Reno, Nevada -- a glistening turd in a vast stretch of desert. Not the kind of place one goes on vacation unless they're looking for a hooker. Of course, 26-year-old me didn't know this. I was cutting across the American Southwest in a rented Dodge Neon. I stopped at all the roadside attractions, sampled local cuisine, and hopped the Mexican border once or twice. I was an adventurer: seeking out my fortune with the vacation time I'd accrued.

In Reno, I'd spent the day wandering the city and taking in the local color. I checked into a cheap motel that was probably used by meth heads and hookers, with the linoleum peeling in the bathroom by swollen, sweaty pipes.

At night, after cleaning up in the tepid motel shower, I cruised around for clubs. None of them seemed to cater to my particular music tastes, so I just wandered into one, paid the five dollar cover, and hung out. I could tell right away that it wasn't my usual scene. Luckily, I chatted up a few people who seemed like they were also tourists:

"Hey, how you doin'?" I said, extending my hand and slapping it against another man's. "Jack."

"Brian." He replied, then began pointing to each of his friends. "Matt, Bill, and also Jack."

I give Jack 2 a nod. Brian, who is clearly the leader of the group, asks me, "You come here a lot?"

"Nah, man. I'm from Chicago."

"Ah, no shit? Bill's from Joliet."

"I'm sorry!" I say jokingly to Bill. We laugh and I stand up halfway, pointing to each of them. "Shots?"

I get a resounding "Fuck yeah!" from the group, and I return with tequila for all.

We bullshit like this for a while, and I'm mostly enjoying the company. I'd been alone for the better part of a week, and with nothing but your own thoughts, you start to get a craving for human contact. A few minutes pass before a girl suddenly comes up, sits on my lap, and says, "Hi!"

"All right, I'm starting to like this town." I reply with a grin. "How you doin'?" I say in my best Matt LeBlanc impersonation.

It's 2004. Friends is still a popular show.

She giggles and points at a guy on the dance floor: late-twenties, button-up shirt with the top two undone, frosted hair. He danced with all the pomp and swagger of a man who probably worked in an executive position somewhere -- a guy who was used to getting what he wanted. "What do you think of that guy?" She asks.

I scrutinize him for a bit and nod. "He looks like he's having a great time."

"I don't know if I want to go home with him."

I laugh. I see where this is going. "It's your call, darlin'. You wanna chill with us?"

"Really?!" Her face lights up. "You'd do that for me?"

"Sure, whatever." I say, nodding to the other guys, who now look bewildered at what's happening. Brian lowers his head and shakes it, but he's smirking. He knows what's up.

She gets up and smiles before going back to the dance floor. I lean back and chuckle, turning to the other guys and shrugging. A few moments later, she comes back, sits on my lap again, and takes a sip of my beer. She curls her lip up and says, "Ewww. You should get me a drink."

"Tell you what: how about you get some cash from your friend. He looks good for it."

"Okay!"

She bounces up and talks to him on the dance floor. Now, he turns back to me and gives me the stink eye, but he hands her some cash and she goes to the bar. Meanwhile, he continues to glare at me as she comes back with a mixed drink and another beer. She hands the beer to me and sits next to me this time. The guy on the floor comes by and introduces himself, shaking my hand as hard as he can. Fortunately, I apply just a tiny bit of pressure to the nerve cluster around his radial pulse with my index finger, and all his squeezing is nullified (useful trick, everyone, if you shake hands with someone who is trying his best to crush you). She tells me that the two of them are in town on business, selling dental supplies or some shit. At this point, I can't really hear her because the bass starts kicking up. When the music gets louder, the guy starts smirking and twerking on her like a stripper.

Everyone laughs.

He proceeds to grab her hand and drag her back to the floor, then gives me a dirty look and points at his eyes, then back to me, as if to say, "I'm watching you, fucker."

They go to the dance floor and start arguing. I approach cautiously, because this guy's body language is looking a little hostile. I ask, "Everything all right?"

Suddenly, the guy turns to me, pushes his finger in my face, and yells, "Fuck you, man! I will fucking kick your ass!"

I hold my palms up and nod at a guy wearing the club bouncer shirt, pointing the hostile guy out to them. Out of the shadows, four of them surround the guy from all sides and watch intently. I stand back while they argue, until she finally says, "Go! Get the fuck out of here!"

He leaves in a huff. She looks at me and shakes her head. "I'm so fucking embarrassed."

"Hey, don't worry about it." I say reassuringly. "Come on, you left your drink."

We bullshit for a while before she asks me to dance. I get up and do so, but halfway through she shakes her head and says, "I'm sorry, that was just too fucking embarrassing."

"It's cool, darlin'. You wanna get out of here?"

"Yeah."

We get to talking and I find out she's staying at one of the nicer hotels. She says we should hang out there, but just me, not my friends. I tell her to lead the way, and we take my rental to her hotel room.

We make out in the elevator up to her floor. When we get to her room, we go to down, tearing each others' clothes off. She clearly works out a lot, and with the alacrity of her hands tearing at my clothing, it's clear that she's done this many times before. So we start having sex, but after a few seconds it becomes clear that she's a girl who is used to doing nothing. Hot chick syndrome, I call it. Fortunately, I power through and use her body as I see fit.

Things take a turn for the worse, however, when I have her from behind. She stops making noise and starts going rigid, and I slow down long enough for her to get out a labored, "I feel si--" before projectile vomiting all over the bed and parts of the wall.

My erection is dead instantly.

She coughs and slumps over, groaning, her face practically green with chunks of vomit stuck in her hair. I've been a medic for a few years at this point, so I manage to keep my composure, but it's difficult at first. I take off the condom and check her vitals to make sure she's not about to die. Then, satisfied that she was just drunk and shaken up like a soda bottle, I roll her on her side and slink off to the bathroom to clean up.

After I get dressed, I check on her again. She's passed out completely, her bed covered in vomit. The smell is a mix of booze and god knows what else. I check her breathing one more time before letting myself out.

When I get to the elevator -- which is one elevator in a concourse of multiple elevators -- who should emerge from the one door that opened?

You guessed it: club guy.

There's a moment of panic, confusion, and unbridled anger. He looks at me with a rage I've never seen and yells out, "Motherfucker!" before winding up and hurling the biggest haymaker I've ever seen at my head.

Training takes over. Years of sparring with my dad, boxing, and bar brawls have prepared me for this moment. I duck, my elbow rising to the side of my head instinctively, his fist swinging over my head and tagging the edge of the elevator door. He lets out a loud curse at the dull impact which probably messed up his hand before I come up like a coiled spring and slam the ridge of my hand into his neck. He gags and I push him back into the elevator, grappling with him until I manage to get behind him and put him in a rear-naked choke. Clawing at me, his feet kicking, obviously a little drunk, he desperately tries to get out. But within a few moments, his body goes limp and I set him down on the floor.

I check his pulse: he's fine. He'll probably wake up with the worst headache of his life, but he'll live.

And then, the reality of the situation kicks in again. I'm in a fancy hotel. There's cameras everywhere. I think for an instant before muttering to myself, "Stairs!"

I rush down six flights, hopping the railing whenever possible. When I get to the lobby, I wipe the sweat from my brow, take several deep breaths, and casually walk outside. My pace quickens in the parking lot, my mind ablaze with thoughts of lawsuits and police inquiries. I make it to my car and tear off into the night, stopping by my motel to grab all my shit before checking out and heading for the California state line. I didn't look back.