Neither the Las Vegas skyline during the dawn of dusk just when the desert mountains in the horizon start to give way to sprinkles of neon lights up and down the avenue, nor the neo-trance music aimed to push young hearts into “funtoxication” complimented the fact that I was stuck at a nearly filled to capacity AARP Boulevard Pool venue gathering at the Cosmopolitan. Not that I am a sprouting bean but, at least two decades of life experience separated me from the next youngest attendee.
I remained at the edge of pool staring due south South towards the disappearing distance that made the strip lively. It is of little wonder why this place is known as Sin City. This is where capitalism thrives and people die; where hopes are lost and adventures won; where calves protrude and men intrude; where ignorance is of use to the women that know how to abuse. I stood chest out, shoulders back, and armed with morals dissecting and accusing the evil in the place that would have gratified me at different stage of my life.
Soon enough the cool of the night suffocated the avenue, with it taking the sole beauty that gave solace: those very distant mountains that gave this empty place a heartbeat. I wondered how, singles as well as couples being surrounded by so much irony, rejoiced at the potential to “succeed” or “fail”. Whatever those two verbs mean to anyone. I looked down at passer-bys, at busses loaded with cash(people) to embrace slot machines. They walked into the casinos in groups of coins, dollars, twenties and hundreds. Each with visions of wealth beaming out of their hopes. I wasn’t one of them; no sir, I wasn’t. I was the voice of reason, of honesty… and so I returned to my drenched prejudices to complain.
Standing in Sin City yet, I could hardly accept that even my one vice hadn’t been clenched. Cheap wine took the place of American Rye Whiskey. I sipped on white and red wine trying to fit in. Eventually, I struck a conversation with two mature women about their attire, my attire and their unexpectedly fit physiques. They were very educated women. They spoke of their young tree-hugging ways, college tuition, the state of American greed, the days of free drugs and, activism.
The Swiss women came to the desert for the same reason as I: to gain a competitive edge on the *competition* by attending an invitation only, business conference. The place finally didn’t seem as repulsive as I’d concluded earlier. They brought a pulse to a place in need of one. At 10 PM, the hosted party at the Boulevard Pool venue ended. They looked at me, asked to head down to the sports bar to watch the Rugby Championship.
They switched the cheap wine to cheap beer and began to root like only a soccer nation fan can. For a country disinterested in anything but American pride, a crowd gathered around us to root for a sport that will never again matter as it did that night. Their tight dresses, flexing arms, and perky butts had the attention of everyone each time they rose to cheer; me included. I still don’t think I saw much of the men but, I can vividly tell you what each was wearing and how many times I got a peek at their underpants tightly adjusted to their persona. I even caught a smile when each noticed my head tilted looking for a more appropriate viewing angle.
It took us a while to leave the sports bar after the game. We remained behind small chatting and flirting. Men after men failed to draw their interest away me. I was sort of happy about it, about the idea that they were there with me while everyone else attempted to infringe my joyful times. The harassment eventually got to the three of us. The one with long blond hair down to the small of her back stood up, grabbed my hand and in her native tongue instructed and motioned us to leave. We dashed out to the strip hailing down cabs. They ran ahead of me with their high heels in their hands in what appeared to be some sort of plot to leave me behind.
They stopped for a moment speaking to one of those very trendy fellows searching to make a quick buck by handing out strip club cards and directions to a good time. I caught up to them looking somewhat alarmed, I wasn’t really going to spend money at a strip joint to see teens spreading their ideas to me for a dirty dollar. Yet, that’s exactly what happened. The two women convinced me to join them in some sort of bodyguard duty to prevent drunken men from approaching them at the strip joint. Easy picking, I’m a gentleman and easily influenced as well. So, there wasn’t much to do but to accompany them.
A limo pulls up to the curb to pick us up. The “entrepreneur” who had succeeded bringing customers to the gentleman’s club hands us tickets for discounted entrance and free drinks. We hop inside the limo and by golly of cheap spirits and wine, the women pull out a bag full of cocaine. I stare at it, they stare at me and proceed to inform me that we would be having that at the club. Ha! Plenty of time for me to plan an escape.
We spoke about our families back home, traded pictures and laughs. Once at the club we were directed right to the back. The worst of fears scared my feet cold. I should have fled at that point but, for whatever reason I followed them to the back of the room where red night lights allowed just enough visibility to see alluring figures staring in our direction. We wedged ourselves in a corner, opened up a tab to be expensed as business entertainment then began to drank the night away until a suitable candidate came to give my companions a lap dance.
