Finally, all my friends left town…so now I can finally concentrate on getting ready for Burning Man. Well, almost — first I have this little hurdle called the Midsummer Night’s Dream party to overcome.
Every year, the Palms hotel here in Vegas hosts a lingerie/masquerade ball in conjunction with Playboy magazine, with scantily-clad partygoers dressed as nymphs, goddesses and fairies. I was all geared up to attend last year’s party, but I ended up getting a DUI the night before, and sitting in jail for 20 hours. I kept looking at the clock going, “OK, if they let me out now, I still have enough time to go home, get showered and change into my costume.” “OK, if they let me out now, I still have time to go home and change real quick.” “OK, if they let me out NOW, I can still make the tail end of the party.” Finally, this one prostitute in the holding tank with me said, “Giiiiiiiiiiiirl, it already 9 o’clock. You ain’t goin’ to no party.”
She was right — I missed the whole damn thing But I did have my own adventures in the holding tank of the Clark County Jail…which included getting a lap dance from a 40-something Asian stripper with a lobster-claw hand (she was telling me I should be a stripper, and was demonstrating how easy it was). Anyhoo, I’ll tell you all about that some other time.
So this year, I am hell-bent on making it to this Midsummer Night’s Dream party. The theme this year is pixies & fairies (LAME, I know), so I thought I might rig up some kind of evil Black-Swan-type fairy costume, just to set myself apart from the hordes of cute pink girlie fairies likely to be in attendance. I started to make my own wings out of hula hoops and electrical tape…and they were actually coming out OK, but I ran out of time and ended up just buying a cheesy pair from my #1 favorite store of all time, Halloween Mart. Now I gotta work on the rest of the outfit, and I only have about 24 hours to do it. Better get cracking!
Anyway, before I go let me tell you about the rest of my week. My gay British actor/singer/dancer friend was in town, so I spent most of my time hanging with him. He was in Vegas with a bunch of English friends who were staying in the legendary Rainman Suite at Caesars Palace, so he wanted me to come up and party in the room with them. It was pretty impressive, in an over-the-top 1980s kinda way…but to be honest I’ve already partied in that room, as well as in most of the other sick, over-the-top suites in Vegas. I used to date a casino host, and we would hang out in all the fancy rooms in town with various high-roller clients of his — sometimes as guests, and sometimes more as hired help (one time we had to go into this NFL player’s room and cover the bed with rose petals so that he could surprise his girlfriend…and the gross part was, they had already used the bed. The sheets were all rumpled, and there was a jizz-mopper towel crumpled up on the bedside table, which I threw at my boyfriend, telling him to collect the DNA so he could clone the guy and make more high-roller clients for himself. He was NOT amused).
Most of the Brits checked out on Monday morning, so my gay friend came over and spent his last night in Vegas at my place. To entertain him, I took him over to one of the douchey pool “dayclubs” in town, where we met up with another close friend who writes a popular entertainment column for the local paper. This guy is suuuuuuuuuper cool, and he brought along another friend who is a dwarf/little person (not sure what he prefers to be called). Now, that guy was interesting! I spent quite a bit of time in the pool with him, and he was full of good stories — he used to be the #1 midget porn actor (he once did a video called “Two-and-a-Half Tons of Fun,” where he ate pizza off the tits of two obese actresses), but now he’s moved on to being a corporate mascot for one of the major hotel chains here in Vegas. Most days you’ll find him dressed as a leprechaun, handing out coupons in front of this one Irish-pub-themed dive hotel…but for the last few months, he had another sweet gig playing Baby Carlos from The Hangover in this sort of scavenger hunt they had going. Some bimbo ended up winning $80,000 by finding Baby Carlos — why was I not informed of this awesome scavenger hunt?!
Anyway, it was all well and good for the winner…but my friend ended up with a severe case of diaper rash. But that’s one of the occupational hazards of gig work, right? We actually bonded a little bit over this, since I’ve done plenty of shitty gigs in my day. We’re both making a living exploiting our physical characteristics…and neither one of us is too proud to do weird shit. This guy is really cool! He also has a tattoo of his deceased father on his back — and he had his dad’s ashes sprinkled in the tattoo ink! Crazy!
What was even crazier was the stupid regulations at the pool where we were hanging out. This was the same place where the guy told me I had to put on my top to go in the water, in case I inadvertently lactated in the water. I’m pretty sure he was kidding, but they really are serious about making you wear a top in the water — according to them, they have a permit for topless sunbathing, but that means sunbathing only — no swimming or dancing or even walking around topless. FUCK THAT! I can think of at least TWO other topless pools in town who don’t adhere to such asinine restrictions…WTF?!
Worse, our alco-babe (bikini waitress) was telling us how she has 10,000 followers on Twitter (10,000!!!!!), and she offered to take a photo with me and re-tweet it to all her followers, so that some of them would jump on my bandwagon (I only have around 150 measly Twitter followers). So we posed for the pic at left, and my newspaper columnist friend Tweeted it…and then 15 minutes later the alcobabe made him take it down!!! She said she would get in trouble at work for doing it. REALLY?! You work at a supposedly topless pool! What’s the big deal?! I’m telling you, I’ve had it with that lame-ass pool.
