What What In The Butt (part 1/3
As I alluded to in Spinach and Artichoke Dick, my last summer before moving to Maryland consisted mostly of traveling, going to concerts, and drinking. The first place that I visited was Las Vegas, Nevada. Myself, along with (at this point of the trip) two other friends (each of which are shame feeling losers and wish to stay anonymous), flew out from June 28th – July 7th, 2015. It would be the first time any of us would have the great pleasure of stepping foot in Sin City.
Collecting advice prior to our trip, the most solid piece of wisdom that we were blessed with was:
“Do yins have a credit card?”
“Yes?”
“Max it out. Just worry about it later.”
The ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ equivalent in the degenerate world.
[This installment is going to center around one particular situation that occurred during the vacation.]
Stumbling into our final night of the trip, we were ready to start cooking with gasoline. In fact, I remember how hesitant I was to even go and visit. Not because I thought that I wouldn’t enjoy it, but because I thought that I would enjoy Vegas so much, that I’d want to move there and would end up slowly handing my life over to the devil. I’m confident in saying that any honest person you talk to, would admit to having a love hate relationship with the 24/7 West Coast Party House. There’s a reason why people often only go for a weekend at a time. It takes discipline to survive long term. Three PM on a Wednesday in Vegas is the equivalent to midnight on the craziest Friday night in almost any other city. The entire Strip is infested with panhandling crackheads, walking STD clinics, escort services being handed out like worthless baseball cards, liquor stores at every corner squishing bars in between, club promoters attempting to lure you in with free limo services, bachelor and bachelorette parties patrolling in large groups with matching t-shirts and nicknames on the back as if they were the original Warriors, and on top of all of that, enough sexual ads on buildings, passing cars, and women’s butt cheeks to fill up every bulletin board in America.
Seems as though each person who visits Vegas has to ‘try something’ for the very first time in their life. On this final night, after constant persuasion, I took twenty milligrams of Adderall for the first time (to date, I’ve taken Adderall a total of MAYBE five more times – each being ten milligrams. It’s been over a year since the last time I’ve taken any). Yes, probably sounds super lame, but drug wise (outside of alcohol), it’s still the ‘hardest’ thing I’ve done. I’m twenty-seven years old as I’m writing this and I have yet to even take a single puff of marijuana, a cigar, cigarette, or hookah. I’ve resisted it hundreds of times dating back to high school and most recently spending a month in a hot boxed tour bus. I once turned down five hundred dollars cash from a buddy to take a hit of his blunt while we were visiting Atlantic City. Not saying that I’ll never try weed, but I’m treating it like a girl saving her virginity with the intent of selling it. You watch, at some point, I’m gonna make a few thousand to get these lungs coughing. I drink too much, and so I leave that as my only vice. Well, drink and masturbation, but let’s not kid ourselves – we all have that problem.
After my friend ‘Steve’ and I take the Adderall, the three of us buy two six-packs and begin to make our way to the High Roller. It’s basically a Ferris wheel (it’s actually the world’s tallest) for grown ass men. It has a total of twenty-eight spherical cubes that can fit up to forty people, despite each sphere also having a bar. Being built with nearly an entire glass structure, the complete 360 degrees view while peaking at 550 feet in the air makes for an amazing view to enjoy while pounding all you can drink shots for thirty minutes.
(The first time we were on it we got a good draw with a bartender who actually poured us drinks as fast as we could drink them. You don’t always get this lucky though and can have rule stickling dicks who aren’t looking out for your best interest and tell you that you need to “slow down” before they can make another).
After a solid thirty-minute chug fest, pregame’s complete. We all agree to head to Fremont Street (Old Vegas). It’s essentially The Strip’s little brother but can still beat up bullies twice its age. We spend a few hours walking the streets, touring casinos, and sipping frozen drinks flooded with vodka. We eventually end up a strip club. For me, this would mark as the second time ever visiting one (the first was a bum ass stank club near Thiel College).
The most important lesson I learned is that you NEVER tell a stripper that you play poker. Vast majority of poker players are die hard degenerates who will not hesitate to blow hundreds or thousands of dollars at a club. As soon as you associate yourself with that group, your prices just went up. It’s worse too when they know you play AND you have a draw string bag slumped over your back. Strippers know three things – how to tease a dick, how to ejaculate a dick, and where money’s kept. It didn’t take long for my other buddy ‘Killer’ to catch a girl reaching into his bag as her tits suffocated his face.
As the night went on, I find myself in a room getting dances from two different girls. No matter how much they tried to seduce me and constantly fighting the urge to get “more comfortable”, I kept my bag tightly wrapped around my back. After each dance, they would tell me to get one more and then they’d “take care of me”. Being a sloppy drunk rookie in Vegas, I wanted my first passing touchdown even if it was a rip off shovel pass. After an hour or two of expensive teasing, I leave the room to go and join Steve and Killer. Dangle a treat in front of a dog’s face, and it’ll even say fuck it after long enough.
Joining my buddies, I’m mad and disappointed at myself over the six hundred dollars I just spent getting swindled by two big titted con artists. I start to complain to the bouncers. If you think a bouncer is EVER going to defend a drunk tourist over his girls, then you probably assume you’re going to get a clean English speaking customer support worker when you dial any major company hot line number. Pathetically trying to cut my losses, I tell them that I got ripped off on my dances. They tell me that the dance(s) I got cost six hundred dollars. I lie and say that it cost me eight hundred dollars and that I want two hundred back.
