Night Out After Poker (NOIR) Part 1

"I'm sorry sir, but Pinkberry has pulled out of their lease."

"So...no Pinkberry?"

"I'm sorry sir."

FUCK.

At the tables, you dropped eighteen hundred in two hours. Because scumbag calling station locals can't be bought out of a hand. Cause they think you're bullshit -- well, because you are bullshit, but when has that mattered? Getting self righteous and playing like an asshole didn't help.

And now no fucking Pinkberry? Waited months for that shit. Green tea with rasberries and chocolate chips. Sounds gross? Fuck off. Whatever.

Fast forward a few hours and your shades feel like they're crushing your fucking skull. A little too tight maybe, but they look epic. Chrome Hearts. Camo stems and sterling Fleur-de-Lis joints. Legen-wait for it- nah, fuck it, but they're hot. Rent-a-cop douchebag bouncer, who manages to wear his Armani suit like it's Men's Warehouse, told you that no sunglasses were allowed inside. You looked at him and he shut the fuck up. And you know what? You are a rock star compared to that guy, so wallow in it.

No, it's not a fucking brand name dropping thing you cocksuckers. It's relevant. It matters. People shit on cats for wearing shades inside clubs but the perks to people not being able to tell exactly what you're looking at are significant. Especially when the club is home to gorgeous bitches dancing in lingerie and girls in bathtubs wearing nothing but rose petals rubbing each other down.

Regardless how you look, how you feel is bored out of your mind. You're with 5 guys and one of their girlfriends and you're all doing bottle service at Tao. Hot, except you're probably the one paying. Seven seventy five for a bottle of Goose? Cool. Your game is clearly not working either. Sitting there looking cool and mysterious and the whole hard to get shit just isn't doing it. Your friends keep dragging back to your VIP area packs of fresh off the boat asian girls. The girls have paid you zero interest, which is okay as you were really hoping to do a little better than the rub-and-tug bitches. Eventually when the boys realize none of these girls will let them go for a dip, the girls are asked to leave and a fresh batch arrives. Honestly, they all look the same and you wonder if its just the same pack of girls all night. The fact that the club is dark and you're wearing sunglasses like a fucking tool doesn't help.

A girl in black boyshorts and matching lace bra is dancing on stage now, ass to you. Perfect ass. The type for which you'd write poems. Fuck it, that's some homo shit, but maybe a haiku.

Girl in black boy-shorts
Your ass is true perfection
Let me hit that, girl

You wonder if she'd talk to you. She's off limits though. Just artwork on the walls of the club really. Then again, you could marry this girl. Ass like that. You're in the zone watching this girl dance, thankful your sunglasses give you the privilege to stare.

"Hey."

"Hey."

You snap out of it. "Hey, you want to get me a drink?"

Brunette, slim, but with a heavy Long Island accent. You picture her purring "Oh yeah, right there" with that terrible accent and literally fucking giggle to yourself. Cawfee, vawley bawl, awwwwwful. Shit is terrible. "Go ahead."

"I said, you want to make me a drink?" she barks into your ear. Barks -- like a dog. With the barking.

This whole time you've still not turned attention away from your dancer for more than a few seconds. Long Island moves in front of you breaking your eye-line to the girl. She's trim if a bit pale. Low rise hip hugging Dolce jeans. The ones with that little mirror D+G back pocket and she's wearing an oddly matching shiny black halter. Daddy's girl. It's too dark to see her face and you promised yourself that you're not removing the shades without a locked in BJ, and why the hell are clubs so dark anyways.

You pussy out. "What do you want?"

"Whatever." God, this smalltalk is going great.

You make her a screwdriver partially because you're lazy and partially because it's the only fucking drink you can make it that doesn't taste like ass. Mental note to get smoother at making drinks. She takes three sips of the drink before glancing back to the dance floor, saying "Oh shit", and running off with the drink back to her friends. Apparently making her a drink and staring at her awkwardly for 20 seconds wasn't good enough game. In another life, Long Island.