So anyhoo, I had a fun day hanging out with my friends, but then it was back to reality. The rest of the week was all about gym, work and crafts…and one more visit to that creepy chiropractor I’ve been seeing for insomnia. I honestly don’t think his bizarre treatments are helping me — he does all this WEIRD stuff like put a finger on my temple, then tell me to resist him as he pushes on my leg with his other hand. By touching different parts of my skull and then forcing my leg inward, I guess he can somehow tell what’s going on with my cerebro-spinal fluid…but it’s BIZARRE! Being that he’s 75 years old and slightly creepy, it reminds me QUITE A BIT of the time I wrestled an old English pervert for money. Let me tell you about it!
I shoot a lot of fetish videos for this female bodybuilder website (there’s a whole niche of guys who get off on big, powerful giantesses). For some reason, they like to use me in clips alongside the lady bodybuilders, even though I’m only 5’3″ — maybe as a comparison thing, I don’t know. I am fairly muscular though, so they film videos of me and the lady bodybuilders flexing and measuring each other’s biceps and whatnot. They also shoot us carrying each other – sometimes the giantesses cradle me in their arms like a baby, and carry me around…and sometimes I turn the tables and carry THEM around! I’m pretty strong, especially my lower body, and they all really get off watching me lift and carry and squat these 6-foot-tall, 200-pound women. It’s a riot!
I’ve met a lot of beautiful body builders and fitness models at these shoots, and some of them are super cool. I did a wrestling clip with this one chick, Megan Avalon, who taught me some basic holds and moves, and told me all about the money that was to be made in doing private wrestling sessions. Come to find out, guys will pay big bucks to wrestle with a strong woman in the privacy of their hotel room…and Megan was sure she could refer me to some clients, if I was interested.
Now, one of Megan’s clients, a skinny little old mathematician with whom she’d wrestled on several occasions, happened to be in town that week. Come to find out, a parade of fans, weirdos and hangers-on follow the bodybuilding circuit from city to city… and since there was a bodybuilding championship in town that weekend, they were all in Vegas. It was like a traveling circus; in addition to the bodybuilding beauties themselves, there’s also a number of industry hangers-on and parasites: bodybuilding magazine photographers, vitamin and supplement vendors, tanning and makeup artists… and fans. The little mathematician was one such fan, and based on Megan’s recommendation he hired me for a one-hour “strength challenge session.” I was kinda skeeved out at the prospect of going to some random man’s room to wrestle…but then thought why the hell not? I’ve done worse things in Vegas hotel rooms than wrestle strange old men for money – who hasn’t?!
So I got dressed in a sexy workout ensemble and made my way over to the mathematician’s room in a certain down-market motel across the street from one of the mega-resorts. I felt more than a little like a prostitute as I knocked at the door of his second-floor room, but I reassured myself with the thought that surely no hooker worth her salt shows up for a call in a sports bra and running shorts. At least the chances of my being profiled by vice were slim!
The mathematician opened the door, revealing himself to be a scrawny little Englishman somewhere in his 60s — a nutty professor-type with frizzy, wispy gray hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, overpowering garlic breath and a diminutive frame that couldn’t have weighed more than 130 pounds soaking wet. Sort of a Stephen Hawking-meets-garden-gnome-type… piece of cake, I thought to myself. Until he shook my hand! He was apparently one of those wiry little fuckers who prides themselves on being stronger than they look – he caught my hand in a death-grip and welcomed me into the room with an inscrutable smile: “You must be Brandi. I’ve been told you’re quite strong for your size!”
“Uh… I do what I can!” I replied, keeping my own friendly, girlish grin plastered firmly in place as he attempted to twist my arm out of its socket, gamely giving back what I could out of a sense of obligation to give him his money’s worth. “I’ve run the Vegas Marathon, I climbed the stairs to the top of the Stratosphere in less than 12 minutes, and I lift weights regularly.” (All true – I ran the marathon in 4:44, and came in 1st among females in my age group at the Stratosphere race.)
“Is that so? Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” He let up on his death-grip, and I went inside and set my hot-pink workout bag down in the corner. A stack of money was piled neatly on the table in preparation for my arrival, so at least there was to be no fuss over the issue of payment. I pulled my hair up into a no-nonsense ponytail and turned to face my opponent, and find out what exactly a “strength challenge session” entailed.
“As you know I’m a mathematician,” he began in his crisp British accent, taking up a notepad and pen. “Thus I am very interested in the relationship between height, weight and strength. I’ve found some very tall girls to have less ability than girls your size, and likewise some very heavy girls haven’t the strength of girls half their weight. It’s all about body-fat percentage, isn’t it? Now, what is your height?”
