In a strange twist of fates, I find myself stranded at the Las Vegas airport today. It’s 8:30 in the morning here, but I can feel the city beckoning. The airport slot machines sing for me. I’m one cup of coffee in, and I could probably be convinced into a shot of Bailey’s. My flight to San Francisco has been delayed two hours – which I have almost rationalized is enough time to get to a pool party and back. Or just go to a pool party and never come back.
From the amazing time that I had here with my girlfriends a week and a half ago, it is seriously taking every ounce of restraint that I have not to blow off my work conference and frolic around Las Vegas like a maniac. By myself. On a Tuesday. Which somehow still sounds appealing.
But since I’m a halfway responsible employee, I will have to satiate my appetite for Vegas with the next best remedy: reminiscing. I have already regaled my tamest Vegas tale here, so we’ll go with the second tamest for today’s stroll down memory lane, titled “the second most fun I have ever had, ever.” Because I will never, ever tell you about the first most fun. Which is not a real phrase. But I think I just made it one.
It’s Saturday morning in Las Vegas. My two girlfriends and I realized the night before that we’re too smart to be comfortable with the paid escort business, so we’ve chosen to play it safe and head to a pool party at Encore Beach Club.
By the time we finish brunch, it is nearly 2pm. But we are on the guest list, so we breeze through the line.
As we enter the venue, my jaw literally opens. I almost start crying on the spot, but my girlfriends shoot me a look which I know to mean “don’t you fucking do this here, you embarrassing whore.” I obey.
The scene is intense. You cannot look five feet in any direction without seeing the best ass you have ever seen in your life. I wonder aloud whether these girls are all strippers, or this is just what girls look like and I have somehow gotten the very shortest end of the metabolic stick. I take mental note of which procedures I would need to look like them, and I lose count because I’m bad at mental math. This makes me want to cry more.
I think back to my Vegas diet and how hard I worked to look good, but in this moment, I don’t even want to take my cover-up off. I want to curl up in a ball and run away at the same time, which I imagine would be very difficult from a logistical perspective.
I am slapped in the ass by my friends, and before I know it, we are setting our stuff down. I reluctantly remove my cover-up and take solace in the fact that none of these women have breasts like mine. At least not real ones.
I’m lucky to have friends who were far more blessed than I by the metabolic Gods, so it’s less than five minutes before we’re swooped into a private bungalow. There is a private pool, a daybead, a cabana with a flatscreen TV, unlimited alcohol and mixers, a bathroom, and a balcony. Two shots in, I am far less concerned with my appearance. Good work, my little monkeys, I tell my counterparts.
[our legs in the plunge pool]
The men we are with are strange at best. One looks about twenty, yet has a very ugly mustache. One is pretending that a small gold trophy is his penis and keeps putting it down his pants. No one wants to touch it after that. The other girls they have brought in look nothing like us, and we fleetingly regret that we missed the memo about wearing a thong bathing suit. No matter, our full coverage asses have still landed us here, and we could not be happier about it.
[a partial view of the bungalow. note the probable stripper on the left.]
An hour in, we are splashing in the plunge pool like fools. There is a DJ and he is killing it with the jams. We dance in the sexiest way one can water dance. Which is not very sexy, but seems great when you’re wasted.
We go to the balcony to yell at people, because we’re drunk. We quickly tire of yelling and decide to booty dance on the railing instead. We dance and dance and dance for God knows how long, and strangers on the street call to us. It feels amazing, like you’re on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. Except you’re not wearing any real clothes and you might be mistaken for a stripper, which I don’t think the Queen would approve of.
“HEY GIRLS,” we hear a security guard yell.
“WOOOOOO hey!!!!” we respond in MTV spring break fashion.
“You know you ladies just caused an accident?” he replies.
And he is right. Just beyond our balcony is, in fact, an accident that may or my not have been cause by the booties. We will never know for sure, but we feel a little guilty. Luckily, it looks pretty minor, so we continue dancing.
Mustache man comes out to join our dance party, bearing more alcohol. He is trying hard to get close to my blonde friend, who has a boyfriend back home. He suggests taking a body shot off of her, which somehow evolves into me taking a body shot of of her, and before I can figure out what’s going on, she’s laying on the couch with beer between her boobs and I am trying my best to slurp it up through the laughter. Mustache man takes this as his cue to take the next turn, and I slap him because blondie is laying down and can’t defend herself. And because I also kind of like to slap people.
We continually tell each other that we have never been so happy and that we love each other. We share many water hugs, which unlike water dancing, are even better. We people watch and dance and sing. I observe all of the faux strippers who have not landed themselves a plunge pool, and feel better.
[view from our bungalow. which, as you can see, consists of pretty girls and men with lots of chest hair.]
By 5pm, we are the drunkest and happiest we have ever been. But it’s time to go. We have tickets to a show – a mistake we will never make again, because we will spend the entire thing hung over and confused.
We bid mustache man and crew goodbye, and nearly cry tears of joy on the way out the door.
“Goodbye, Encore Beach Club,” we lament.
And that was the end of our pool party career. For a whole 20 hours.