I’ve often wondered what hell would be like.
Not really out of fear. More like curiosity.
Is it full of fire and brimstone, as I heard them speak of the handful of times my parents dragged me to church as a child?
Or maybe everyone’s hell is personal. Maybe Hitler’s hell is filled with all the people he thought were inferior to him. Jack the Ripper is probably surrounded by prostitutes who emasculate him, cutting his throat and abdomen. And Ted Bundy is most likely alone, not a single person there to impress or feel self-important around.
Just like my hell would be a nightclub fifty stories above the Vegas strip, drunk people grinding up against each other. And the sentence Lucifer would give me when I arrive at the fiery gates? To serve eternal damnation at a bachelorette party that never ends.
Yup. I have arrived at my own personal hell.
“Blowjobs! That’s what we need right now!”
I close my eyes, summoning the strength to feign excitement over the idea of drinking a disgustingly sweet mixture of Bailey’s, Kahlúa, and half-and-half, all topped with whipped cream. If my cousin, Hannah, and I weren’t like sisters when we were kids, I wouldn’t be wearing a a necklace of penises and a tight black tank top, “Bride’s Bitch” bedazzled on the front, enduring this bachelorette party that’s filled with one cliché after another.
I sure hope this city’s marketing slogan is correct. This entire experience needs to stay in Vegas.
“Yes!” Hannah slurs, agreeing with Bernadette, her older sister and maid of honor, who planned this excursion to the tenth circle of hell. She struggles to get up from the couch where she’s sitting, tripping over several pairs of legs as she attempts to flag down our cocktail waitress. “Blow jobs all around!”
Whistles and cheers erupt as two guys with far too much hair product jump at the opportunity to join us. “I’ll buy you those if you return the favor with the real thing,” the tall, slender blond says, his suggestive gaze scanning our group in a way that reminds me of someone selecting produce at a farmer’s market, looking for the ripest tomato, the juiciest peach.
I glance to my left, giving Izzy a knowing look. Hannah, Izzy, and I were inseparable growing up. For the longest time, I couldn’t imagine my life without them at my side. We went through all of life’s big changes together. Puberty. First boyfriends. First kisses. Then my parents divorced and my mom took me from Connecticut to New Jersey, where she unsuccessfully attempted to piece her life back together.
“I’m not sure you could handle the real thing,” a petite brunette named Carmen says, suggestively licking her lips.
Desperate for a break from what’s become a sex-charged day in the city of sin, I extract myself from our group.
“Bathroom?” Izzy asks. “Or did you change your mind on the scavenger hunt and decide to…” She picks up a printed piece of card stock and reads, “build a penis with objects found at the bar?” She rolls her eyes at the absurdity of it all.
“Tempting…” I give her a tight smile, “but I think I’ll pass. I’m going to the bar to get a drink.”
“But they ordered blow job shots,” she retorts sarcastically, taking a sip of her vodka tonic.
“I refuse to do any shot made in such a way to make it appear I have cum on my face when I drink it.”
Izzy coughs, liquid spraying out of her nose and mouth.
“Who the hell invented that shot? Probably someone who didn’t give or receive blowjobs that often. If you do it right, you won’t end up with cum on your face. Unless that’s what you want. If that’s the case, more power to you. To each their own.”
She coughs a few more times, then clears her throat. “God, I’ve missed you, Chloe.”
“Missed you, too. Want anything?”
She holds up her glass. “I’m good.”
“Okay. I’m off to brave the elements.” I spin on my heels.
“Good luck,” she calls out.
At least now that night has fallen and we’re in a darkened space, the stereotypical tank top that’s been my bachelorette party uniform isn’t as noticeable. Bernadette thought each of us wearing a shirt with “Bride’s Bitch” on it was hysterical, and hers saying “Bitch of Honor” even more so. I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled in order to prevent myself from telling her how juvenile I think this entire weekend truly is. That it’s not the kind of bachelorette party Hannah envisioned. She’s too nice to say anything. She’s always been that way.
Strobe lights pulse as I maneuver my way through crowds of people congregated around small tables and lush leather couches. The smell of perfume, combined with beer and fruity alcohol mixtures, fills the air. Scantily dressed waitresses pass by carrying trays overflowing with drinks while the vibration of the driving club music seems to make the floor shake.
Despite the temperatures being on the chilly side, considering night’s fallen, the sheer number of people present increases the heat level, causing perspiration to form on my brow. All walks of life are represented here, everyone pretending to be someone they’re not for one weekend of sin.
I don’t need a weekend of sin. I sin on a regular basis.
I squeeze my way up to the bar and catch the bartender’s attention immediately, my gray and lilac-colored ombre hair standing out in a sea of blondes and brunettes.
“What can I get you?”
“Martini. Dirty.”
“You got it.” He turns and grabs the vodka bottle, pouring a heaping amount into the cocktail shaker. “Having a good time?”
“Absolutely.” I grit out a smile.
“Liar,” he responds with a wink.
“That obvious?”
“Maybe I’m just observant. You don’t seem to fit in with your friends over there.” He nods toward the bachelorette party.
