Bachelor Party Paranoia

This is my first time so be gentle. I'm very fortunate to have a benefit that a lot of first time writers don't and I appreciate it more than anyone will ever know. I had one of the best editors on this site or any other edit my story and transform it from gibberish to literate. So thanks very much to Mikothebaby for taking her time away from real writers to help me. Of course there's also this guy in the background who loves me, but couldn't possibly love me as much as I love him. This is a very short story (my attention span is...what were we talking about?) unfortunately there's no overt sex in it so you guys will have to get your masturbatory aids elsewhere. Hope you like it. Kat86

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I guess I should start out by thanking some of you guys and telling others of you to fuck off. This is going to be a weird little story. It's the first one I've ever written and it's partially true but also partially fiction.

Separating the true parts from the fable is going to be easy because I'm going to tell you. I actually want you to know which parts are true because this story is meant to serve as a warning.

I joined this web site a little under a year ago. After a year of crying and hiding, I was beginning to get over my divorce.

I was twenty five years old, pretty I've been told and an Ohio girl born and bred. I first came here because I liked reading the stories about people who've been through bitter divorces and moved on with their lives.

Of course, I have yet to read a story that's like mine but the stories helped me feel better anyway. That's the part where the thanks and the fuck offs come in.

When I first joined Literotica, I guess I saw it like Facebook with stories. I created a profile and posted my picture and soon got a lot of emails. That was when I discovered that this wasn't Facebook.

Most of the emails wanted to know what size my titties are and if they're real. The rest wanted me to upload a shot of my butt. It got so bad that I took the picture down. Those guys are the ones who get the fuck offs.

On the other hand, I started reading a lot of loving wives stories. I liked the fact that in the best of them, the cheaters got their asses punished, unlike that dick I was married to. Loving wives is a strange category. Some of the stories were written by or about women who are just whores. I hate those bitches. They remind me of the women my ex screwed around on me with.

I actually asked some of you guys who were the best writers in LW and believe it or not, some of you actually answered and gave me serious lists. I compared the lists and there were a few names that were on all of the lists. After reading a lot of stories, I suddenly knew what I liked.

One writer really floated my boat. Since most of the stories in LW are written by men and feature cheating wives, I often imagined that it was the husband who cheated in those stories and saw myself as the innocent and virtuous wife. But in this guy's stories there was always a new woman who came into the hero's life. Besides being able to see myself as the good woman, I also began to feel hope in real life.

I became pretty sure that there was someone out there for me too.

Here's where real life got funny. My baby brother (he'll hate that) sells custom and performance auto parts over the internet.

I was borrowing his computer one day (he still lives at home) and left the web page open while I went to get a snack.

When I got back, he was laughing at me. I told him that he didn't understand and he laughed even more. He told me that those kinds of stories were written by guys who hated women and just wanted to kill them all. He read them himself every time some girl dumped him before he dumped her.

I told him that this guy's stories were different. And he didn't hate women.

"Then why does he live with his daughter and three cars and never date?" he asked.

We ended up arguing about how he knew all of that stuff until I beat him into telling me that he knew my favorite author. I also promised to do his laundry for a month if he'd introduce me.

It went great. I met him at the Woodward Dream Cruise in Michigan last year. He took one look at me and promptly ignored me. He and my brother talked about cars for a while with me just standing there.

So I did what any Ohio girl would do or any woman with high moral values and self-esteem would do. I stalked him. It took months but I got him. We're getting married during dream cruise weekend this year. We've been living together for about six months and I'm happier than I've ever been.

We've had a few issues. My dad, a proud Ohio state grad almost had a heart attack when I told him I was moving "up there." (That's what he calls Michigan - he never says Michigan.)

So you can imagine my shock when my sweet future hubby told me that he had been invited to a bachelor party for one of his coworkers. He told me that one of his friends wanted to use this as a dress rehearsal for his bachelor party.

All of a sudden, I had visions of my sweety cavorting with strippers and other women of ill repute. It's not that I don't trust him. I trust him more than anyone I know. But I don't trust them whores.

Strippers with their giant fake titties and pneumatic backsides can tempt almost any guy.

Over the next ten days, I gave him a whole list of things that I would be really hurt to have happen at that party or his.

The easiest way to lose a guy is to tell him what to do, so I just told him what would really hurt me. He was fine with the list and he smiled at me. It really, really makes me hot when he smiles at me.

