not since 1971 has this quote been more appropriate ...
"he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man" -- dr. johnson
i don't normally seek trouble. very rarely do i decide to push my tolerance of substance to the very edge, stretching the bounds of my sanity and throwing any manner of caution or concern for my well being to the proverbial wind like some sort of twisted truant or crack head.
one thing can be said -- never turn me loose in a sparsely populated punk rock bar with at least one very attractive girl. never give me 7 shots of citron and allow me to chase them with heineken.
the result is the most decadent fiend imaginable.
the early morning of this friday found me at the double down saloon on paradise, one block up from the hard rock hotel and casino; the same hotel in which john entwisle was found dead no more than 24 hours ago. hours of work had strung me out like a fremont street hooker and i figured a drink or two would beat me into enough submission to sleep.
no more than 15 people in as i arrived.
a heineken, dude -- keep the change.
girl telling jokes.
i laugh.
girl notices my existence and we promptly strike up a conversation. her friend buys 4 shots, one of which is handed to me. in response, i buy them both a beer and go to work on erin, the tall blonde with enormous breasts. christ god almighty, i could do horrible things to these.
it's then decided that cut throat is the game, and we head to the pool tables. the stakes are set -- the winner takes 2 body shots off the first loser.
five minutes later my head is between the aforementioned enormous breasts and then my lips are on hers, sucking the lemon from her mouth and receiving her tongue into mine.
that's 3 shots and 2 beers in, for those counting.
another game, another win. more time between the breasts, more tongue in the mouth. another win. 7 shots. i suck the body shot from approximately 3 inches above her labia and i did make it a point to push down and capture a quick swipe with my tongue, much to the delight of her and the entire bar, to which i'd become some sort of freak. of course, all i'm thinking is 'christ god almighty i'm going to be in this girls bedroom within the hour.'
she had other plans, of course, and as i stumbled towards the bathroom, she followed me with a sly grin on her face and the offer to assist me with whatever duties the bathroom called for.
i've done some depraved things in my time, i've met girls and not more than an hour later had fucked them stupid and left little more than a quivering mass in her bed, begging for my phone number as i dashed away to avoid any sort of pillow talk nonsense. a man can give too much away in such a scene.
but not once have i locked the door of a filthy vegas bathroom and been greeted with a girl i'd known no more than an hour removing my blue jeans, removing her blue jeans and resting her hands on the sink; her ass staring at me and a shaven, wet pussy inviting me in.
yes, i am a whore. a slut. the worst kind of person you can imagine, and i did indeed fuck this girl in the bathroom. there's a level of self assurance that is reached while pounding away at a total stranger in public place, a feeling of gross neglect and some sort of twisted accomplishment -- to hear the orgasmic cries of a girl you've known no more than an hour reverberating in a small bathroom, fully aware that every patron of the establishment is standing outside the door, hearing some manner of chanting and thinking 'juice! juice! juice!' to yourself.
this sordid scene ended with a money shot that would make peter north proud, and i proceeded to stumble out of the bathroom, wearing a crooked grin and the glow any man would have after breaking a three week streak of not getting laid.
the remaining hours are a blur, some sort of twisted reality i can't possibly recall, though i do remember at some point being laid out on the small stage in the corner with the same girl stroking my cock through my jeans and a transvestite named gloria sucking my nipple rings. what kind of place have i found where i can be molested in the corner by god knows who and given drugs by an ex-con named 'T' who told me he'd just finished serving a 5 year sentence for cocaine trafficking?
it was some time around 8am that i finally pushed open the door and was struck with the most vicious ray of sunlight, temporarily blinding me and reminding me that there is no time in vegas. a timepiece is useless, much like any sort of morals in a town like this. whatever decency i once had was clearly left in north carolina, as i'm embracing this depravity and have determined that i will indeed die here; most likely a tragic death of circumstances no one will be able to explain or comprehend; the sort of weirdness that can only happen in las vegas.
driving down 95, the predator screams along to 'mr siegal.' having successfully escaped anything more than a mutually satisfying copulation, he stares into the sunrise and his heart grew three times that morning.
i love this fucking town.
