What happens in Vegas…

I’m a bastard. Well, kind of. When I was born, my birth mother left me in the hospital. She and my dad had screwed a few times before she got pregnant, and they knew each other so little that he never even had any photos of her around the house. They had fucked around as twenty-somethings, Beth got knocked up, and while he was not exactly rushing to the altar, she was even less interested. So, after he showed up at the hospital to visit her and meet me, he got his name on the birth certificate and she snuck out of the hospital and disappeared.

Dad raised me pretty well, and when I was five he married a very nice lady named Phyllis. I never called her Mom or anything, but the three of us did pretty well. When I was 12, they had a kid of their own, my little sister Denise. We were so far apart in age that we never got very close, but we always got along fine before I went off to college. During junior high, while I watched Phyllis enjoying her new infant, I had some desire to track down my birth mother, but then I remembered that she’d already made her choice, and that I was probably much better off growing up as I had than if I’d been in her dubious custody.

Life went on as normal is it does for any reasonably well-adjusted teenager, and I dabbled in girls. By age seventeen I finally got laid, albeit with one of the second-tier hotties at school. But she was enough of a hottie for me, and we dated for a few weeks before we got it on, and then shagged like rabbits for six months, before a fiery breakup. I hit it once or twice after that before college.

When I arrived at college, I spent the first two years concentrating on school and the last two concentrating on chicks. I came out with a B in each: not awful, not the best.

After graduation, me and three of my college friends decided to take a trip to Las Vegas for two weeks. It was time to do a little living. Only of us had a girlfriend when we left, and even they broke up when we got back.

We took off from Milwaukee and landed four hours later at McCarran International Airport. You could see the Strip from the runway, and we were pumped. It didn’t take two hours before we were checked in, dressed up, and hitting the tables. Then it didn’t take two more hours before one of us was nearly broke, and we were all drunk on the free cocktails. Those little cocktail waitresses and their pushup bras and well-muscled legs were killing me!

After a bite, we got free tickets to one of those nude revue shows. They weren’t worth what we paid for them, but they did get us torqued up pretty hard. Justin and Paul wanted to get hookers, but I wanted a real woman. Tony wasn’t really interested in either (what with his woman back home). So we decided to see if we still had our old college touch. We padded around the Bellagio for an hour, but it was clear that the folks there were a little higher class, and thereby not interested in fucking some young dudes with no money. We tried the Monte Carlo, New York New York and Caesars, to no avail.

By about 1 am we were way up on the north end of the Strip, and we sauntered into the venerable Riviera. It’s vintage, and it’s legendary, but it’s tired and down-in-the-mouth. Everything glowed with this eerie fuchsia haze. And yet it felt like classic old Vegas, and was just cheesy enough that it had the right kind of ladies.

Sure enough, Paul struck gold with this big-haired, big-titted blonde who was no younger than 35, but wore it well. He bought her a few drinks and they soon had their hands all over each other. The rest of us just smiled and moved along. I tried chatting up a pair of well-tanned SoCal hotties but got quickly shot down. Justin struck out repeatedly as well. Finally he discovered a svelte redhead (a little skinny, but cute), and while they weren’t as heated as Paul and his new friend, they had no trouble getting acquainted over a few cocktails.

It was then that I noticed that Tony had vanished. I called his cell. He answered and said that he was bored of our pranks and was going to gamble elsewhere, and he’d see us back at the hotel later. Closing my cell, I turned and headed for Nickeltown, the five-cent area for cheapskates.

The casino layout at the Riv is confusing as hell, and it didn’t take long for me to get lost. I even walked past Paul again and STILL couldn’t find my way to Nickeltown. So I just wandered aimlessly for a while, playing a few machines here and there and keeping an ever-watchful eye out for ladies of interest. It’s gauche and chauvinistic and I know it, but when in Rome…

It was entirely by accident that I ran into Desiree. Literally. I rounded a row of quarter slots and almost ran over her as she came around the other side. I apologized quickly and stepped back to give her space. I took her in with a quick once-over and the world switched into slow motion. This woman was curvaceous, with great legs, shapely hips, a thin waist and a great rack. Her raven-black hair fell in great sweeps about her neck and framed her lovely face. Blood-red lipstick stood in stark contrast to her pale white skin, while her somewhat overdone eye makeup kept her eyes dark and mysterious. I was momentarily speechless. She wore a short black dress that hugged her torso tightly while showing off her fantastic legs. Spindly high heels of a delightfully trashy sort capped those legs, and she stood there staring at me curiously.

“Do you always run over little old ladies?” she joked coyly.

I forgot to mention, she’s not my age. In fact, she looked probably 45 or more. But she looked so good I didn’t think twice.

“No, and I haven’t yet,” I rejoined, trying to apologize and compliment her at the same time. It worked. Her eyes sparkled mischievously and she shot me a warm smile.

“Well, my darling, buy me a drink and I won’t sue for your whiplash,” she purred.

I offered her my arm, and she took it. “Name’s Jay,” I professed.

“Mmm, sounds yummy. I’m Desiree.” My heart nearly exploded in my chest.

“What are you drinking?” I asked her as we reached the tacky aged bar.

“Strawberry daiquiri, for starters,” she said sexily.

She was being so forward that I started to worry that she was a hooker herself, but there was something rather sincere about her playfulness, and I gave in to the fantasy that she just liked me and put the thought out of my mind.
“I’ll take a Scotch, neat,” I ventured, not entirely sure what the ‘neat’ part actually meant.

We got our drinks and sipped at them while we walked the casino floor. We made casual small talk, never venturing too much by way of questions or responses. The electricity between us was startling, and I couldn’t wait to see where this was headed. We found a couple of chairs and a cocktail table and sat down. She pulled her chair quite near to mine and placed a hand casually on my thigh. I kept my cool and smiled at her equally casually.

“So, Jay,” Desiree purred, “what’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Well, I’ll be honest. I’m no high roller. Just looking for Lady Luck.” Her mouth opened in a huge smile.

“Mmmm, do you consider me the Lady or the Luck?”

I immediately realized the double entendre of my Lady Luck reference and felt awful.

“Oh Desiree, I didn’t mean it like that!” I stammered like an amateur.

“Hmm. Too bad,” she answered and then laughed girlishly.

I laughed with relief and put my hand on hers. She put her fingernails against my leg and pressed lightly. I winked at her and leaned closer to her.

“Well, Desiree, what’s a gal like you doing in a—“

I was cut off when she leaned in fast and put her pouty lips to mine.