Thursday, October 25, 2007
After the epic endeavours of Friday night, I awoke on Saturday feeling queasy, shivery, and drained.
Five hours sleep just wasn't enough, so I ticked off another of my 'to do' list by hitting The Tropicana pool.
Seeking out a quiet corner of the pool complex, I stretched out on a lounger. The sun was strong, the air was hot, and I hoped to get some additional sleep. It wasn't to be.
Instead I spent the time profitably - catching up on phone calls to loved ones and friends - and less profitably - brushing up on some poker literature.
My fellow pool dwellers were feasting on beer and cocktails. I stuck to fruit juice and water. A long night lay ahead of me.
The not so faint scent of stale alcohol sweat alerted me it was time to go.
I returned to my room, giving a wide berth to fellow residents - and my prayers were answered when I found myself in an empty elevator.
The shower was calling, and I was soon thoroughly scrubbed and ready to get going.
The plan was to meet up at The Hard Rock Hotel. I was ahead of schedule.
Cheap blackjack at The Tropicana it was then. I joined an almost empty table, and as the evening progressed all the seats were filled.
The table was dull. One guy was teaching his wife to play, and would slam the table in disgust when the dealer outdrew them. Dude, it's $5 a pop I thought. Take a chill pill.
I lost interest rapidly, and dropped a few dollars. Fortunately for me, things were soon to get a whole lot better.
The bellman looked like he'd be more at home pumping iron on a California beachfront. Blonde, tanned, buff. A ladies man I guessed.
Chatting on his mobile as I approached, he looked up disinterestedly.
'Cab for The Hard Rock please'.
His expression changed. Vacant eyes now gleamed. A broad smile sprang across his face.
'Break some hearts, sir!', he grinned, pocketing my tip as he held the cab door open.
Within minutes I knew exactly where he was coming from.
An MTV fantasy land lay before me. Italian supercars by the kerb, gorgeous girls in abundance, rock memorabilia on all sides.
An immaculate, beautifully lit venue, and a clientele that just oozed money and testosterone.
All contributed to a uniquely charged atmosphere - more club than casino - and an assault on the senses that stripped any semblance of fatigue from my body.
We dined at the Pink Taco. Mexican food - tasty without being over spiced - washed down with mammoth margaritas, served up rapidly and at surprisingly reasonable cost.
A good foundation for the night ahead. A quick detour to the MGM Grand for more blackjack, and we were soon on our way to 'The Rhino'...
At which point I'll draw a discreet veil over proceedings. There are other corners of the net where this tale will no doubt be relayed with infinitely more depth and passion than I can muster, by persons more closely involved than I.
Yet I can't resist two recollections:
The first girl to proposition me was on a loser from the moment she opened her mouth. I'm a big fan of early Steve Martin, and it was The Man With Two Brains all over again. 'Hi, my name's Fran.'
Breasts like enormous, swollen, silicone melons. The voice was the clincher. Screeching, grating. I'm sure dogs in the neighbouring block were looking around in confusion.
She gripped my arm like a drowning swimmer grasping at a piece of driftwood. Thrusting her surgical charms against me like the proverbial weapons of mass distraction, as she gave me the hard sell.
My ears urged me to escape. I made my excuses for the third time, and finally her perseverance waned.
My second observation is this.
When the deliverer of the lapdance is clearly enjoying it as much as the recipient.
When all activity has ceased at the next three tables.
When upwards of a dozen people - guests and employees - are gazing in open mouthed wonder at the unfolding scene.
You KNOW this is the best lapdance ever. And it wasn't even mine!