"he who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man" -- dr. johnson
i don't normally seek trouble. very rarely do i decide to push my tolerance of substance to the very edge, stretching the bounds of my sanity and throwing any manner of caution or concern for my well being to the proverbial wind like some sort of twisted truant or crack head.
one thing can be said -- never turn me loose in a sparsely populated punk rock bar with at least one very attractive girl. never give me 7 shots of citron and allow me to chase them with heineken.
the result is the most decadent fiend imaginable.
the early morning of this friday found me at the double down saloon on paradise, one block up from the hard rock hotel and casino; the same hotel in which john entwisle was found dead no more than 24 hours ago. hours of work had strung me out like a fremont street hooker and i figured a drink or two would beat me into enough submission to sleep.
no more than 15 people in as i arrived.
a heineken, dude -- keep the change.
girl telling jokes.
i laugh.
girl notices my existence and we promptly strike up a conversation. her friend buys 4 shots, one of which is handed to me. in response, i buy them both a beer and go to work on erin, the tall blonde with enormous breasts. christ god almighty, i could do horrible things to these.
it's then decided that cut throat is the game, and we head to the pool tables. the stakes are set -- the winner takes 2 body shots off the first loser.
five minutes later my head is between the aforementioned enormous breasts and then my lips are on hers, sucking the lemon from her mouth and receiving her tongue into mine.
that's 3 shots and 2 beers in, for those counting.
another game, another win. more time between the breasts, more tongue in the mouth. another win. 7 shots. i suck the body shot from approximately 3 inches above her labia and i did make it a point to push down and capture a quick swipe with my tongue, much to the delight of her and the entire bar, to which i'd become some sort of freak. of course, all i'm thinking is 'christ god almighty i'm going to be in this girls bedroom within the hour.'
she had other plans, of course, and as i stumbled towards the bathroom, she followed me with a sly grin on her face and the offer to assist me with whatever duties the bathroom called for.
i've done some depraved things in my time, i've met girls and not more than an hour later had fucked them stupid and left little more than a quivering mass in her bed, begging for my phone number as i dashed away to avoid any sort of pillow talk nonsense. a man can give too much away in such a scene.
but not once have i locked the door of a filthy vegas bathroom and been greeted with a girl i'd known no more than an hour removing my blue jeans, removing her blue jeans and resting her hands on the sink; her ass staring at me and a shaven, wet pussy inviting me in.
yes, i am a whore. a slut. the worst kind of person you can imagine, and i did indeed fuck this girl in the bathroom. there's a level of self assurance that is reached while pounding away at a total stranger in public place, a feeling of gross neglect and some sort of twisted accomplishment -- to hear the orgasmic cries of a girl you've known no more than an hour reverberating in a small bathroom, fully aware that every patron of the establishment is standing outside the door, hearing some manner of chanting and thinking 'juice! juice! juice!' to yourself.
this sordid scene ended with a money shot that would make peter north proud, and i proceeded to stumble out of the bathroom, wearing a crooked grin and the glow any man would have after breaking a three week streak of not getting laid.
the remaining hours are a blur, some sort of twisted reality i can't possibly recall, though i do remember at some point being laid out on the small stage in the corner with the same girl stroking my cock through my jeans and a transvestite named gloria sucking my nipple rings. what kind of place have i found where i can be molested in the corner by god knows who and given drugs by an ex-con named 'T' who told me he'd just finished serving a 5 year sentence for cocaine trafficking?
it was some time around 8am that i finally pushed open the door and was struck with the most vicious ray of sunlight, temporarily blinding me and reminding me that there is no time in vegas. a timepiece is useless, much like any sort of morals in a town like this. whatever decency i once had was clearly left in north carolina, as i'm embracing this depravity and have determined that i will indeed die here; most likely a tragic death of circumstances no one will be able to explain or comprehend; the sort of weirdness that can only happen in las vegas.
driving down 95, the predator screams along to 'mr siegal.' having successfully escaped anything more than a mutually satisfying copulation, he stares into the sunrise and his heart grew three times that morning.
i love this fucking town.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
Be careful, you.
Jenna