One Night in Vegas

My wife Jane and I love Las Vegas, and consider it our home away from home. We go there as often as we can, and one day plan to make our permanent residence there. It is a city built on the premise of doing everything that we were told is naughty growing up. It is the perfect place for us.

Some people like to skydive… while others prefer to scuba dive. We have close friends who love to hop on their Harleys and ride through the countryside. As for Jane and myself, we love to collect movie memorabilia. We also enjoy finding quaint little towns and go antiquing. Still, other times, we like to travel the country, meet new and interesting people, and if the planets align and the chemistry is right, we’ll engage in consensual, extra marital carnal indulgences.

It’s not for everyone, but as hobbies go, it sure beats stamp collecting.

A while back, we were in Sin City for a soiree that catered to libidinous hobbyists such as ourselves. Jane and I have attended our share of these events, I can say that these gatherings are almost always a lot of fun. Normally swinger conventions involve several days and nights of interacting with great looking, friendly people, attending wild parties, and relaxing by the pool during the day… But not this time. Without going into unnecessary detail, let’s just say that upon entering the ballroom for the first night’s festivities, Jane & I knew that this party wasn’t going to meet our expectations. Rather than the room full of sexy we were hoping for, we walked into what more closely resembled a co-workers wedding reception, with scattered clusters of people eating hor d’oeuvres and a Beatles cover band. Worse yet, the median body mass index wasn’t what we were hoping for either. We were actually un-horny.

But rather than sulk, we decided to bail on the bru-ho-hum and make our own good time. Hell, we were all dressed up, and as the old saying goes, “When the going gets tough, the tough go to Vegas and party”… or something like that. So we called a couple of non-swinger friends who happen to be in town that week and downshifted our goal for the evening from procreating with strangers to finding a good Mojito. Either way, we were on a noble quest, and as anyone outside of Miami knows… decent Mojitos are hard to come by. So we ventured over to the MGM Grand, where our Vanilla friends had already began their own night of Vegas debauchery.

Now for those of you who aren’t familiar with my wife, Jane, she is proportioned similarly to Jessica Rabbit… which is to say that she is the proud owner of a pair of gigantic, surgically enhanced, projectile intumescences. As such, the purple dress she was wearing, she left little to anyone’s imagination. So when we ambled into one of the casino bars, her mammalian cantilever had caught the attention of more than a few fellow travelers, and as circumstance would have, there was a couple of dashing urban gentlemen who were seated at one of the tables we passed by.

Being the insightful guy that I am, I got the impression that one fella was slightly taken with my wife’s silhouette. Years of training have taught me to pick up on subtle signs, like, for instance, when this young man –upon making eye contact with Jane– stood up and yelled YO YO! WUT UP WIT DOZE BOOBIES YO!” …my razor sharp instincts immediately told me that there may have been an attraction. So being the friendly sort that I am, I went over and introduced myself. The conversation went something like this:

“Hey fellas, what’s up? I’m Rich. Nice to meet you.”

“DeShawn…Yo dawg, No disrepeck au nuthin’… but yo wife, she bangin’ yo.”

“Thank you man, that’s a really nice thing to say.”

I surely wasn’t upset because someone thought my wife was hot, and frankly, I never understood how anyone could become bent out of shape over something like that. Could he have been more discreet? Sure. But we were in Vegas, not the Vatican…and you don’t often see women with figures like Jane’s shopping at a Walmart in Des Moine.

It was then that I noticed there were a few women seated at the table with these guys, so I reciprocally offered, Well, you fellas seem to be keeping some nice company yourselves” To which my new best friend DeShawn replied, “Yo Dawg, Day ain’t wit us, an one a dem ain’t a woman!” …Hmmm… Well, that was certainly an interesting piece of information.

Now I’m a NYC boy, and I’ve seen more than most simply by a matter of birth, and geography. Anyone who has ridden the subway or has had a beer in Greenwich Village can usually tell a transsexual a mile away. To us, it’s no big deal… like seeing a midget. Even convincing, post-op trannies leave tell tale signs, like an Adams apple, man hands, or being the most fun and fashion coordinated person in the room… But I have to admit, that upon looking at the three women sitting at the table, I was completely at a loss determining which one of these three ladies possessed a Y chromosome. Jane was sure it was the brunette… “Facia brute”.