I look at him incredulously, wondering how he’d notice me when pouring drinks all night. Then I glance back at the girls, raising my five-foot, two-inch frame onto my tiptoes to peer over the ocean of people, grimacing when I see Bernadette’s shoved a brightly colored shooter between her boobs and one of our new “friends” is taking the shot from her without the use of his hands. We’re definitely hard to miss. Bernadette made sure of that.
“What makes you say that?” I muse when I return my attention to him.
“You don’t exactly scream ‘desperate housewife’.” He grabs a long metal spoon and stirs my martini. If nothing else, he understands a great martini should be stirred, not shaken, as Mr. Bond would have you believe.
“At least I’m doing something right.”
“You certainly are.” He pours the liquid through the strainer and into a chilled glass, then pushes it toward me. “Enjoy.”
With a smile, I place a bill on the counter and turn from him. If I were anywhere else, I might have given him my number with instructions to call when his shift was over. I’d rather not leave any piece of myself in this town.
As I emerge from the mosh of people, I look in the direction of the girls, only to find most of them grinding with complete strangers. Except for Hannah and Izzy. They’re off to the side, distancing themselves from the debauchery currently underway amongst the rest of the women. All I can do is pray this kind of behavior doesn’t rub off on Hannah. Then again, she’s twenty-eight. She had her fun during her younger years, unlike her sister, Bernadette, who got married when she was twenty — a shotgun wedding because she was pregnant.
“How much?” I hear a voice say as I start toward them. It’s so random and out of context I don’t react at first. Then a hand grips my bicep, preventing me from taking another step.
I whirl around, my fierce eyes settling on a man of average height and build. His black shirt is tucked into a pair of dark jeans, a gray blazer finishing the ensemble. “Excuse me?”
“I said…” He loosens his grasp on my arm, licking his lips as he leers at me, wavering slightly. I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Great. Another guy emboldened with the help of Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, or Jose Cuervo. Possibly a combination of all three. “How much?”
“For what?”
He chuckles in feigned amusement. Then his expression falls, his eyes heating as they rake over me.
“I get it. You’re discreet. I can be discreet, too.” Winking, he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet, flashing what I estimate to be several thousand in hundreds. He either got lucky shooting craps or hit up a few ATMs earlier. I’m guessing the latter. “Like I said, how much?”
I shake my head, backing away from him. “I am not a prostitute.” My tone is firm, leaving no room for argument.
He blows out a laugh. “Sure. You’re not a prostitute, just like I’m the fucking Easter Bunny. I can pretend to be someone I’m not, too, sweetheart. Trust me. I have an eye for these things, and any woman who comes into a club wearing a ridiculously tight tank top, a skirt that rides up her ass, and has hair colored like yours just screams whore.”
Fire flames on my face and I ball my free hand into a fist. Before I can reel back and land a blow, he grips my hip, yanking my body against his, causing my martini to splash between us.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but every second you play hard to get, the amount I pay you will decrease. If I were you, I’d give careful consideration to the next words that come out of your mouth. Ya got me?”
My jaw clenches as my distaste for him grows with each heartbeat. “Like I said…” I place a hand on his chest, glowering, “I am not a prostitute. So I’d suggest taking your disgusting paws off me before I kick my apparent hooker heel into your balls and press so hard they’ll hear them pop all the way in Los Angeles. Ya got me?” I finish, throwing his words back at him.
His composure cracks momentarily, but he’s either too drunk or too dumb to get the hint. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you? I dig it.” He loops his arm around my waist, pulling me even harder against him. “Come on. Tell me your price.”
My heart rate spikes and bile rises in my throat when his erection pushes against my stomach. What the hell is it about men these days who think they can treat women like property? Who think it’s their God-given right to exert dominance over the opposite sex?
“Like I told you. I’m not—”
“Oh, there you are!” a deep voice bellows, cutting through.
I whip my eyes in its direction, disoriented when an arm wraps around me, prying me out of the creep’s grasp. I’m startled at first, taken aback by the strong embrace currently holding me. But unlike before, I don’t feel the overwhelming sense of dread and disgust.
“I can’t leave you alone for a second, can I?”
When he pulls back, I meet brilliant green eyes that seem to penetrate deeper than they should, considering they belong to a stranger. Then again, there’s something oddly familiar about him, making me think I should know him. But I’d remember someone like him. Wouldn’t I?
He towers over me, making me estimate he’s six-three or six-four, since I only come up to his pecs. He has a proud face, chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, masculine nose. His dark hair is a little messy, but in a sexy kind of way. Although he sports a beard and mustache, it’s impeccably groomed. In fact, everything about him is impeccably groomed.
Granted, we’re at a club in Vegas with a rather strict dress code, at least for men. But something about the way he carries himself with a cool confidence makes him stand out amongst a sea of men just looking for a quick piece of ass. The dark jeans and tweed jacket make me think he’d be more comfortable at a cigar bar, sipping scotch, jazz standards playing in the background.
“Can I?” he repeats, giving me a knowing look, encouraging me to play along. So that’s what I do.
