The Strip

It’s not what it sounds like. While parts of Las Vegas can be found in varying states of undress its not exactly as it seems. On every street the homeless flog cards of naked asian women guaranteeing them to your door in under 20mins. A bit like ordering pizza. Mix that with walking yard sticks of frozen margaritas, drunk and mauling men, bright lights, sunburnt tourists and a midget Elvis you come somewhat close to the Las Vegas strip.

I am not going to lie, Las Vegas as a concept scared me. I am not one for solo drinking and I was concerned that I would be the sober one that sat in the corner while everyone else was maggot and dancing in their thongs and short shorts. I can hear the murmurs from those of you who’ve seen me dance in thongs and hear the guffaws of ‘as if’ 1. I would be sober and 2. When has dancing by myself ever stopped me. The answer is simple. When you are all standing there with beers in hand laughing at my solo dancing you don’t make me feel alone. Standing in a crowd of 10 000 people on your own, dancing to an Elvis impersonator with a $2 Corona – now that is something I’ve never done before.

The low down on Vegas. Here is what you expect.
Drinking – there was
Shows – Penn and Teller and Absinthe (a raunchy acrobat thingy)
Sex – there was none but there were offers (sorry Mum!)
Gambling – I did – a little – and didn’t do very well

It seems I am constantly placing myself outside of my comfort zone, and I know that’s the reason we travel in the first place but it is going to take a little bit of time for me to grab the opportunities as they arise. Sitting in the Rio hotel, I had spent my $100 gambling limit and conveniently placed myself at the bar instead. As a BFK wearer in Vegas it was easy to feel self conscious.

The woman running the drinks in the bar was barely wearing a thing. A see through sheath over her g -string and a crossover bra top that only covered her nipples. I had asked the bar tender earlier why he didn’t have to wear something that showed his bits. His response was “Why? Do you want me to?” followed by “If it helps you, I’m not wearing any underwear. Do you want to see?” It seems that in Las Vegas sex sells. And it sells everything.

Like all BFK wearers, it’s not usually our alluring bodies we use to hook the men in. We don’t wear g-strings and stockings, deliver drinks in white bikinis or wear strategically placed lace. We make them laugh and it seemed that if that was what I was relying on to meet people in Las Vegas- well I was shit out of luck. I spent the first day and a half just trying to see. Trying to work out which way was up and not to be blinded by the lights, the bling and the sheer mass of people. The whole place was so overwhelming I was concerned that I’d never surface from the mass and that I’d be lost for days.

So, I let go. I decided so what if I have a drink in the morning and walk down the street. Everyone else is. So what if I pull up a seat at the bar and sit next to a lady I thought I could chat to but who turned out to be a prostitute and so what if I just started conversations with random drunk strangers.

My Las Vegas, which was incredibly fun, is owed to four people. Will the barman, who laughed at my jokes, made me suck whipped cream from straws (again sorry Mum), who told me I was the sexiest thing in the world even though a half naked woman sat not three feet from me. I know it’s his job to flirt but he did it well and made me feel like I was just as hot as the women with legs to their armpits and lace lap laps.

Magdalena, Casey and Auston from Michigan are the other three. On a night time excursion to Fremont street, the old strip, the one Frank Sinatra walked down, I found myself in a piano bar on my own at midnight. I’d been there a little while when a very young, very good looking tattooed young man sat beside me and said “What are you doing in a place like this all by yourself?” With shots, more vodka, some open mic singing at the piano (He was good and a little bit flirty… that helped. Why is it when a boy sings to you, you really don’t care about anything else?) – I was laughing in no time. I had forgotten about the awkward solo dance of the hour before and was now someone who let 25 year old boys flirt with her.

Vegas may be a feast for the eyes but it turns out it’s just that. It’s all about the looking. Cause if you want to touch – you got to pay. So while I may have started out a little downtrodden about the amount of flesh on display and my shortcomings – it turns out I just didn’t need the tips like they did and that I am funny enough even with my clothes on.