For as long as I can remember, I have made jokes about being t-bagged because it’s just such a ridiculous thing. My male friends in high school–The Metal Heads–were always going back and forth with me, joking that they were going to put their balls on my face. It wasn’t a serious thing and I don’t think anyone actually wanted to do it.

Well, maybe they did, but probably just to get me to shutthefuckup. I mean, wouldn’t you?

But no one took me up on that. Well, until the smokin’-hott stripper for my bachelorette party showed up.

Now he was a surprise to me, one that I had a mere 2 hours to psych myself up for. I had expected a stripper that is hired totally last minute would be nasty; a filthy 50 year old man with chest and back hair, and a belly like Danny Devito. Or someone akin to Cletus the slack-jawed yokel, red mullet and dangly ball bag. I dunno.

But dude. NO. He was actually hot.

Without rocking any sort of buzz, I was reduced to a gooey giggly mess of bride-to-be, for all of my friends to see. Because what else can you do when a naked hot dude starts rubbing his junk all up on you but laugh your ass off?

And then, in the midst of the humping, and the mock muff-diving, he climbed up on me and put his balls on my face. Rubbed his balls on my face. For what seemed like hours. I was suffocating in the fumes and enormity of it all.

His balls, my face, all in front of my friends. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so I think I did both. I wept into his ball bag until he finally pulled his sac off of me and I could breathe again. Never has air tasted so good.

Next time I get married, I am SO eloping.