What happens in Vegas...

It was ten till 4am when the car came to a hault in the parking structure of the Palace Station. Being a Thursday evening, Friday morning, there wasn't much traffic at this off the beaten path casion. We parked, steped out of the truck and streched. Four better than average looking college men, dressed comfortably, eyes blood-shot from the Aderol, hot Las Vegas air, and 8 hour drive moved towards the casion door. The weekend was young and so we're we. Anticipation made me sweat more than the sicky thick air of the city.
The casion was dead. Big suprise. The only people that gamble at this ungodly hour, especially at this place, are depraved sickos. Our kind of people, we'd be joining them in nights to come. Hastily we pushed through the casino, still fuel by anphetamines and eager to participate in the degredation of Sin City.
As expected the loby was a bust. Our earliest option for check in was noon. At best we were eight hours from a bed, well, a bed we could call our own for the weekend. We were always close to a strangers bed. Stepping back into the steaming hot night Corry flaged a cab. The only cab. A portly hispanic man sat snuggly behind the wheel of a van taxi. My party situated it's self and with a thick spanish accent the cabbie asked "Where too guys."

"The strip" I answered matter-of-factly. And a grumble of approval came from the boys.

"A strip club?" repeated the cab driver.

Wide eyes with huge pupiles darted around the cab begging to see naked women. We all knew where we wanted to go, and we all knew where we should go. We started to talk it out. The strip or a strip club? It was 4:15 am on a friday. What was realy going on at the strip? We couldn't go to a club beacuse two of our boys were under 21. We could just walk and gawk. See the lights, kill time. Check in, then start blowing money. Or we could see some snatch. Maybe there are girls on the strip, we could go to their hotel. Party with girls with out the inconvience of a bouncer snorting hot fire as you toe the line between stripper and call girl.

The cab came to a hault. An executive decision had been made with out our knowlage. Our drive, Jose, decided for us. As we opened the door the lights of Little Darlings turned everything around us a not so subtle shade of pink. The cab glowed as if it too was producing the pink hue. More than deciding for us, come to find out, Jose had decided for him self. He didn't want to take his last fares to the strip, too much work. He killed the meter and came in with us. I knew he would get a kick back from our cover, they all do. I think Ryan knew it too, but the underagers, I don't think they knew. This act of benefecince would be rewarded, regardless of my partys nievity. Jose was getting a lap dance and we no doubt paid for it. Good for him.

I like Las Vegas for many reasons, and many of them are always on display at the titty bars. One of the better reason, at least in my humble opinion, to like Vegas is that the insides of gentlemens clubs smell just like the outside. The entire city smells like smoke, booze, and sex. Just like any good strip club. I guess "good" is relative.

The bar tender had tatoos on his arms. The bartenders arms were covered in tatoos. The bartenders tatoos begain at his wrist and like the sleeve of an amazingly detailed shirt wove up his forarms and disappeared just past his elbows, where his actual shirt was cuffed. Cuffed but not pressed. It draped on him mostly covered by the vest and bow tie he also sported. Not that this was any classy joint, the tat's clearly prevented that, but it made me think, "Hey, this place isn't so bad, at least they are trying." He was a big man, not fat, just big, and solid. He could be an extra in Roadhouse. What was so odd is that he was clearly of asian decent. That in itself is not odd, but when combined with his sheer mass, impressivly thugish tatoos, and choice of employ, it seemed funny to me. We exchanged basic pleasentries, I collected my four sodas and quickly went to sit where ever the group had assigned me. I was not disappointed to find a seat available directly at the end of the stage with my name on it. Time to see some gash even if I have to pay for it.

I set my dollar in front and time and time again it was removed with out so much as a whisper. No "howdy cowboy," or "thanks Daddy." Nothing. Was I misunderstanding how things worked? Wasn't I paying for affection from a naked girl? I didn't care. The girls got naked in front of me, at this moment, thats all I needed. They knew it too. I was going to keep giving them money and they were going to keep taking it. That was the plan for the night. Corry however, was obviously reading a different book than me. The strippers we practicaly crawling all over him. No, the strippers were literally crawling all over him. I sat there watching as he grinned like a fat kid at Baskin-Robbins. Singles in hand he enticed girl after girl to hypnotize him with their body. He oozed charm. The girls smelled something on him. I know it wasn't money, or if it was, they were wrong. All of us were dirt poor and about to overspend as much as possible. It was his eyes. He watched them. He watched their eyes. They were like deer in headlights. Drawn to him, compeled to give him their affection. Corry knew. He was only 18 and could drop a stripper at 50 yards. We all knew how to do it, but Corry did it, and he did it consistantly. Maybe I'm jaded, maybe it's old age. I stopped looking strippers in the eyes a while ago. I've dated too many. I don't have any plans to date more. The last thing I need is to charm a stripper into stealing money I don't have. I was getting what I paid for, naked girls. Corry wanted more and he had sway. I began to think he was going to have bruises on his face from all the titties that were being smashed into it that night. But he was happy. All of us are happy. That is all that matters. Then the lap dances came a calling.