Wonderhussy

Well, the Midsummer Night’s Dream party at the Palms turned out to be a pretty big MEH. I guess once you’ve been to Burning Man, nothing can compare…although I must say they did a great job with the decorations, costumed stiltwalkers and bodypainted hussies wandering around the Palms pool under a full moon. But aside from all that…it was basically just another night at a Vegas club full of douchebags and whores in slutty costumes — myself included.

I wasted soooo much time and energy trying to come up with a badass costume — I cut the fuck out of my thumb making that mask the night before, and I wasted hours running around town to costume shops and dollar stores. And all so I could molested by a girl on ecstasy (see below) and endure the come-ons of countless douchebags?! Oh, well. At least I know now that I didn’t miss much last year, when I was in jail for DUI during the event (see my review of the Clark County Detention Center here).

But despite the disheartening inanity of the actual party, I ended up having a faaaaantastic time anyway, because of the awesome friends I met up with there — an entertainment journalist friend and one of his photographer colleagues from the local paper. They are both witty, intelligent and FUN…so the night was not a total wash! We partied with a well-known local gossip columnist and his wife, and ended up having a pretty good time.

My journalist friend had to leave early, to go over to another nightclub to interview a certain member of an annoying Christian boy band that gets the tween set all hot and bothered — we’ll call him Bo Bonas. He invited us to come along with him and watch, but first I had to figure out a way to make my extremely slutty “costume” into suitable club attire. I couldn’t just walk into this upscale nightclub dressed like a slutty evil fairy, ya know. Especially with wholesome little Bo Bonas there and all — I wouldn’t want him becoming an atheist on MY account!

Thankfully, I always roll around town with a few extras in an overnight bag in my truck, so I was able to cobble together a semi-decent outfit out of my work uniform shirt and a scarf wrapped around my ass. Classy!

The interview ended up being a bust — my friend just asked Bo a few Qs out on the red carpet in front of the club, and nothing exciting transpired. AFTER the fact, my friend asked me why I didn’t try to molest Bo and hump his leg or something! Well, gee — I was trying to be professional and not get in the way of your job! If I’d have known it was socially acceptable to molest young religious boys, I would have jumped him in two seconds — he was kinda hot, like a little Mormon Elvis. Oh, well.

After that we went into the nightclub in question — Haze, at Aria — for around 3 minutes before bailing on it. There is absolutely NOTHING to recommend this nightclub over others in Vegas. NOTHING! I found it completely uninteresting, visually, musically and crowd-wise. If I have to go to a nightclub, at least let it be someplace fun-ish and different, like XS, which is outdoor, or TAO, which is decorated cool and has half-naked models in bathtubs and stuff. Haze has absolutely N.O.T.H.I.N.G. to set it apart from the crowd. It was dark, dreary and depressing. My advice: SKIP IT!

After we bailed on Haze, we went next door to the good old Cosmopolitan, where you can always have a good time. My friend was hungry, so first we headed up to the much-overhyped “secret” pizza place on the 3rd floor, “hidden” down a hallway and only noticeable if you happen to see the huge mass of trendy hipster douchebags spilling out. Secret, my ass! You can read my review of this pizza place here — all I’ll say now is that the pizza was OK (pretty good, actually) but the wine was GREAT! Not that it was that high-quality, but it was only $6 for a ginormous plastic cup-full. Nice! I fueled myself for another 3 hours of partying off just that one cup — we headed downstairs to the ever-fabulous Bond lounge, where we danced and carried on with a bevy of pimps from Scottsdale, until they shut the place down at 4am. Then it was back out on the streets for me 🙁

 So that was my Saturday night. I spent all day Sunday recuperating on the sofa with my all-American hero friend, but then Monday rolled around and it was time to party again. My day started early with a photo shoot out in Pahrump, a sort of cow-town about an hour northwest of Vegas — it’s mostly famous for being the home of several legal brothels, but it’s also home to this fabulous little barrel-racing 18-year-old cowgirl named Michelle who wants to get into modeling, so a mutual friend (a vegan hippie biker chick I met through my friend Muscles Manischewitz) introduced us on Facebook.

