Grubby at PokerWorks

In Vegas last week, I wore my glasses the majority of the time. When you sleep a couple hours every other night, contacts don’t cut it. Glasses enable you to roam the streets with red eyes without looking like an alien blinking incessantly. Though in Vegas, no one looks the other way when they see red eyes, wrinkled shirts, or men wearing white wedding dresses.

When I was working at the radio station, the promotions director always asked if I wanted tickets to anything. Radio doesn’t pay much and perks like tickets and food gift certificates make up for it. I never took him up on it, not seeing anything I was interested in. When I left, they kept in touch and said if I was ever in town and wanted tickets, let them know.

So I asked for Phantom: The Las Vegas Spectacular, and he came through. As hack as they are, I’m a sucker for Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals, and Phantom of the Opera is a favorite. The Vegas version is a truncated, 100-minute version (even the title was shortened) with a fireworks display that they somehow received permits to let off onstage. The center orchestra seats were terrific and I didn’t notice what was missing from the intermission-less show, other than possible talent that Las Vegas still has trouble attracting.

But as the spectacle in the Spectacular, it was worth every bit of the comped tickets.

My friend J was impressed as I was with the constant motion and new scenery with every scene change. We were two rows in front of where the Phantom hung from the chandelier, which was fine because I don’t like having dirt from people’s shoes fall on me.

I would’ve taken a picture of the breathtaking theater, but theaters are kind of my church, and I tend to respect the no photograph rule.

That didn’t, however, stop my obsession of snapping a picture of restrooms, downstairs in the Phantom lair:

As with anything in hotel rooms that isn’t nailed down, I considered absconding with the softsoap, but I didn’t have a convenient place to hide it.

Here’s the flimsy program along with a Phantom chip I won in the poker room:

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That poker room was the stop after the show, and I watched J as he bet aggressively at the 1/2 NL table and was called by several players.

After he lost, he headed to Wynn to try out his luck.

Suddenly, the table became tight and it was a chore to win anything. J is a tight player but overly aggressive only when he doesn’t hit, and I think while he was playing the table loosened up.

I managed to squeak out the $5 Phantom chip along with $95 more, and it was hard to concentrate with two attractive girls at the table. One had huge dilated owl eyes and called me down to the river when I had pocket Queens and the flop showed a King (I chickened out and checked the river). My QQ held up. The other girl played well and kept flashing the side of her stomach.

J returned from Wynn and we headed to the Gold Club Lounge to relax.

One of the perks of being a Harrah’s Diamond member is the one-tier upgrade to Gold at The Venetian. The Gold Lounge pales in comparison to the Diamond Lounge, but it did offer free sodas, tea, coffee, fruit juice, private bathrooms, and comfortable sofas, chairs, and LCD screens.

We then walked through the casino, J playing blackjack and then video poker, while I headed straight to Monopoly Big Event.

It was my favorite nickel denomination, though with 10 lines. A girl and her boyfriend next to me used a strategy of waiting for the eligibility timer to drop down and then betting big to lock in a big multiplier, hoping Big Event would hit during those 9 seconds. She had impeccable timing, because it hit during those times and her $5 buy-in turned into $400.

I cashed out $120 ahead playing conservatively on my $20 buy-in.

We then decided it was time for a strip club.

But wearing glasses at a strip club won’t do, because all sorts of situations can crop up to jeopardize those $400 frames.

So a quick stop back to our rooms at Flamingo to freshen up, change into something more stripper friendly, pop in the contacts, splash on some cologne, and I was ready to go.

Never good to go to a strip club on an empty stomach, so we sought out food. The fast places were closed at Flamingo, and I had a hankering for Buffalo Wild Wings, but the closest one was in Henderson 25 minutes away.

So we stopped at Ellis Island to try out their wings along with their mainstay fish and chips (yes, the off-the-menu $4.95 steak sirloin is still the mainstay, but when you’re craving wings, the other red meat won’t do no matter how cheap). Karaoke was in full swing and a couple times I thought it was as good as the original, thinking it was the radio until a note was missed.

On the way out we (or rather, I) were called to the blackjack table and both had an incredible run. I won seven hands in a row and stupidly kept flat betting $15 a hand. That’s how beaten I’ve become around blackjack, always thinking I’ll lose. Once I lost two in a row I cashed out, up $100. J cashed out up $65 just betting $10 per hand.

We played for less than 10 minutes, and that paid for dinner as well as the first few dances.

***

My favorite strip club is Cheetah’s because of a couple incidents that happened on previous trips. Besides, how can the gentlemen’s club featured in Showgirls not be a favorite?