But back to the story (okay here's where the fiction part starts)

I was unloading the dishwasher the day of the party and I got to thinking. Most of you know how that is. But some of the comments I read have me believing that some of you really don't think.

I started thinking about him going to that party and I just saw all kinds of awful things happening in my imagination.

I saw some slimy stripper giving him a lap dance (that was on the no-no list. Giving him lap dances is my job). Then the bitch actually tried to get him into one of those VIP rooms. In her case, VIP must stand for Very Ignorant Pussy because there is no way I'd put up with that.

I looked at the clock. They were supposed to be leaving early and going to the club right after work. They were probably already there. I ran out of the house and got into my car.

I drive a red Mustang convertible. When my KIA started acting funny, my sweetie traded it in on this car and I love it. It's the best car ever.

I drove over to the club and there it was hidden in the back of the parking lot. Just seeing that flash of yellow, I knew he'd parked in the back. I went into the club. The bouncer didn't try to stop me. (I later found out he thought I worked there.)

I went into the room where I heard a bunch of guys yelling and some loud shitty heavy metal music playing. I recognized a lot of the guys. My sweety works with a few of them. How is it that guys with engineering degrees can become total morons when faced with a pair of titties? I looked around and did not see him. Then I noticed that in the corner of the room some skanky bitch was grinding on a guy who had on a familiar work shirt.

I was pissed. I remember telling him no lap dances. I grabbed the stripper by her greasy hair extensions and dragged her off of my man. I would deal with him later. I just started punching her in the face as hard as I could. After a couple of good shots, a guy tried to pull me off of her from behind. As he grabbed me, my elbow caught him in the eye and he let go of me and I kept punching her. Finally, the bouncer got his head out of his ass (or gave up his fantasy of watching two girls fight) and pulled me off of her.

My sweety's best friend asked me what the hell was wrong with me. I told him that slimy whore had no business grinding on my man.

"That isn't Tommy," (not his real name) he said. "Look at him."

And I did look at the guy. He was right, it wasn't Tommy. But he was wearing that same type of polo shirt with the company logo that Tommy wore.

"Dave, I know he's here. I saw his car out back." I started walking towards the door and Dave just shook his head.

He looked to where I was pointing. "That ain't a Mustang woman. You ought to know that since you drive one too. It is the same color as Tommy's Mustang but that's a Camaro. Tommy would be pissed at you about that." As we walked towards the car, I realized that he was right.

"Tommy decided not to come to the bachelor party," he said. "He didn't think you really wanted him to be here. He stayed at work. He's probably on his way home to you right now."

"Oh shit, gotta go," I said.

I jumped into my Mustang and drove home. I was just finishing up the dishes when Tommy walked into the house. When he looked at me, as usual, his eyes were full of love, and I got hot. I felt really awful for not trusting him.

"Honey, I had a thought," he said.

"Did it die of loneliness," I smirked (I've been dying to write about somebody smirking - I feel like a real writer now)

"Why don't we have our bachelor and bachelorette parties together," he said.

I loved that idea. The guest list for my party was my mom, his mom, my twelve year old sister and his ten year old daughter.

"I love you Tommy," I said, as I wrapped my arms and legs around him. Just then someone knocked at the door. Tommy went to answer it and came back with the strangest look on his face.

"It's for you, Honey," he said. "Is there something you want to tell me about?"

I looked outside and there were five police cars. There were two cops standing on the porch with their hands on their guns. Another three or four cops were perched on our lawn with their guns drawn.

Between the cops on the porch was that skanky stripper. Both of her eyes were black, she had a big bruise on her cheek and her lips were swollen up so big she could barely talk. She was holding an ice pack against her forehead and pointing at me yelling, "dath hur, dath da bitch".

I had pulled all of her hair extensions out on one side so she looked like a busted version of Britney spears.

The cops didn't appear to look happy and Tommy didn't either.

"Helen?" he said loudly

"I did a bad thing," I told him

The moral of the story is that we all need to trust our mates. I know it can be difficult, especially for those of us who've been divorced and hurt before. Okay fuck that. I sound like a psychologist, the real moral here isn't a moral at all. This isn't a kid's story, this is the real deal. The moral here is that real women are not going to lay down and let strippers or whores take our men, especially not me. This is the last time I intend to get married and this one is going to last until we die. So to that writer guy out there, you know who you are. This is why you're not having a bachelor party. Nuff said.