Underpants On The Outside

What the - Jesus, what are you people still doing here? [z looks at comment section.] Oh.  You’re not actually here at all, are you? Can’t say I blame you.  I’ve been neglectful, and I understand if you’ve moved on to other blogs.  But you’ll regret it! One night, you’ll be home, alone, doing something really inane and stupid, and you’ll think, “somewhere, ol’ z is doing something inane and stupid too.  But he’d probably find some way to describe it in a hilarious yet ultimately forgettable fashion… sigh…”

What can I say - I’m busy.  I’ve got a new job. In thirty-one days I’m going to have a new marital status, which means that in the past week I’ve utilized the postal service more than I ever have or probably ever will, unless I suddenly get a promotion to “Santa”.   I- actually, I better stop, before I accidentally fascinate someone.

The shame of it all is that the past month has had some pretty fun moments. For instance, three weeks ago I had a… um… y’know… whatchamacalit… the thing with all the tits… oh right!  A BACHELOR PARTY!  WHOO HOO!  VEGAS!!!  TITS! DRINKING!  FRIED FOOD!  TITS!

Now that I’ve had one, I really think we need to rethink this whole bachelor party thing.  It makes no sense.  I get the idea: once you’re married, you’re all done seeing new ta-tas up close and personal, so we’re going to give you one last hurrah.  Makes sense, I guess. But there’s also a reason that the first step in the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous isn’t: you gotta get yourself really really really drunk, one last time.

I did have a great time- my high-school friends from L.A. did a terrific job setting it all up. But for all the tits - WHOO! TITS! - my favorite part of the evening was at dinner.  We were eating at one of the restaurants in the Palms Casino, and next to us were a table of six cougars.  There was a very weird sexual energy around them; intense, but… unrealistic, somehow.  I don’t know if there are book clubs for romance novels, but if there are, these chicks would be there every week with lady fingers and bourbon.

Well, as anyone who knows me can attest, older women are the only kind of women I can successfully flirt with, and therefore I do so at every possible opportunity. And while I normally hate when people say “one thing led to another…” well, one thing led to another and the next thing I know I’m eating cotton candy out of one of their cleavages.  I say “one thing led to another”, but really I’m just making an assumption that one thing led to another, because honestly I can’t remember or even imagine how things led to that.  I mean, even if you look at its most mundane element…where the fuck does cotton candy come from in a higher-end casino steakhouse??? Yet it did - it just showed up.  You don’t question these things.  You just take a big bite and smile for the cameras.

I haven’t even gotten to the best part.  When I asked these women what they did or how they knew each other, there answers were bizarre and vague.  They were “nurses”, and they always made a point of saying, “we TAKE CARE of our patients.”  Now, I’m not an idiot - I don’t need to be hit over the head with a big neon “WE SLEEP WITH MEN FOR MONEY” sign before I get wise to the situation. But what you need to understand is that these women REALLY looked like nurses.  Real nurses, not the naughty kind.  They were a bit older, a bit more heavyset.  Besides, I don’t think prostitution is the kind of industry where you might go out for a drink with the girls after a long shift.  Yet here these ladies were. Not only that, but according to them, they were eating on the tab of one of the Maloof brothers, kajillionaire owners of the Palms casinos.  So if they were hookers, they were the kind that catered to the surprisingly lucrative “past-their-prime” fetish.  Nothing about these women made sense.  Consider this: when they left, one of the women took my number.  Later she called me to tell me that all the girls had gotten tired and gone home early (point: actual nurse). But the reason she was calling is because she was going to have one of the local strip clubs send a limo to pick us up, and when we got to the door, we were supposed to tell them that she sent us and we’d get in for no cover. (Point: “nurse”)

Ultimately this story veers back to the predictable: titties, booze, and a good deal money lost at unwise gambling. And while it sure seems to me like I had a magical evening full of boundless, unspoken opportunity that was best left unrealized, in reality I’m probably the only guy who goes to Vegas for his bachelor party and has dinner with six hookers yet manages to sleep with none of them.

Don’t hate the player, hate the game.