“I guess not.” I face the creep, a smug smile on my face as I burrow deeper into my mystery man’s embrace. “Like I said. This…” I gesture down my body, “isn’t for sale. Even if it were, you would never be able to afford it, baby. Not with that wallet you flashed me.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but all my mystery man has to do is puff out his chest and he snaps his jaw shut, turning from me.
“And for future reference,” my mystery man calls out, keeping his arm wrapped around me, despite the threat waning.
The creep looks back at him.
“When a lady says she’s not interested, it’s not an invitation to press the issue. If I find you’ve caused any more problems or offer any other woman money to sleep with you, there are two rather large gentlemen manning the front door who will have no problem helping you learn this lesson differently.” He smiles a fake smile. “Ya got me?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He shuffles away.
“What a tool,” my mystery man remarks as he drops his hold, turning to face me, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I can handle myself. But thank you for intervening on my behalf. It wasn’t necessary.”
I begin to retreat from him. If I didn’t hate Vegas before, I do now. With it being the stereotypical destination for a hormonally charged bachelor or bachelorette party, it’s open season to hit on anything with a pulse. I wish people had to take a test before entering the proverbial Vegas wildlife, like hunters have to in order to obtain their license to hunt prey. That’s what this place is like. A jungle. During mating season.
“Got a name?” he calls out before I can take more than a few steps.
“Yup,” I shout over my shoulder with a smirk. “Thanks for checking.”
“You’re not going to tell me?” he yells when I continue to squeeze my way through the hordes of people. “What am I supposed to call you? Dick Girl?”
His words seem to carry over the beat of the music and I stop in my tracks, sensing curious eyes watching our interaction. I spin around, stalking toward him.
“Dick Girl? Why? Because I’m wearing a short skirt and my hair’s a little different so I must really enjoy dick? I’m pretty sure there are lesbians out there who wear short skirts and color their hair differently, too. That doesn’t mean they like the dick, does it? Or is it just because we’re in Vegas?”
He’s about to respond, but I cut him off before he has a chance to utter a single syllable. My presence in my least favorite city for a ritual I find cliché, trivial, and ordinary, all things I try to avoid being, causes the thin filter between my brain and mouth to evaporate.
“I get it. Some guy who probably considers himself a marketing genius concocted a brilliant ad campaign all those years ago when he came up with this city’s tagline. Can you imagine being in the room when the creative team discussed that gem as an option? It’s almost like their mission was to come up with the slogan most likely to result in surprise pregnancies, STDs, and infidelity, all of which do not stay in Vegas.”
He tries to speak again, but I hold up my finger, silencing him.
“So, as tempting as the idea of living out my wildest fantasies is…and truthfully, you’re not so bad to look at, and I do have quite an active imagination…I do not hook up with random strangers, not in this town anyway. But fear not.” I give him a trite smile. “This city is full of bachelorette party attendees who would love to have a piece of you. Hell, you could probably even score a threesome or foursome. Maybe even a fivesome, like a sorority porno gone incredibly wrong. A simple online search will lead you to any number of sex clubs within a short Uber ride from here. But that shit won’t be happening with me.” I gesture to my crotch area. “This pussy is on a much-deserved break.”
I remain in place as my words seem to ring out between us. I expect him to be stunned and unsure how to respond, maybe offer an apology for his assumption about me. Instead, he reaches out. I attempt to step back, but before I can, he toys with the chain dangling from my neck.
Smirking, he says, “I was referring to your necklace. Dick. Girl.”
A tingle sweeps across my cheeks as my shoulders drop. Thankfully, it’s too dark for him or anyone else to see my complexion turn red. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.” He chuckles as his full lips curve in the corners. He flashes his white teeth, his smile exuding a confidence I’m not used to seeing. Something about it intrigues me. It’s such a simple thing. The flexing of muscles to turn up your lips, demonstrating happiness, amusement, or any other number of positive emotions. But with that one smile, I feel something I’ve avoided for years now…
Vulnerability.
“Have a nice night… Dick Girl.”
He turns from me, the crowd seeming to part to allow him passage. Then he stops, facing me once more.
“And, for the record, I didn’t ask your name as a preface to sleep with you. I did so because my mother taught me manners, to treat everyone with respect.” He keeps his dark eyes locked with mine, allowing his statement to sink in. “Stay safe tonight. It’s a jungle out there.” He treats me to one last smile, then disappears into the crowd, leaving me bewildered.
Has being single in New York so long jaded me to the point that I assume every straight man only approaches me because they want to get into my pants?
At one point, I dreamed of having the love story I read about in fairy tales…until I realized all fairy tales eventually end. Soon, the Prince will question Snow White’s devotion to him whenever she runs off to the forest to spend time with the dwarfs. Prince Phillip will accuse Aurora of always just lying there, practically asleep, during sex. And poor Aladdin and Jasmine… He’ll never stop feeling emasculated every time they have an argument and she so kindly reminds him that if it weren’t for her, he’d still be a street rat.
If that’s a fairy tale, I want nothing to do with it.
