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.
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.
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