"You guys need anything?" Erica, your hostess, is back, if only briefly. In spirit of the season, she's dolled up in a slutty Santa outfit. Waist length red jacket, white garter and stockings -- the whole nine yards. She's hotter than every single patron you've seen by far. Again, off limits. Besides, you like her. Tan skin, doe eyes, perfect body -- the list goes on.

"I think we need another bottle, whaddya think?" says asshat friend.

No, we fucking don't. Stop running up the tab to impress her you fucking assholes.

"Sure no problem, looks like you guys are still working on this one though."

"We'll finish it soon enough."

Faggot friends.

The next flock of asian girls coming into your section indicates it's time to get some air. After ten minutes of dancewalking to the other side of the club, you find the balcony overlooking the strip mostly deserted. On a warmer night, it would be packed with smokers or people making out, but when Vegas creeps below fifty, people keep things indoors. Not that there's much of a view anyways.

"You have a light?" Fat, mean looking Chinese girl. Her hair is tied up into two tiny pigtails -- she looks like a full size Cabbage Patch doll. Do people try to look this way? Like, on purpose?

"Sorry, no." Ten seconds of silence.

You turn around and head back inside nearly knocking over a bombshell of a blond on the way in. Smooth.

She glares at you. "You know it's not too sunny in the club. You should watch out." Pure venom. Socal accent.

You grin and continue past her. No witty comeback? What the fuck is wrong. Should have said something at least.

Coming from the eerie silence of the balcony back to the blare of the club is always shocking:

Soulja boy off in this hoe
Watch me lean and watch me rock
Super man that hoe
Then watch me crank dat Robocop
Super fresh now watch me jock

Can't help but smile to that shit though. Try as it might to be sophisticated, urbane, trendy, A-list, whatever -- it's still top 20 that brings the place to life. That's how it is everywhere. Pop culture trumps pretension every time.

Somehow, it's gotten late -- it's past four. The club stays open for another hour, but the crowd significantly thins after 4:30. The last hour is like the last hour anywhere else -- desperation and compromise.

You find your way back to your section. Your personal security is off his post, god knows where. Not that you can imagine why each table has its own private security. Huge guys too. Must be pretty expensive to hire these NFL sized guys to stand around and look menacing. Honestly, they probably are more there to protect the hostesses from overzealous customers than anything else.

You notice one such loser getting a little hands on with your hostess, Erica. Fatty too. Guy must be 6-1 or 6-2 but it's his beer gut that stretches out the cotton fibers of his baby blue polo. His jeans look ripe to explode. Old, maybe mid 30s. Exactly the type of douchebag loser you'd expect to get grope-y with a hostess, can't they spot these fucks at the door? Sir, you can't come in, we're sorry but there's a strong chance you're a douchebag. Erica's good though; she extricates herself with smiles and flirts and the situation never escalates. Pro.

Empathy doesn't get you laid either way -- it's as they say, "Nice guys don't finish." Don't know exactly who says that sort of thing, but people probably do. They probably do a little eyebrow lift and follow it with a cup-the-mouth-and-point when they say it too. Fucking they. Maybe you should find someone to talk to...

You spot Long Island grinding up on one of your "friends." There goes that. So it's either find someone new or give up. Giving up sounds good. You hit up the mini fridge and spin around Red Bull in hand to see two blonds chatting up the alpha male of your pack. Except...

To him, "Hey you looking to have some fun?" Ohhhhh, hookers.

"No, but my friend here is." Thanks bro.

"So, you looking to have some fun?"

"I'm, I'm good." Meep.

"Don't want to have some fun with me and my friend?" she whispers as she massages the arm of her partner in hooking. They are pretty cute, but... Hepatitis C. Hepatitis C. Hepatitis C.

"Nah, I'm good, but you, you want a drink? We're leaving soon and have a ton of stuff left."

"I want to drink you."

Well, that was subtle. "Wow, that's. That's... special." Seriously, if you're a prostitute, it's your job to be seductive. "I want to drink you?" What the fuck.

Your friend comes to your rescue, "What he means is that he feels it's really special -- it's special how you chose him out of all the other guys in here to pay you for sex. You picked him." Some fucking rescue. Now, there's going to be a huge scene.

No scene. The two shrug and wander off. "See, I got your back man."

"Yeah."

TO BE CONTINUED!!