The guy who looked most like a bitch had the hottest bitch in the bar. He was a short aging rocker with eyeliner and long stringy hair and a lip piercing and was almost more feminine than his girl. From ten feet away I could not spot a flaw in her appearance.
There was a hooker with a going price of $500. If the first question out of their mouth is “Where are you staying?” then you know they are a hooker. Problem with spotting hookers is that every other non hooker-girl dresses like a hooker too. With the help of a can of hair spray, four inch heels, blonde dye, dim lighting, and a black cocktail dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, 6’s were now 8’s. A gallon of makeup can hide just about anything and any girl who wasn’t morbidly obese could elevate herself into hot girl status. All for just a few hours of work.
The only purpose of Las Vegas is to part a man from his money. (Fyi I lost $300 at blackjack). Men literally lined up to part themselves from their money at the casino clubs, begging to grease the bouncer to enter in addition to paying a $30 or more cover charge. Even guys who are dropping hundreds or thousands on tables had to wait in line.
The first night I went to Body English club at Hard Rock with my partner in crime. The girls were friendly and opening was easier than back at home. The hottest girls I talked to since South America would maintain eye contact with me and smile as I talked. But conversations didn’t last as long as I liked. Sometimes it was just a standard cockblock but other times the girls would excuse themselves to some guys table to get free drinks. More than half the club was dedicated to table service. It seemed like every guy was throwing alcohol their way and besides that the only game I saw here was tatted up body builders wearing Affliction t-shirts.
Second night we went to Blush lounge in the Wynn Hotel, a place some Wall Street trader told me was “the most superficial place in the world.” He said I don’t belong there and I agreed, but this was the special Vegas weekend and I had to party like a rockstar or something. When it comes to slowly losing my money at the $10 blackjack table or hanging out in a club with rich and beautiful idiots, the decision is hard.
I got a couple numbers from the friendlier club girls but I knew nothing would happen. Same night or bust. Plus girls had a “one for all, all for one” mentality (no soldier left behind). Hope of easy sex grew dim until we were led to the bar inside Hard Rock’s casino. There was no line, no cover, no loud music, and an interesting mix of UFC wannabes, hookers, fake breasts, local girls, and out of towners. A fascinating place where every girl wore high heels instead of flip flops.
It was four of us now. The shots were big and by 4am one guy got kicked out and puked in front of the lobby and another was sleeping in the garage. A stunning and gentle 18-year-old named Kylie stuck by my side until her “cool” mom took her away, a 30-year-old woman blonde lawyer from LA who said I was “mainstream but trying not to be mainstream” found out about the Turkish kiss, and a 47-year-old attractive Italian woman wanted to bang me. Even at 4am there was still fresh girls rolling in from whatever shithole club they went to, probably the one that, believe it or not, had the slogan Status Is Everything.
By the the time the sun was coming up it was just me and a gutter slut with some sort of beret hat. She was talking her head off and I all I could do was nod and say “Yeah?” because I was trying to not vomit on her face. I don’t know if I didn’t get the urge to take my camera out of my jean pocket because she was a monster or because I didn’t remember having a camera in my pocket, but she definitely was not one of those model chicks I saw on the arms of wealthy looking guys that zip right into the club and make me question the starving artist lifestyle. Either way thank god what happens in (…)
Climbing over fences, clenching wet napkins at the blackjack tables, escaping in the morning, lost walking through a Sam’s Club parking lot, sharing a bed with another man, disappointment the adorable big-eyed girl is a hooker and not really into me, one and a half meals a day, stealing other people’s drinks, not getting into the club, getting into the club, perma-hangover, and being reminded why I stopped playing poker, the most boring card game on earth. Seven days was too much.