I stared more at the women enjoying the dance than did I at the gal fully nude parading her well sculpted physique in all directions. I washed them kiss the striper, slap her ass and touch themselves. I hadn’t felt that much vigor since losing my virginity at twenty six years of age. The bag of coke held firmly in my hand. What in the world was I to do with it? I had never ever held one. I looked it, placed it on the table in which the stripper danced then, the woman with shoulder length blond hair grabbed it from me and asked the stripper to leave. Off to the bathroom we went. All three of us, half wasted, jammed into a stall drawing lines of cocaine atop the toilet paper dispenser.
We traded line snorts, kisses and gropes until about a quarter of the bag was left. We walked back to our spot; I watched them get one last dance from the very same girl then left in search of a regular bar with cheaper drinks and less of a greed for cash. A beggar accompanied us for some twenty minutes of a walk time to a rather cowboy-sh looking bar. I ordered some more cheap beer as did they. While they got lost in the bathroom to finish off the white substance, the bartender, a sweet young girl from back east brought me a wet cloth to wipe my nose that revealed to have just sinned. We struck a friendly conversation until the girls returned. We spoke of her mostly, of me, well, what led to the happy nose and what not.
At the bar we danced to country songs and sang until the mixture of alcohol and street drugs sent us into the street exited to find the way back to the Cosmopolitan on the south end of the strip. More of the same continued during the ride back to the hotel. The girls took turns sitting on my lap kissing me and grinding pelvis against my pants. In all honesty, against my unbuckled pants with more of me than should have been out peeking back at them. I zipped up and stared at their bottoms as each exited the taxi. We laughed through the casino and into the elevator to the west tower. I clicked my floor on the elevator… they theirs.
We stood on opposite ends of the elevator, laughing, breathing heavily and deviantly looking at one another. My floor, the 48th, came first. The doors didn’t really get a chance to open much before the lady with the long blond hair down to her waist pressed the “close door” button repeatedly. “Be a gentleman and walk us to our quarters, won’t you?”
I didn’t even know I responded because by the time my body managed to find an equilibrium between sanity and drugged induced oblivion I sat naked on the bed looking up at them on the inside ledge of the window butt naked dancing for me.
Their bodies could have been clones of one another other. The type of body that young American women are sold as a must by propaganda. They differed from each other in bodily hair. One was bald down below; the other had a landing strip. Maturity had never looked this delicious. The bag of coke still had some life in it. The one with the long hair down to the small of the back and landing strip stayed up seducing me from a window. The second girl came down, slide her tongue inside the bag — it came out white in residue — then, she kissed me numb.
Covered in sin I grabbed a fistful of hair and directed her towards my cock. She sucked with an experience I had yet to live. The soft, thin and straight hair tickled my lap, a tickle that had me fantasizing about the long hair of the woman still dancing on the inside ledge of the window. Both of us stood up simultaneously and walk in that direction. On the nightstand, an opened Whistle Pig bottle of Rye looked at me. I reached over, grabbed it and brought it with me. I still wonder how it got there. We stopped in front of the window where I looked up straight at the pussy of the beautiful dancer in front of me. Through the break of her inner thighs the city gleamed at me. I took a deep breath, inhaling what residue was left of cocaine on my nose, and thought about all that was to remain behind when I left Vegas.
I dropped my head to realize I was being orally stimulated. Suck and suck, gag and gag, the noises of a stellar performance. On the ledge, legs spread, speaking in her native tongue coupled to “Viva Las Vegas” in that sweet accent, said the second lady. She looked towards the nightlife missing on feeling alive along with us and shook her ass after running one of her digits right split down the middle. She arched her back and I stuck my face right where the warmth of Las Vegas knew I would like. I bit, licked, sucked pussy and ass. Her hair tickled my face fancy, tickled my dick harder. She tasted of lust waiting to come out without care or judgment.
She must still have my paw prints on her butt. What do I know! I don’t even recall but waking up mid day with the two passed out by my crotch with stains of dried cum on their faces. “Not bad,” I thought to myself then, stood up inspected their bodies for quite a long time and, awoke them to say goodbye.
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I’m told; but, what am I do to with the moral injury leaving with me? At home it surely doesn’t feel the same as it did coked up, drunk and with my penis being shared by two women.