I quickly begin teetering between forcibly being carried out, forcibly getting the baby dick beat out of me, but nowhere close to getting any money back. It’s about 5am and we’re the only visitors in the club. Perfect setting for me to get all of us taken to the back room and bent over in the worst possible way. I turn into a poor person haggling over ten cents at the flea market. Realizing I’m not going to get reimbursed with any kind of money compensation, I begin arguing for free drinks. Evidently, not only can I talk a cat off a fish wagon, but I can also talk my way out of being skinned alive while being rewarded with two free beers for me and each of my friends as we safely leave.
Standing on the street, I vowed vengeance against the club. All I envisioned was my victorious moment watching this establishment burn to the ground. The same type of vengeance that Pee Wee and his classmates sought after over that fat fuck Porky.
The three of us rock a piss, and then hop into a cab with the intention of going back to our hotel room. The line between intent and no intent in the court of law, can mean having numerous years added or subtracted to your sentence. The line between intent and no intent in Vegas gives no fucks and can be the difference between going back to your hotel room to sleep and what’s about to happen.
Killer jokingly makes a comment to our foreign cab driver about Asian women.
Cab Driver – “Ahhhhh you want Asian?!”
Steve – “Boom Boom!”
Cab Driver – “Ahhh you want BOOM BOOM?!”
Steve – “BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!!”
Killer – “BOOM BOOM!!!”
Baby Dick – “Boom Boom Mother Fuckers!”
Cab Driver – “You want Boom Boom? I take you to Boom Boom.”
That conversation makes sense to nobody including me. But put three first time Vegas visiting drunks, each at their intoxication peak, in a cab with a driver who doesn’t speak English very well, and Boom Boom being a lot of fun to say (for real, yell it right now – BOOM BOOM BOOM!), things happen. In fact, the only reason we began boom booming everything is because it became the phrase of the trip as soon as we stepped off of the plane and Steve walked by all of the slot grinders in the airport yelling Boom Boom at them.
“You hungry?”
“BOOM BOOM!”
“Did you win?”
“BOOM BOOM!”
“Did you bang her?”
“…boom…”
Boom booming our way down the street, the driver pulls up to an Asian massage parlor. The three of us enter and we each place an order. If you’re still under your rock, or have the magical ability to meet women in real life, and have never visited a rub and tug, here’s how business is handled. As you walk into the dimly lit ‘receptionist’ room, you’ll be greeted by an over the top friendly Asian woman. She’ll ask you if you want a massage, how long, and tell you how much it costs. It’s now, that you’ll hand over the cash for the agreed upon service, follow her to a room, take off all your clothes, lay face down on the table with a towel laid across your bottom half, and a girl will shortly be in. While you wait a minute or so, the soothing Chinese buffet music playing in the room helps reassure you that what you’re doing is totally normal, that you have nothing to be embarrassed about, and writing a short story three years later detailing your experience is absolutely fine.
After the ‘massage’ is over, and making a jerking motion with her hand, she asks “you want?!?!”
Boom Boom.
Mid jerk, she walks over to get more lube, and asks me a new question. In an exciting state, enthusiastic smile on her face, she begins making a horizontal motion with her pointer finger asking “You want?! You want?!”
“Uhhhh. Huhhhh?”
Continuing her finger motion, but now heightening her sales pitch, she continues to ask “You want?! Yeah??! You want?!!”
I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about, but all of her excitement has me sold.
“Uhhh okay.”
“It’ll be twenty dolla extra.”
“Uhhh sure.”
“Okay okay!!”
She aggressively puts on a rubber glove and begins lubing her hand. Coming to the realization of what I just agreed to, I felt like a patient waking up on an operating table as my anesthesia inexcusably wears off.
Laying stoically on the table, she returns to tugging. A few moments go by, and I begin to feel a tickling sensation down in the depths of my ocean. Just like the absolute deepest parts of our majestic waters, this too is uncharted territory. One moment to the next, she hits the throttle to clear the gap. My body tenses. They say that what’s normal for the spider is chaos for the fly and I stepped right into this web.
I felt helpless. I felt like an MMA fighter whose opponent had me in a submission and could snap my bone at any second. I was now in her power.
As the paralysis worsened, I thought for sure that I was defecating on her. It was a sensation unlike any other.
I’m not certain how long my drain was plugged, but it felt like an eternity.
The tug comes to an end, I put my clothes on, and walk back out into the lobby where Killer is waiting. We have a cab waiting outside for us (the previous cab driver said someone would be here to pick us up in about an hour), but Steve is nowhere to be seen. We wait a few minutes. Still no Steve. Wanting to break out of prison, I begin to sneak around checking out all of the back rooms attempting to track him down. I find him nowhere. I finally open up the bathroom door to find Steve passed out, sitting on the toilet, pants at his ankles and his limp forehead hovering over his chest.
“Steve!! Wake up!! Let’s go. Me and Killer are ready.”
We step outside to be confronted by strong beams of sunlight. It’s probably going on 8am and hangovers are already lurking.
Later this same day, we all go to the Bellagio Dinner Buffet before catching a red eye flight back home. Prior to us being seated, Killer goes to the bathroom to drop the kids off at the pool. Initiating spectacular dinner conversation, Killer makes a comment on how easy it was to back the car out of the driveway.
“I don’t know if it was what I ate or if it was the finger in the butt.”
“What you mean – finger in the butt?”
Oh how times change. It’s kinda like if you bang a hideous chick, you keep your lips sealed until one of your friends admits to fucking her without giving a damn, first. If Killer would have never said anything about him getting the same special treatment as myself, I would have stayed silent. Now three years later and HE’S the one who wants to remain anonymous while I just turned it into an installment of Baby Dick Tales.