When J said it was up to me where to go, I headed straight to Cheetah’s almost as if the PT Cruiser were on automatic pilot.

A new valet was in front who tried to charge us $20 which would include admission for both. I got him down to $10, though he probably would’ve relented if we looked like we’d leave. It was already early Monday morning at 2 a.m., not the best time to go strip club hopping.

The front desk let us in for free, and the place was moderately dead. We found a blacklight spot in the back area, purchased our $8.50 drinks (bottled water is also $8.50, so why not drink?), and settled in.

Very few girls were up onstage, but I rarely go upstage with dollar bills anyway. I much prefer the contact, whether lapdances or just chatting about having a kid and going to UNLV to study criminology.

My usual stripper customer name is Dave, but this time it was Steve and I was visiting from Ohio to rehearse for the musical Chess because I can’t concentrate in the midwest. I also don’t know my lines, and I hate to dance, but I know all the songs.

A Hawaiian girl who was more endowed below than up top approached and I waved her off to come back later.

A woman who must’ve been in her mid-40s (which put her at 30 — strippers don’t age too well) popped by and kept rubbing up against J while eyeing me, touching my knee, and calling me “Poppy.”

“You like Colombian women, Poppy?” she said.

I do, but not those who have rolls on their legs and stomach staples or appendix scars or whatever weird flab of skin that hung across her midriff.

J kept pointing her over to me, and I ignored her. Looking the other way is usually enough to give the hint, but occasionally you’ll have the persistent ones, particularly on a dead night.

The Hawaiian girl returned and I used her as my escape. She led me to the front area and I showered her with tales of musical theater that I made up on the fly. She gave two dances which were okay except when she bobbed up and down with her considerable ass.

A nice hug ended our transaction, and I was back to J who almost fell asleep waiting for me.

Another girl called herself a “cockologist” while pinching mine. She promised to be better than any of the other girls, and though she was good, I should’ve asked for a money-back guarantee.

I told another girl that I liked when she pulled my hair, and she said it was her trademark. She should sic her patent attorney on the other girls, because apparently they all copied her signature move.

Several more dances later were all hazy until Alyssa came over.

Alyssa was blonde, had a fading tattoo of Chinese characters down the length of her back, and had minty breath that covered cigarettes. She worked as a processor at Prudential and was originally from Lake Tahoe, where she was catching a flight to in a couple hours.

And yep, she’d fit right into redneck status.

My favorite.

One dance turned into eight.

Her dancing became progressively risque, and things she did would’ve been off-limits in the backroom, much less in public. I noticed she’d try things while first peeking at the two-way mirror.

She’d lick her nipple (always the one on the right) and then stick it in my mouth. She’d put her hand over mine and lead it up to her nipple, then do the same toward her crotch. She took down her bottom and let me see her piercing down there, then let me rub around that area. Once with my hand, another time with my nose.

Sometimes razor stubble is a turnoff, but on Alyssa it seemed to fit.

In the backroom, she said, she’d let me touch anywhere. And though it’s normally three dances for $100 back there, she’d give me four.

I was easily and obviously smitten, and could just have easily let her continue for another eight more, except that the pants I was wearing had a zipper that kept grinding into me and I became sore for a whole other reason.

She hopped onto J for a few more dances, and he asked her if she’d come back to my room (payment wasn’t discussed). She said I’d asked her the same thing (I didn’t, but would have if I didn’t have a zipper stabbing me) and she’d be up for it, except that she was leaving straight to Lake Tahoe. She mentioned the name of her friend on eros.com who’d be willing.

J decided on the $100 backroom deal for himself, and she excused herself to retrieve something from her locker. She was called to the stage and was truly stunning — sexy, fun, and white trash.

She must’ve liked J, too, because his tan shorts were covered in blacklight-revealing splotches. He said it was his favorite shorts, but I told him he’d have to burn them, lest any questions be brought up when he returned home.

I was finished after another Red Bull & vodka. Figuring I’d spent $360 at the club, I was out of money and I needed the cockologist to examine me to see if I needed a tetanus shot.

But we stayed because J wanted one trip to the backroom with Alyssa.

We waited a good hour, and no sign of Alyssa.

I had a good laugh at J’s shorts and the fact that he was stood up by a stripper, but he had the last laugh when back at the hotel I blew through $300 in Monopoly Big Event.

Damn slots.

This entry was posted on Friday, April 13th, 2007 at 3:33 am and is filed under Uncategorized.