I had been wanting to do a nude photo shoot on a horse for a loooong time (Lady Godiva — hello!), but didn’t know anyone with horses. Well, this little barrel racer was more than happy to lend me a couple of her horses in exchange for me bringing one of my photographer friends out there to shoot a few pics of her for her nascent portfolio. We shot some glamour-type shots for her, then she loaded up two of her gentlest horses and we cruised out to these awesome little sand dunes right behind the Chicken Ranch brothel. It was faaaaaaaaaantastic! The horses were very mild-tempered, and I was able to roll around naked on their backs with no fuss. I’m not sure the pix came out very good, though, because I wasn’t in the mood — I had a case of the uglies that day; I was really tired and my face was all puffy. Plus, it was hot as hell and really windy, and I got sand and horsehair in every crevice. BUT…having said all that, it was a fantastically fun experience, and I made a really cool new friend out of it. Any photographers reading this, Michelle Reese is a fantastic model and she needs more TF photos…check her out on Model Mayhem!

I did feel like a bit of a city slicker out there — I was sitting on one of the horses, and Michelle told me to ride it down the hill. “How do I get it to go?” I asked, like a total dumbass. Meanwhile, she was backing up her trailer like a pro — it takes me at least 20 minutes to back my pop-up camper into my freaking driveway, and here’s this 18-year-old backing up a trailer full of horses on a sand dune. Fuck!

But hell, I am a city slicker…and I had to get back to the city stat, in time for dinner with my friend J.R. (the wealthy oilman from Tennessee I told you about). He was in town for the week with one of his NASCAR honeys — a bartender he met at the race in Daytona, one of those beautiful Southern blonde belles you see in the movies. One of her good friends happens to be a local party whore/Playboy Playmate of no little local renown, who is also supposedly good buddies with Holly Madison…so we were all supposed to go out together.

I washed the sand and horsehair out of my ass just in time for J.R. to come pick me up in his limo, and then we all went over to the Cosmopolitan, where he had gotten a room for the girls. We picked up the NASCAR honey — we’ll call her Bobbi Jo — and her skank-bag Playmate friend, who we’ll call Skanki Sue, and then we all headed downstairs for dinner at an unbearably pretentious restaurant that shall remain unnamed (you can read my review of it here). I have never been party to such an obscene display of soullessness as I was at that dinner, let me tell you.

A word about my friend J.R.: he’s a genuinely nice man, goodhearted to a fault, Christian and polite and hardworking. His Achilles heel, however, is slutty whores — he can’t pass one by without giving her a wink and a $100 tip. Hmm, maybe that’s why he’s friends with me! Anyhoo, I’ve seen him suckered by many a pretty girl with malicious intent -he’s been known to fly all kinds of skanks out to Vegas, all expenses paid, and this one mega-whore who works at a local cigar shop once talked him into buying a $40,000 lighter (it is gold, and encrusted in diamonds). I think he actually enjoys being taken advantage of, and it is to his eternal consternation that I refuse to be party to this type of behavior. We’re just friends!

Anyhoo, he speaks very highly of Bobbi Jo (the NASCAR bartender), so I gave her a chance, though I had severe reservations. I didn’t get to talk to her much at dinner, so I will politely refrain from judging her based on her appearance, clothing and demeanor. Skanki Sue, on the other hand…WOW! That girl is a HOT FUCKING MESS!

Let me reiterate that this is a legit Playboy Playmate, very well known in Vegas…so I expected somewhat more. I mean, Playboy is the gold standard, right? Even MY photos don’t meet their standards!! (Yes, I was drinking wine one night and submitted some pics out of drunken curiosity.) So any gash good enough for Playboy has got to be attached to a classy, wholesome young lady, right? Not in this case! Aside from her hair extensions, acne, wall-eyed stare and gaping swollen lips (I think she was wearing lip-plumper with bee venom in it…whatever the case, she looked like a monkfish), her personality was insufferably atrocious! Now, I have an extremely high tolerance for idiots, and I will gladly suffer a fool if it makes for interesting conversation, or a good blog entry. But this woman was simply soul-searingly inane and utterly devoid of a single redeeming characteristic!

