It was a Thursday night, and I was half a 10-year-old bottle of Armand de Brignac Brut deep in the back of a stretch Cadillac. After closing on a mind-staggering deal that would move my boss a few notches up on some Forbes or Financial Times list, it was time to celebrate. Being the only transplant from the East Coast to join the team, I was expecting yet another round at the poker tables at the Bellagio when my fellow executives said this win needed to be honored the "Vegas way." Instead, all 5 of us were crossing the county border, headed to a brothel.
"It's legal over there," Rick slurred, speaking slowly as if I were a remedial kid.
"I know," I said. "But couldn't we just book a suite somewhere and have some girls brought over?"
"We could, but this is different," Rick insisted.
"There's something magical about going to an actual whorehouse. You know, like our forefathers did," Clark insisted.
There was a glimmer in his eye: I wasn't sure if it was the liquor or if he really believed there was something inherently poetic about hitting up a brothel. Either way, it got a chuckle out of me.
"If you say so," I shrugged.
"You're gonna fucking love it," he carried on. "It's a classy joint, too. The chicks are top-tier, as good as anything you'd get over in LA or Miami."
"Better!" Rick declared. "None of the wooing bullshit they expect you to do on Tinder. You take a girl out to the fucking Venetian for a lobster dinner that none of those college cocksuckers she jerks off at frat parties can even afford and then she won't even suck you off after. But if you say anything, you're a misogynist. It's fucking criminal if you ask me."
"So what's your type, Grayson?" This was Declan asking me. He had whipped out his phone. Clark was sitting next to him and had leaned over. "We're like half an hour away now. Everyone put in your order so they'll be ready for us."
"Whatever, as long as she looks good."
"Booooo!" Rick playfully elbowed me. "What the fuck are you, some sort of fucking feminist? Tits or ass?"
"Or legs? You motherfuckers always forget legs. It's a viable preference," That was Warren.
"He says legs when he actually means feet and he thinks we don't know," Clark laughed.
The phone was being passed around the car and finally got to me. I'm no prude -- or a radical feminist -- but there was something unsettling about swiping through real women like I was looking for a set of golf clubs. Unsettling, but exciting. I could feel the the familiar stir in my pants as I carried on scrolling. I suddenly understood the anticipation that filled the limo -- knowing that with no more effort than a simple click, any woman would be yours for a specified amount of time was exhilarating.
I landed on a blonde: Isla. She was a petite little number, with a dusting of freckles on a milky complexion. Her photos were shot in a pastel boudoir. The combination of her pink lingerie, large, blue eyes and golden hair that was in pigtails exuding innocence. Despite all this, her profile promised to give me "a porn star experience that would have me begging for more" and the juxtaposition intrigued me.
"Jailbait is your thing?" Rick said as I handed him the phone.
"It says she's 21," I defended myself. Yes, I was nearly 15 years older than her. But that was nothing compared to some of my colleagues and their second wives or mistresses. "Remind me, what's the gap between you and the Russian piece you've got in the downtown building?"
The rebuttal elicited a laugh.
"First of all, she's Ukrainian," Rick rebutted. "Secondly, fuck you. When you get to my age, you'll realise nothing makes you feel alive like a younger woman."
"He's a dick, but he's right," Warren agreed. "They haven't been fucked over by guys like us long enough to turn into jaded bitches."
"I'll drink to that," Clark cheered.
We filled up with another round of cognac before the limo reached its destination.
Just an hour outside of Vegas, The Oasis was unassuming to those who were none the wiser. A security gate made way for a winding, driveway that led us to a sprawling Spanish neo-colonial. It reminded me of a development of villas in a luxury resort I had overseen in Oaxaca. It had been the first project my boss had trusted me to oversee, and it was how I landed up as the youngest executive in one of the best real estate investment firms in the country.
The driver opened the door and we practically tumbled out. I wanted to blame the alcohol, but it was probably just as much excitement. Everything I knew about bordellos was from movies, and I enjoyed the cliche when on brand, a beautiful, olive-skinned brunette dressed like an Old West harlot ushered us into the lobby. Even though she was subtle, I could see the once over she gave us with her green gaze. Our current disposition (stumbling out a limo, Rick ogling her with his tongue practically out, what I'm sure was the scent of booze emanating from us) gave the vibe of a rowdy bachelor party crew. I was sure we looked like we would be a bad time and lousy tippers. But a quick glance at Warren and Rick's Rolexes, Clark's Ferragamo oxfords and my slightly disheveled but clearly Tom Ford suit, she decided that we were worth their time.
"Evening, weary travelers," she smiled. "Welcome to the Oasis. I'm Jasmine."
"So happy you could have us, Jasmine," Rick grinned. "Damn, I didn't see you on the website. I bet you're like a VIP thing, aren't you? Well, I promise --"
"We booked online," I interjected. We could be in the lobby all night if we stood around watching Rick try and hit on a girl that would be way out of his league if he wasn't overpaid.
After scanning a code on Declan's phone, Jasmine began handing out tags. Other girls, in similar elaborate costumes came in to lead us to our rooms. We made our way into an elevator -- everyone got off on the second floor. I was the only one who disembarked later.
"We're going this way," my sexy guide led me down a corridor. "You'll have a great time. If I was a guy, she'd be my top pick."
Not that I needed the validation, but it felt good to know I was in capable hands.
The first thing I noticed was that the room wasn't what I was expecting. It was a stereotypical boudoir, with a lush black carpet. The walls were a deep red and the glossy, black ceiling had warm lights. Most of the illumination was coming from a crystal chandelier that shone dimly, adding to the ambiance. A four-poster bed served as the centerpiece, with black lace curtains draped on the poles, revealing the burgundy silk bedspread.
"Get comfortable, I'll be out in a sec!" came a voice.
