I've been told I have an innocent persona about me. Like people are afraid to say certain things around me because I'm going to blush and write about it in my Hello Kitty diary at home and be scarred for life. Then again, I've also been told I look like I have a few secrets that would make some hells angels blush. So, it's really split in the middle, good girl vs. vixen. What am I? The jury is still deciding on the verdict and frankly so am I. I guess it really depends on who I'm around and what area I'm in.
Until then, here's another story to help with the decision:
Imagine one pound of coke in front of you and then realizing that you probably have to sneeze at any moment. That's the situation I was in while living it up in Vegas. Let me first explain how I got myself in this predicament It's kind of a doozy.
My friend Rachel and I were painting the town in the city of sin. I was newly 21 and was ready to experience everything life had to offer me.
I wouldn't necessarily call my life before being 21, sheltered. But more so limited myself to what I experienced. I was not one to party in high school, I spelled out the swear words that I was repeating to someone, and I never went to my prom. So I guess after I turned 21, I wanted to sow my wild oats and have some kick ass stories to tell my future great grandchildren.
I had just gotten my boobs the summer before Vegas. (I was a very late bloomer.) So, I had bought the perfect black dress to accentuate my curves, had my hair in loose waves, and dabbed on some red lipstick that was meant for a 1940's starlet. Boobs in the right position and red lipstick makes any woman feel like she can conquer the world and then some. And that's the exact feeling I needed that night...
My friend Rachel is what you would call a wild hot mess. If Ozzy Osbourne and Courtney Love had a love child, she would be it. She was 26, tri-sexual (she'll try anything once), men around town knew her number more then Tommy Tutone's Jenny, and she once argued with a professor about his syllabus never actually stating that she couldn't bring alcohol into class. And I absolutely positively adored her. Now a days she's settled down and married with a few children. But, to this day she's the craziest person I have ever met and probably will ever meet for that matter.
As we stepped on to the Vegas strip, Rachel, who was straightening out her thigh highs, assured me that she knew this was going to be an interesting night. We were in frickin Vegas, how could it not be?
I'm no Kenny Rogers. I don't gamble that often. Though I probably should with how lucky I get in poker when I play. M&M poker, strip poker, regular poker, you name it. But, I prefer to have the money that's already in my pocket combined with the lint. However, that night I made an exception.
We took a cab to our destination and had to listen to the cab driver talk about his youngest daughter's nice, firm tits that he compared to mine. I told him to turn around and look at me so I could see what a pervert looked like. He grumbled, pulled over and we walked the rest of the way in our 5 inch heels.
We walked into Caesar's Palace and I headed straight for the tables. The place smelled like alcohol, sex, and a dash of glitter. Ah, gotta love Vegas. Rachel didn't know much about poker other than she liked the men who played it and Lady Gaga mentioned it a few times in a song of hers. I felt brave enough to sit my ass in a chair and take a chance. There I was, the only person with a vagina at the table amongst a few men from Rome and a couple Hockey Players from Quebec. I was ready to destroy them.
I was concentrating on the game when one of the Hockey Players leaned over and whispered something in my ear.
I casually looked over and noticed he had a really pretty smile and an awful hand of cards.
He reminded me of a better looking version of PeeWee Herman. No, that probably doesn't make any sense. But you had to have been there.
"What do you know about Hockey, Blondie? he calmly asked.
"It involves a puck." I answered back, paranoid he was trying to distract me from the game and ruin my groove.
He decided to be a clever boy and asked if I offered to "fuck."
Not taking my eyes off of my cards, I told him I loved him in the Mighty Ducks Movie, hoping he would be insulted and go back to his personal space.
He got the picture that I was annoyed and straighten his posture in his seat.
Its about time. I thought to myself. This isn't fucking Uno, Canada Boy.
To make a long story short, I ended up winning about 500 dollars at the table. Which as the hockey player said was pretty good for a girl. Yeah, go skate around with Scott Hamilton, Canada Boy.
With 500 dollars in my clutch purse, Rachel and I were ready to live it up and give Charlie Sheen a run for his money.
But first, I came up with the bright idea to get half of it in singles. Who doesn't want to do that and throw the money in the air and "make it rain' - Um, no one.
After cashing in half of the 500 dollars for singles and looking like I was ready to invade every strip club in town, we sat down at the bar and had a couple shots followed by a cranberry and vodka.
Now, before you question all the alcohol I will talk about us consuming in this story, just be warned - my liver is like Chuck Norris. It's that bad ass. No one questions Chuck Norris, so don't question my liver.
After another Cranberry and Vodka after the first one was consumed, I suddenly smelled Abercrombie Cologne and Beer. Yep. here comes some frat boys. I knew that smell combo from anywhere.
I went through my phase of frat boys when I graduated from high school, I was no longer impressed by their beer pong abilities and the fact that there were 3 day old pizza boxes hidden underneath their bed.
But, they were all adorably hot in a "I play rugby" kind of way so Rachel and I talked to them.
While in an "intellectual" conversation with one of the frat boys about the difference between bud light and budweiser, I felt somebody stroke my arm lightly.
