We got to Vegas pretty late, partly due to the rainy weather on the highway from Los Angeles and the mere fact that we stopped every hour to eat and chain smoke. Our car rental arrangement didn’t allow us to do either inside, so with little say in the matter, we accumulated several hours on top of what should have been only 4 or 5 hours on the road.
After a stop at Denny’s that proved to me once again that Americans just never wholly develop a flavour palette, ever, we floored it all the way through the fog and torrential rain until we saw the beacon of light, or lights. The boys howled when we reached the booming ‘Welcome to Las Vegas” that formally invited us to lose both our money and our dignity, possibly at the same time. We managed that… and I’ll tell you how.
We had chosen to stay at the Cosmopolitan, driven largely by the fact that we could get balconies and not have to go down 300 floors to passive smoke everybody else’s cigarettes inside the gaming area. Our room was so high up, my ears popped every time we got in the elevator.
The first night, based on a mutual agreement, we didn’t venture off to far. In the same way you would bar hop, we casino hopped all the way down the strip. So we met the boys at the bar downstairs and kicked off with several shots, several drinks until we were drunkenly dancing to Drake’s ‘Fake Love’. After a while, alcohol convinced us to go for a walkabout and that’s when the casino crawl began… one casino, two casino, three casino, four. When we came out for air, we got caught in a burst of rain and I remember hearing squealing, not sure if it was me or the boys. Looking down at our phones, we realised it was nearing 5 am, so we sought shelter in a nearby casino.
Outside, an old man asked me if I wanted cocaine, to which I replied ‘No thank you, kind sir’. Nearby were two other guys, who somehow slid into our conversation and convinced the boys that a ride in their limousine to the strip club was the only thing on the menu for the following night. They grabbed a card. We laughed it off.
We did not really get to enjoy that laugh too long. Despite my friend’s attempts to convince the boys that sneakers were not suitable Vegas club attire, their stubbornness prevailed and our attempts to get into clubs that night failed. Slumped over a sports bar, somewhere in Cromwell Hotel, we met a couple other Aussies (my friend recognized their nationality from their bank card, a prominent Australian bank -she also claimed she was not a gold digger) and decided we would try our luck with the free limousine and strip club entry.
At first, we got swept up in how music video-esque the whole charade was. A huge black hummer limo pulled up, hip-hop blaring from the speakers, bass shaking the floor under our feet. We piled in excitedly, all 9 of us (including the 4 strays we adopted along the way) and we fist pumped our way to the other side of the strip, to Sapphire Las Vegas.
Now, hear us out. Sapphire Las Vegas was supposedly the best strip club in the whole area. Admittedly, their marketing team does a hell of a job and their Youtube channel should not be overlooked as a huge contributing factor to why we ended up there that night.
Once again, we fell into the naive tourist trap, snapping up the bait of legal voyeurism – watching someone’s vag hanging out of lacy underwear and ogling fake itties without feeling like a (total) creep. At the door, the bouncer demanded $40 a head, girls included. He said these were the conditions for everyone. Nothing is free in this life, no matter how assuring Fred the Strip Club promoter is.
Long story short, we paid $40 entry to be snubbed by really hot chicks (if you’re looking for phat asses and huge racks, you will find it here), pushed and stepped on by horny dudes, wait 1 hour at the bar to be served (for the first time ever, because we were female) and then later, have a drunk stripper dry hump me from the back.
I washed myself thoroughly when I got home and threw out the pants I had been wearing.
Vegas, you are one sick, twisted place.