L'Orange

By Alex Villegas © 2011

I remember walking by the Golden Nugget and hearing a bartender scream, “Does anyone know French?”

“I do!” I screamed as I ran over.

I took French for a couple of years in high school and always write that I can speak French on my resume. I met the criteria.

“What’s up?” I asked the bartender.

“This couple, I don’t know what they want,” he said, and pointed to the elderly couple next to me.

They were small, old, and scared. The second they opened their mouth I came to a daunting realization. I. Cant. Speak. French. Maybe I had a shot while sober, but I was so twisted I had a hard time standing still.

The old man finished talking and I gave him a blank stare.

“What?”

“L’orange, l’orange,” he said and made a sphere with his hand.

“Ummm… I think he wants an orange,” I told the bartender.

“No. This is a bar, we don’t have oranges,” he said.

I looked back at the old couple and just shook my head. The old man then asked me if they had any kind of fruits. I didn’t even ask the bartender, I just shook my head again. The old man looked disappointed, put his arm around his wife and scurried off. I waved and thought about how I had just ruined their night.

All they wanted to do was enjoy Las Vegas and get some fruit. And they couldn’t even do that because they were in the US where everyone only speaks American. They were forced to have me as their only conduit to the world around them. Their only hope was a belligerently drunk Hispanic man with pupils the size of quarters. If that wasn’t bad enough, I couldn’t even properly speak their language. I also kept on patting the old man on the head for some reason. My guess is I was attempting to learn some French via osmosis.

I also know that we stopped at a casino because I have a faint memory of sitting down at a black jack table. I also have a vivid memory of waking up with $100 less in my wallet.

We also walked into a small bar called Don’t Tell Mama where I proceeded to make a ass out of myself. It was a very small bar with live entertainment. Patrons were encouraged to sing karaoke, but when they were too shy too (or not drunk enough to), the bartenders would sing and play the piano. It was cozy. There was also one specific bartender that was particularly attractive.

“Dude, she’s a lesbian,” said Tahoe.

“No she’s not,” I slurred back.

She came around with a jar asking for tips when I put the moves on her.

“You have an amazing voice and a great ass,” I said and tipped her a dollar. Pimp.

Two of the people with us shook their heads in disappointment.

“Um. Thanks,” she said

“Real smooth man,” said Tahoe.

Not willing to accept defeat just yet, I went up to the bar.

“So, how does a guy like me go about asking you out?” I said.

“Umm, you’re not my type. You see that girl up there,” she pointed at the butchy looking girl singing Hotel California. “She’s my girlfriend, she’s also an ass girl.”

“She picked the right girl then. Can I just have a Bud Light then? I’m gonna go drink in shame,”

Defeated, I took my beer and returned to our table

“She’s a lesbian isn’t she?” asked Tahoe.

I nodded, sat back down and watched her girlfriend sing Hotel California. I don’t know if she was actually talented or the E was still hitting me, but she sounded great.

“I love lesbians,” I said as I slumped into my chair.

“But they don’t love you,” said Tahoe, “and they probably never will.”


Alex Villegas is a writer from Connecticut.

Early Night

By Alex Villegas © 2010

On our way out of the casino we spotted herd of sluts. This specific herd was of Asian descent, looked lost, and was dressed for a good time.

“What are you doing talking to me? Go get those girls,” said my colleague Dr. Pauly.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a wingman and I’m not even drunk,” I bitched.

“Stop bitching. You’re single, young and in Vegas, you don’t need a wingman. Now go get them,” replied Dr. P.

Touché.

I ran back but the herd had migrated to cockier pastures. Devoid of any Asian sluts, I decided to drink. I sat down at the bar and, once again, deluded myself into thinking that I could drink for free if I played video poker. An hour and $50 later I was drunk and the delusion was over.

I cashed out my remaining $10 and said goodbye to my single-serving friends. “Thanks for the cigarettes,” I told my friend from South Carolina as I took the packet of Camel Lights he bought me.

“No problem,” he said and went straight back to Jacks or Better video poker.

I lit up and began my prowl around the casino. As a lone hunter I had to pick my prey wisely. But this time, the prey found me.

I was on the second floor of the Rio casino stumbling about when she found me. She had a punkish mohawk and was equally as drunk as I was. Maybe drunker.

We locked eyes and the inebriation served as a catalyst for horny telepathy. We wanted to get freaky.

“Hey! Where are you going?” She asked.

“I don’t know. Where are you going?” I replied.

“I don’t know. Where are you going?” She asked again.

…We have a winner. Fearing I was about to get stuck in an infinite loop I changed the subject.

“How about we go somewhere and talk?” I said. It was actually the same subject, I just said different words.

She accepted and we talked outside a club for a couple of minutes. In that time, I learned a lot about her. She was 29, was in Vegas with her cousins and was staying at the Rio.

“How about we go back to your room?” I asked.

She nodded and I began my walk of pride. A security guard informed me that I needed to take an elevator by Mcfadden’s. His directions seemed easy enough and I found the elevator. We get in and I attack her face with my mouth.

After a minute or so, I manage to pull back, breathe, and ask her what floor her room is on.

“5105,” she said.

I looked at the buttons and found that my options were limited to floors 1 and 2. I was in the wrong elevator. I pressed the second floor to buy extra makeout time and experience a genuine Rio elevator ride. The latter did not occur. Aside from only serving two floors, the elevator didn’t even work. It was the shittiest elevator of all times. I hated it.

“Stupid piece of shit,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

I didn’t respond and just went back to making out. The more this went on, the more nerve I got to just unleash the beast in the elevator. Although the prospect of getting caught only made it more exciting, I was worried that there were cameras in the elevator.

I didn’t want tell my boss that I can’t work in Vegas anymore because I was 86’d from the Rio for fucking in an elevator. But then again, I could fuck in an elevator.

I started unbuttoning my pants and she finished the job. I pushed her head down a bit and she dropped to her knees. She was always one step ahead, I liked it.

“I have braces though,” she said.

I looked down. Yes she did. They were the white transparent kind, but braces nonetheless. I didn’t like it.

“That’s OK,” I lied. Then, very carefully, I inserted my penis into her face. The moments of pain were overridden by my final moment of intense pleasure.

I was afraid to look at my penis when it came out, but I did it anyways. Damage had been done. I had a cut on the top of my hood and one on the bottom. Ouch.

Despite having just released semen and blood from my penis, I felt I still had another round in me.

“Still want to go back to your room?” I asked.

“Fuck yeah. It’s my turn,” she said.

We walked to the correct elevator this time and chatted on our way. I would learn more about her this conversation. Too much in fact.

For some reason, inserting a penis into a woman is like inserting a key that unlocks a vault of crazy. In this case, there was a lot of crazy.

“Did you know I had five kids?” She asked.

First of all, how the fuck would I have known that? Second of all, eww.

“Really? Five? I thought you said you were 29,” I said.

She nodded and I tried to do the math in my head. How old was she when she started having kids? How old are the kids? I tried to calculate it, but the only answer I could come up with in my drunken state was: loose vagina. Wait, but she said had not have…

“What do you mean had?” I asked.

“They all died.”

Alex Villegas is a writer from Connecticut.