There are nights when I expect to get laid. There are nights when I hope to get laid. And there are nights when I'd rather lose all my money to a gaudy casino than think about women. On this night, boners were for jackpots and free Coronas.
I drove to Vegas for the weekend to attend a Saturday morning writer's workshop and hang out with Baba and McBride. McBride already had plans for Friday night, so Baba and I hit the strip alone. Since Baba had two cousins staying at the Bellagio for the night, we met them there around midnight. Having grown up in Jordan, their FOB factor was blatant. One of the cousins wore extra short orange Euro shorts, a small, tight shirt, and had a giant black camera dangling around his neck, yet he still did not think it odd or wrong to approach women in his get-up. Despite having John Stockton-like leg hair as well as poofy, uncombed hair that made it look like he'd just gotten out of a pool—which may have been true—he was all smiles, so we let him be. Since it was Baba's cousins' first time in Vegas (obviously), they decided on the agenda. Gambling was the choice. First it was craps, then roulette, and blackjack. Before long, we'd been at the tables for over three hours. Gambling has a funny way of eliminating the concept of time.
A little after two, the blackjack table was becoming stagnant. The dealer was depressed; the bozo next to me hit on a 15 when the dealer was showing 16; and there was a grumpy fellow three seats down who looked like Newman from Seinfeld. I needed a change.
A couple tables down, I heard a group of women making up words and cheering uproariously. Curious, I examined the commotion. Jackpot. Four milfs had an entire table to themselves, and, as if destiny was calling, there was one open seat. I grabbed my chips and quickly walked over to their table, smiling mischievously at them as I sat down in first position.
The table:
Dealer: A smiley, quiet Asian guy.
First seat: Me, Captain Rimjob.
Second seat: A freckly forty-something blonde wearing a sky blue sundress that seemed two sizes too big. At least four more beers until she was up for consideration.
Third seat: A hot, busty, blonde forty-year-old birthday girl with a white top, nipples protruding through the material. Primary target.
Fourth seat: A cute brunette with ugly, short acrylic nails and facial features that disclosed that she hadn't done much smiling in her lifetime. One more beer until consideration.
Fifth seat: A mediocre brunette with plain features, a flat, pancakey chest, and untoned arms that led to my immediate assumption that she had dumpy written all over her. She was the only one focused on her chip count. Sex appeal: N/A.
I was bombarded with questions immediately. I found out they were all in the medical field. Two were gynecologists; one was a nurse; and the hot one was a surgeon. When they discovered I was a teacher, they all complained to the dealer, "Teachers don't make enough money; give this guy a blackjack." It helped, and I began winning.
The busty one in Seat Three was stealing looks at me. I could sense it. When we made eye contact, I smiled. When we'd win, we'd all high five each other. Beneath the high ceilings of the Bellagio Casino, my expectations for the night took a sinister turn for the dark side. Sex was suddenly on the table.
The two gynecologists became concerned about me when I started getting up every twenty minutes to pee. "You may want to get your prostate checked out. Peeing that often could mean you have an enlarged prostate," one said. They all watched me get up.
"Don't worry. I'm only twenty-eight. I pee because I never puke," I said. Without another word, I walked to the bathroom, leaving them to wonder about the correlation between peeing and vomiting. I wish I were there to hear the probable discussion they had about my prostate/pee frequency/vomit factor/hotness/mysteriousness. If anyone is looking to become a millionaire, I recommend inventing a miniature-recording device that can be easily stuck underneath tables to record after-you-leave conversations. I would invent it myself, but I wouldn't know where to find the Guy Who Approves of All New Inventions.
Update: I heard Skymall already invented my idea. Never mind.
Baba and his two cousins came over, but after two gross hookers snatched his cousins away, it was just Baba and me. The cousins would eventually wind up throwing the hookers out of their room for charging $1,000 for sex.
Good wingmen are plentiful, but great wingmen are rare. Two come to mind. The first is Pico. During spring break in Havasu, Pico walked around with me telling girls that I had a nine-inch cock (a lie), which resulted in me making out with over forty girls in a three-day period. The second is Baba. Girls see Baba's soft features and sincere smile, and they are willing to tell him anything. So when Tera, the busty blonde in Seat Three, took a pee break, I sensed an opportunity.
"Uh, dude, tell Tera that you're going to take me away. See what she says," I told Baba. It was a test to see how she'd react. Baba walked toward the bathroom to intercept Tera on the way out.
A few minutes later, I saw the two of them walking together, smiling in the wake of their apparent conversation. Baba walked up to me. "'You are not taking Dave away from me.' That's what she said." Perfect. Now all I had to do was wait this out.
