I love Las Vegas. You know it's really true what they say: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except for the memories. Now as I sit here on the plane back home after my conference, waiting for the flight attendants to close the doors so we can push back, I think back to last night.
Our conference had wrapped up around five p.m. My company had three seats for the dinner with the keynote speaker, but I passed mine off to a junior colleague--the guy who gave the keynote was fat, ugly, and had breath that smelled like rancid lake water. I knew because three times he had tried to corner me at the conference where he could talk to me close enough to try to look down at my boobs. He made my skin crawl. I felt like Princess Leia in Jabba-the-Hutt's palace every time he talked to me.
I hadn't been able to step out of the hotel where we were staying and where the conference was held all week, and I wanted to see a bit of the Strip. So I went to my room, got out of my coat and the slacks I had been wearing to keep my legs warm in the frigid ballroom, and I slipped on a pair of comfortable shorts. I debated if I wanted to change my blouse from business attire to something casual, but then I smiled at my tacky look in the mirror. This is Vegas. Who gives a fuck?
I slipped on some footie socks and comfortable walking shoes and headed back down to the lobby. When I stepped outside, the dry heat started to bake me. I will never get used to the desert. I work remotely... and when I say remote, I mean remote. My company's headquarters may be Toronto, but I live in a village in the Northwest Territories that's over one hundred miles from the nearest big box store, and our summer lasts maybe thirty days with daytime highs only about seventeen degrees (that's sixty-three for you monsters who still use Fahrenheit). It might not even get that cool overnight at this time of year in Las Vegas; and by the time I took five steps from the doors, perspiration was popping out all over my face. Goddammit--I needed to get back to air conditioning fast!
I walked as far as I dared before I was going to soak my shorts and blouse with sweat stains, and I ducked into one of the other hotels on the Strip. I didn't even see which one it was. I made straight for the ladies room and got in a stall to wipe the sweat off with some toilet paper. After a few minutes I was feeling cool once again and I stepped out and looked around to get my bearings. There was a bar with a sports book over there, and in the other direction was another bar that looked out over the casino. I'm not much of a gambler, but I like the musical noise of the slot machines and I could see the Craps table not far away. Sometimes it's fun to watch people as they win or lose money, so I headed over and sat down. I ordered a Captain & Coke--boring, I know, but it was my first drink of the evening, and I really didn't know what I was going to do. I knew what I wanted, but I couldn't be sure I would find it.
And then she walked into the bar. She was petite and blond, with a charcoal gray shirt featuring the logo of what I thought must be a local band, and some loose-fitting light-gray shorts. Her hair was the color of straw and fell to her shoulders in a beautiful mess. It didn't look like she had tried to style or perhaps even dry it after her last shower, but the way it hung there naturally was still so damn sexy. Her skin had a light tan--it wasn't pale like most non-Inuit people from my neck of the woods stuck as we were in the frozen tundra--but it wasn't quite as darkly tanned as most people I had seen on the Strip. Blond Straw, I thought--I liked making up nicknames for people that caught my attention, and that's the one I gave her.
She walked up to a barstool about five down from mine and craned her neck like she was looking for someone in particular. Then I heard the clink of keys dropping on the floor and she swore a mild oath. Blond Straw half-turned and bent down to pick up her keys, and I could see the top of her sexy black thong above the waistband of her shorts, and I could feel a tingle between my legs. Be still my beating heart! I thought. She put her keys on the counter, and then she sat on the barstool and started typing something into her phone. Probably waiting for her boyfriend or girlfriend, I thought, and she probably had expected them to already be here.
In a couple of minutes the bartender came from the back and took her order. I didn't hear what Blond Straw ordered over the sound of the casino behind us, and I tried hard not to be too obvious in checking her out. Her shirt wasn't tight, but I could tell enough to know that she had small breasts, perfectly matched to her frame. And as she leaned slightly forward and then back while typing on her phone, I could tell that the air conditioning in the hotel was a little chilly for her. Her perky little nipples poked at the front of that shirt. Not wearing a bra? I thought, and the heat between my legs grew a little warmer.
I nursed my drink until Blond Straw had finished hers. In that time, three people had approached her and talked to her. One was probably old enough to be her grandfather and seemed none too steady on his feet. She mostly ignored him.
Another was a woman who might have once been a knockout thirty years and fifty pounds ago. She wore a blouse three sizes too small, especially considering her boobs were the size of party balloons, and with every step I was afraid for the poor woman that buttons were going to pop off of it. Bustin' Out was the name I gave her. Bustin' Out stepped up and put a hand on Blond Straw's shoulder. The poor girl was so focused on whatever or whoever she was messaging on her phone that she actually jumped like she was startled. She turned in my direction to look at Bustin' Out and I could finally see her face clearly. Blond Straw was gorgeous and relatively young. I doubted she was drinking a virgin version of whatever she had, so I knew she must be at least eighteen--no, wait, this was the United States... was the age twenty-one in Nevada or something else? She couldn't be more than twenty-three I guessed, so I presumed she was at least a year or two younger.
Bustin' Out took a step back, clearly embarrassed that she had startled Blond Straw. I heard the alto murmur of the older woman's voice--whatever she said was again masked by the sound of the casino. Bustin' Out was trying to put a reassuring hand on Blond Straw's shoulder, but the body language of the younger woman said, no thanks. It was clear the girl was trying to be polite; it was also clear that attention from Bustin' Out wasn't what she was seeking.
Then I saw Douchebag walking toward the bar. Douchebag is a name I give to any man that deserves it. You know the type. He's in his late forties to mid fifties, he has a South Beach tan and usually a Cuban or Hawaiian shirt that is unbuttoned nearly to his navel and a forest of gray hair spilling out. And dollars to donuts he is wearing a necklace with a gold razor blade on it. Most of the time Douchebag has a beer gut. This time he didn't; but he was wearing cargo shorts and he was walking to the bar like he owned the whole damn casino. He could see Blond Straw's body language as easily as I could, and he thought he was going to be her white knight. Douchebag walked up and placed his palm on Blond Straw's back, rubbing it familiarly. She jerked her head around toward him immediately, and then Bustin' Out did something that actually earned my respect. She chose a new target.
As Douchebag tried to introduce himself to Blond Straw, Bustin' Out walked around to the far side of him and draped an arm across his shoulders, then she pushed those big party balloon titties right into his neck so that when he turned her direction, his face was full of them. Normally, I'm not a fan of big boobs, but every now and then they come in handy. You go girl! I thought.
Whoever Blond Straw had been waiting for had not shown up after almost fifteen minutes. I couldn't be sure, but I had to take a chance. If I wanted anything out of this last night in Vegas, I would have to toss the dice. I caught the bartender's attention, and I told him I wanted another Captain & Coke, and I wanted to buy Blond Straw another of whatever she was drinking for her trouble. He nodded, and when he went to Blond Straw, I saw her quizzical look and then the bartender pointed at me. I nodded and smiled politely, not wanting to approach if she preferred to be left alone. She had enough unwanted attention for one day.