As it was revealed with urban eloquence, “It’s da hot one, Yo.”.

Upon receiving both this inside knowledge and our drinks, we left our new inner city pals and sat down at our table, when almost immediately we noticed the aforementioned “hot one” giving me the “come hither” finger roll. Now it’s not that I wasn’t flattered… I was. It’s just that for reasons inexplicable, I tend to be very popular among the 300 lb plus, and the “take a walk on the wild side” crowds. If I was stuck in an elevator with Mabel King and RuPaul they’d undoubtedly fight to death over my affections. So at Jane’s twisted urgence, “Oh you *have to* go see what she wants” I went over to say “Hi”.

She replied in a voice that seemed a mixture of Cher and Charro. “I gambled tonight and won, and you’re my prize.”

Well knock me over with a feather…I had just been given the best pick-up line of my life. Damn that “she’s got a penis” hitch… To be completely honest, if I had not had prior anatomical knowledge as to whom I was speaking, I most certainly would have wound up with a face full of tran-bag before night’s end. So I politely declined her generous advances, explaining that I was a happily married man simply out for a drink with my wife. And although she graciously extended the invitation for Jane to join us in what would have undoubtedly become a genital jambalaya, she seemed cool with “No, but thanks.”

A quick note to my Midwestern readers, should they ever find themselves in a similar situation; Never piss off a transgendered person. It’s like fighting a bobcat in closet. Besides, it’s always good form to be polite. And if you’re about to get on a moral high horse, just realize that we were in a city based on the premise of sin, and vice. The hottest chick in the bar had a sack. Get over it.

Regardless, after I got back to our table we four sat last supper style so that we could watch the would be object of everyone’s affections make her rounds around the bar. “Would you like to buy me a drink?” To which every guy in the bar –thinking they’ve just struck Vegas gold– replied in semi-intelligible, oafish affirmative. As she engaged her admirers in small talk and sipped her Cosmopolitan, she would demurely hang her leg over one of the arms of the bar stool, giving her suitors a chance to take a gander at the goods before they closed the deal.  Unfortunately, there was still no one willing to let what would happen in Vegas, stay there. But it was still early.

By the time our mediocre Mojitos expedited our departure, our lady tenor had yet to coerce anyone to defy Leviticus. Still, I hope things worked out for her, and that she found someone to have some fun with before night’s end. But I would be lying if I said that I did not have a smug sense of satisfaction knowing that she had propositioned me first. I knew that Dolce hadn’t been a waste of money. For one night, I was the sexiest schmuck in the MGM casino bar and I was the first choice of the sexiest woman I’d ever seen who was once a boy. Eat your hearts out, fellas.

So Jane and I bar-hopped with our friends for the rest of the night, found a place worthy of a second Mojito, and then went back to our hotel and made love as the sun rose. And as many wild sex and booze night as we’ve had in Sin City … this one counts among our favorites. Damn I love Las Vegas.



About Rich Woods

Rich Woods is the author of the critically acclaimed books, UnLearn Vanilla Marriage, and Yahweh to Hell. He is also a columnist, sociologist, and satirist who has performed seminars around the country. He's also made several TV and radio appearances. Transitioning from a blue-collar background has given Mr. Woods a unique perspective --and an even more unique elocution--among his peers. Raised Catholic, Mr. Woods is now a very public atheist who champions the separation of church and state. He's an advocate for non-traditional relationships, including --but not limited to-- negotiating non-monogamy, as well as being a vocal opponent of political correctness. Throughout his career, Woods has had colorful metaphors hurled in his direction from both liberals, and conservatives. To be honest, most of the vitriol comes from the Tea Party. However, he considers one of his greatest accomplishments having been called "Harry Reid's Lapdog" , and referred to as being "just like Rush Limbaugh" from two different sources within minutes of one another. Originally from Queens, New York, and presently residing in central New Jersey, Rich Woods is madly, and hopelessly in love with his wife Jane since before they were wed in 2002, and is the proud father of two successful, brilliantly creative, young adult children. Try as he might, he can't juggle.

Posted on November 12, 2012, in Recent Posts. Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.

  1. Nice read. But I would have been so much more happier if at the end the story, our hero was being tea bagged.

  2. Why in the love of all that is decedent did this NOT end with Mr. Woods being tea bagged?

  3. Haha, great read.

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