AB and I have our t-shirts and we’re heading to the strip show. AB is sipping his 44 oz. rum and coke with gleeful abandon and trying to come up with feminine names for DMW: DMWette, DMWlina, DMWtilda, DMWgina.
“You know what I love about you, man?” AB asks as he’s getting further along on his trip to liver poisoning.
“What?”
“You don’t care what other people think. That’s fucking awesome.”
“Why should I care?”
AB thinks about it for a moment and nods thoughtful, “You’re right.”
“Look at DMW. The guy goes to the same gym as I do.”
“Yeah.”
“And every time he checks out a woman, he gets caught. You know what he does when that happens?”
“That fag checks out women?”
“Oh yeah, and then when they see him do it, his head bobs around in a million different directions like he wasn’t looking at her and he gets all fluster and blushes.”
AB laughs.
“The woman immediately veers away from him. When I check out a woman if she sees me, I just smile or smirk at her. You know what she does then?”
“No.” Long pull on his rum and coke.
“The least she does is smile back. Don’t hide the fact that you’re man.”
AB takes a big swig from his drink. A dark haired girl and her friends are walking past. AB glances up and down at the girl. She catches him looking and she smiles and says “Hello.”
“Dude.”
“I told you.”
There are free shows at the Bellagio and crowds all about. A blond is dancing to the music in front of us. AB decides to take pictures of the girl. When the show finishes, I tap the girl and say, “I saw you dancing.”
She flushes, “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It was the best part of the show, a little practice and maybe you’ll end up on Dancing with the Stars.” The girl laughs.
If only AB hadn’t been in a hurry to get to the strip show. . .
The show itself was nothing I’ll bother writing about, although AB and I debated the various attributes of the girls, and which was the best. AB is definitely a breast man. I prefer the thin ones with the pretty faces.
Afterward, I tell AB I’m tired and hitting the sack. Then I head out into the night.
The opportunity to do the apocalypse opener presents itself in one of the lounges and I give it a whirl again. The bleach blond woman laughs with surprise and delight and then tells me, “it’s not going to happen.” Although she touches my arm while she says that.
“That’s cool.” I respond and talk to her as if we were just friends. She tries to coax me into buying her a drink. I refuse. Things start to unwind at this point and eventually she excuses herself.
It is difficult to find women alone in most settings in Vegas. Like I said, the fountains and atrium of the various hotels seemed to be better suited to me.
At Encore, or Wynn or maybe it was some other casino, they all start to blend after a while, I see a woman wearing red staring at a glass statue of a nude woman. I approach. She has short blond hair and an elfish face.
Glancing over I say, “It’s nice to see a woman that has the courage to wear something other than the little black dress everyone else is wearing.”
She smiles and glances over at me. There’s a little bit of flush.
I touch her shoulder and point up at the statute, “I see we both appreciate the same kind of art.”
She laughs and her hand touches me lightly on the arm.
It takes very little effort to convince her that she can meet up with her friends later and go bar hopping with me. We switch to about five different bars, on our way making fun of other people’s clothing, or style choices, or even the simple fact that all the black dresses look exactly the same . . .
I wake up the next morning and realize that I don’t know her name. I tell her I’m meeting up with some friends in a couple minutes. There is one last long kiss before she leaves that makes me wish I did know her name and where I could find her.
(The apocalypse opener probably works for some men, it might even work for many, but so far it hasn’t for me.)
AB. DMW and UMG are eating at the same Buffet. We’re headed to the airport in the afternoon. DMW is again on the phone. He rejoins us and makes the statement that he deserves and apology from TAW.
I think I actually bared my teeth at this. AB is rolling his eyes and whispers in my ear, “That stupid fucker, I guarantee he’ll be the one apologizing when we get back.
I grunt in agreement. We head over to Circus Circus. The place smells like piss and sweat. The Adventure dome is closed so whatever fun there might be had there, it isn’t happening. We pass a place that gives temporary tattoos.
“Hey, we should get one of those!” I suggest.
DMW’s lip quivers, “I don’t know.”
AB joins in, “We could all get the same one. How long do they last?”
“Four weeks.” Says the tattoo artist.
“It would be funny,” I say, “We can tell everyone that we got drunk and the next morning we woke up with a tat.”
AB suggests that I get a set of ass antlers.
“We could all get a heart with TAW’s name down the middle of it on a ribbon.” I suggest.
DMW is sputtering and dithering and then finally says, “I’m not getting a tattoo, I don’t trust those guys.”
“It’s a fake one. You’re not getting actually ink done.”
He shakes his head like some poor kid with a disability.
“Fine.” We head out and head to the airport on the shuttle.
Through the security gate we run into the girls we know. One of them sees the Hooter shirts and laughs while saying: “You guys went to Hooters!”
AB and I give the big thumbs up.
DMW walking looks down at the ground and sputters out, “Those guys did. I didn’t. I had a successful tit free weekend.”
If DMW thought that was going to win points for taking the moral high ground, than it was an utter failure. All the women looked at him and their faces registered disgust. The guy fell at least three rungs down the ladder socially.
The END for DMW.