Hoping it was Rachel, I turned my head and saw this black guy with a McDonald's uniform on and a number of missing teeth.
Yess? I confusedly asked.
Nothing. He stared at me for what seemed like 4 hours. I didn't know what the hell he was gonna do. Say something ignorant? Tell me about his theory of life after death? Suffocate me with some stale hamburger buns from McDonalds?
Finally, one of the the genius frat boys tapped him on the shoulder and asked what he wanted.
Nothing was said, nor was a muscle moved from this fast food worker. He looked like one of those fucking wax figures you see at Niagara Falls on Clifton Hill.
And then all of a sudden, he leaned in towards me so quick, licked my face, and literally ran away giggling like a little school girl.
I wish someone would have had a camera to capture the look on my face as he did it along with the gagging noise I followed the look with.
Dear McDonalds worker, I know I'm white and you're black but I do not taste like Vanilla like you probably assumed.
Ugh. Sober me would have had ran to the bathroom to wash my face. Drunken me let Rachel wipe my face with a napkin from the bar that she spit on. Like a mother does to a child on the playground after they get dirty in the sandbox. Seemed like the thing to do at the time. So, not only did I have the spit residue of a wack-o McDonalds man on my face but I also had Rachel's as well. Who needs Pro-Active?
After talking about what just happened for a while with Rachel and the smart boys, in my side vision I noticed a gorgeous looking guy in a business suit at the bar. He couldn't be more than 27, was ripped, and had a face comparable to a young John Travolta. Think Grease. Be still my beating vagina.
Rachel instantly noticed what I was nonchalantly looking at and dismissed the frat boys from our area. Yes, she said "You're dismissed." I said she was wild, not nice.
After looking nonchalantly for a little while I noticed a guy around his age accompany him and they began to order shots.
I don't approach guys when out that often. Not that I'm scared to, it's just not really my thing like wearing crocs aren't either. I leave it to the other person to do the work. So, I'm sitting there with Rachel talking about where we were going to go later and that's when John Travolta and his sidekick approached our area.
After they bought us a drink we found out they were lawyers from New York and were there on business. ...Which I didn't believe. Who tells the truth in Vegas? I told them my name was Annabelle and I was a school teacher and Rachel was a flight attendant named Rosie. It's the fun part of Vegas, you don't have to be you.
We finally paired up - John and me talking and the sidekick and Rachel. All of a sudden Rachel pulled me away from the guys and asked if I wanted to hang out with them in their penthouse?
...Even drunk me knew this wasn't a smart idea, I needed to quit watching CSI episodes. I questioned in my mind on if I was went missing if they would use my Driver's License picture on the news. God I hope not.
So, after some convincing from all three of them I finally agreed to it. My theory was, it was in a hotel room - it's not like the people next door couldn't hear me scream if I needed help. ...I never said I was the smartest drunk girl in the world.
So, we're on the elevator and John Travolta's hand travels down to my ass. Um, I'm pretty sure John didn't do that to Sandy in Grease this soon.
We arrive in their penthouse and I was a little shocked. It was the size of a small house. I didn't know if they were telling the truth about being lawyers but they had some kind of money.
As we sat on the leather couches in the living room, we all start talking about random stuff. Where we're originally from, Rachel being a tri-sexual, and Full House. Hey, I told you it was random.
Throughout the conversation I noticed John was getting closer to me and the sidekick kept his distance away from Rachel. Which I didn't understand. He claimed to not be seeing anyone and Rachel was a very attractive girl with an ass like a girl from a Nelly music video.
After awhile, I felt like I needed to break my seal and asked where the ladies room is. John pointed me to the direction and off I went. After having the best pee ever I opened the door to find Johns face right there. He grabbed me and pushed me up against the wall. I was convinced he wanted my 250 dollar bills. He got in my face and said he had a bed we could use. ...Well, I'm not stupid, most hotel rooms come with a bed, Stupid-o. I just looked at him, thinking of how I was going to break it to him that I was not going to sleep with him and he could go for Rachel, she was easy. So, I did what I do in any awkward situation, I pointed to a spot on his shirt, he looked down, and I flicked him in the nose. Yes it's 4th grade shit, but it works every time.
So, I skipped over to the living room area with John following behind. Rachel looked bored to tears as well as the sidekick who was picking at his nonexistent fingernails. I asked Rachel if she was ready to call it a night, when John stepped in front of me and claimed to have something that would liven up the party. I was praying he meant Monopoly or a talking parrot.
He went in one of the 4 rooms in the penthouse and came back with a satchel bag. This is so a situation from CSI. I thought to myself.
He had this look of excitement, mischievousness, and constipation all into one while opening up the bag. He really needed to practice a new look for next time.
And then he revealed the solution to our problems...the cocaine.
I looked at it in awe. Sure, I had seen the movie Blow with Johnny Depp but never have I had the stuff in front of me.
Rachel asked the question that I was wondering..."How much does this go far? That looks like a pound."
"Roughly 27,000 dollars." He stated.
To be continued...
