ as I left, and staggered back to Central Station for the ride home.
It was – as all bucks are – a thoroughly enjoyable and exhausting day. And a tad expensive as well.
And while the ‘no camera’ policy does mean I don’t have any good photos of the day, the groom-to-be was kind enough to text me this cute number to send you out with a smile.