In a bizarre sort of half-brained, dead-eyed drawl, she droned on and on throughout dinner about all the MDMA she drank the day before, and how she’d gotten kicked out of every nightclub in Vegas, and how she’d gone to dinner with this person and that person and partied with so-and-so and douche-and-douche, blah blah blah. Meanwhile, she kept demanding more champagne — she asked for “Veuve” (she’s on a first-name basis, don’t you know), but to impress the girls, J.R. ordered Dom Perignon — so much so that the tab ended up being $1100 for 24 oysters, two cheeseburgers and enough booze to put out the last flickering embers in the smoldering wreckage of this whore’s soul! It was astonishing.

J.R. was very impressed with the two of them (or with the idea of being seen with the two of them), so he kept ordering more champagne and laughing at their asinine stories. Meanwhile, I sat in the corner, getting genteelly sloshed and taking notes on my BlackBerry…not fully unamused, but not really having fun, either! Mostly because you could tell the other two chicks didn’t like me, and kept ignoring me and excluding me from their conversation. Whatevs, bitches! Here’s the kind of poseurs they were: I ordered a cheeseburger, but they had soup and some kind of weird fishy thing (probably trying to stay thin, the desperate bitches). But when they saw me devouring my burger, they sort of picked listlessly as the fishy nastiness on their plate (they shared an entree) and finally sent it back for being too fishy — and ordered a burger! Hahahahahahahaha! I’m sooooo glad I’m not that kind of a desperate man-pleasing dick-sucking ass-kissing lip-plumping MDMA-drinking brainless party whore!

Finally, after Skanki’s liver reached saturation point, J.R. paid the tab and then took us all back over to Caesars Palace, where he gambles. He bankrolled the girls and they all played blackjack for awhile, until I got tired and took my leave around 1am. After I left, I guess they really did go over to some nightclub and party with Holly Madison. It would have been interesting to stick around for that, but as I said I got the distinct vibe that the girls didn’t much care for me, so I just took a cab home and went to bed. I spoke to J.R. the morning after, and he apologized profusely…and agreed with me that Skanki Sue was horrible. But he insists that Bobbi Jo is actually really nice — so we’ll see; I guess I’ll give her another chance.

Now meanwhile, all this is going on and some random pervert photographer I shot with a few times is in town, blowing up my phone wanting to shoot. This guy runs what he calls a “damsel in distress” website, which is basically just videos of hot chicks tied up, gagged and struggling to get free. SICK, right? What kind of rapist/serial killer/pervert gets off on watching that?!

I have shot with him in the past out of sheer financial desperation (I’m one to talk about desperate, money-grubbing skanks), but it was miserable — he always stays at the Palace Station (a real dump, the one where O.J. Simpson was arrested breaking into one of the rooms a few years back), and he ties you up really tightly in these complicated Japanese bondage knots that hurt really badly. Plus, he wears sweatpants when he shoots, and I’m always afraid to look too closely and see if he’s sporting wood — yuck! But the worst part is that he plays the part of the aggressor in the videos — one time he was Little Timmy and I was the Babysitter, and he tied me up and gagged me and teased me in an extremely annoying nasal voice for around 20 minutes, while exhorting me to squirm around more like I was trying to escape. TORTURE! I actually started crying once while we shot, though I hid it from the camera.

Despite all that, I shot with him about 3 or 4 times — he keeps offering me more money to do it, so it’s hard to say no. But this time, I did — I’m not that desperate for cash! I mean, I went to college, for chrissakes — surely I can find a better way to pay the bills. Hmmmm…

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