He logged my stats meticulously into his notepad, and guessed my body fat to be around 15%, which sounded pretty good to me! Then he placed the bedspread on the floor and proposed an arm-wrestling match. We both hunkered down and lay facing each other in an awkward, garlic-infused tête-à-tête, and after schooling me on strategy and body-position, he proceeded to beat me mercilessly with both right arm and left arm. TWICE! That little old fucker was definitely stronger than he looked! I actually started to get a little pissed off towards the end, and vowed that I would not let this wizened wise-ass get the best of me.
Having been bested at arm wrestling, I was now to be tested on lower body strength. We sat facing each other in chairs, and took turns squeezing the other’s knees between our own, trying to keep them together for 20 seconds. I managed to keep mine apart, but just barely – and again, he beat me handily, forcing his apart something like 6 inches. “Well, looks like you’ve been beaten again, haven’t you?” he noted smugly. “Now we’ll try some of my equipment.” (Now do you see why my chiropractor reminds me of this??)
From a battered old gym bag he produced an assortment of weird isometric exercise devices, and I gave each my best attempt, giggling gamely as I failed miserably at all of them. Honestly, I hadn’t been expecting this kind of fitness test – I was thinking this “strength challenge” business was just going to be more fantasy fluff, like the wrestling videos had been. But this little old man was harder-core than my 8th-grade P.E. teacher! He really put me through my paces – in addition to using all his weird equipment, he had me wrestle him, scissor him, piggy-back him while doing squats, and then lift and cradle-carry him, like a baby, as he timed me on his stop watch to see how long I could hold him in my arms. As all this progressed, the one thing that kept running through my head was that this was HANDS-DOWN the weirdest, most BIZARRE thing I’ve ever done in a lifetime full of weird, bizarre adventures. And that’s saying quite a bit!
As I held his pale, scrawny body in my arms, like a little grey-haired, garlic-breathing baby, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror – and it was all I could do not to burst out laughing. What an utterly random sight we made! I wondered if, had Vice come crashing through the door at that particular moment, there was anything I was doing that could get me in trouble. I didn’t think so, but the pile of money waiting patiently on the table by the door made the whole thing seem more than a little illicit. Plus the fact that I was wearing a sports bra and booty shorts, cradling a shirtless old man with a stopwatch in my arms – would any vice cop really believe it was all harmless good fun??? Chalk this one up under the “Strange but True” category, my friends! Not once did that little old English mathematician make any kind of untoward advance, nor did he do anything to make me uncomfortable (other than fill my nostrils with his foul breath).
At the end of the hour, he asked if I wouldn’t mind posing for a souvenir photo for his collection, which I gladly did – and then he gave me a quick look through the other photos he had stored on his camera, of the other women with whom he’d also had sessions while in Vegas for the bodybuilding competition. Without exception, the rest of the women were HUGE – stereotypical steroidal beefcake beauties with massive arms, thick necks and copiously-applied self-tanner. Just so I knew what good company I was in, he confided that one of the women had 18-inch biceps! As he put it, “That’s the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s biceps when he competed in the early 1970s!”
Showing me these photos, he told me not to feel bad at failing so miserably at the strength challenge session – he’d been able to beat almost all the other women, too. So I shouldn’t worry! But meanwhile, all I was really worried about was being busted by vice – about halfway through our session, he’d offered me a bonus if I would wrestle him topless, since he “loved” natural breasts. I hadn’t seen the harm in it and had complied…but honestly, he kept the curtains open the entire hour, so anyone walking by could have seen me grappling with him on the bed, clad in nothing but booty shorts…and it would have looked very suspicious!
Again, I have to wonder at where the line is drawn when it comes to defining prostitution – like with the guy at the foot party, who got himself off while my feet were on his face, or the guy whose nuts I kicked mercilessly for five minutes. The mathematician didn’t jerk off while I was in the room…but after I left, who the hell knows what happened?!
Anyhoo, I never did wrestle any more guys — it was just to creepy, even for me! But you can see why my chiropractor experience was giving me flashbacks. Only this time, I had to pay him for the privilege of massaging, beating, twisting, cracking and palpating me. Hmmmmmmmmmmm! It just doesn’t seem right!
Anyway, I was in a pretty foul mood much of the week — I was stressed out because of all the visitors I had, and a bunch of other petty stuff piling up. Then I went out for a Sunday drive in the mountains with my all-American hero friend, and he started telling me all these stories about when he was deployed to Afghanistan back in 2002, right after 9/11. Back then there was no established military base, so they had to live in tents, with no showers or flush toilets, eating MREs and wallowing in the heat and dust. It actually sounded a lot like Burning Man! Especially this one time, when they went over to the international camp where all the German, Turkish and Polish forces were hanging out. Each nation had its own little bar setup, and he went around drinking the various crazy concoctions they came up with, including this one drink the Germans called Paratrooper Juice, which was just grain alcohol with a glow-stick in it. Now, how Burning Man is that?!!!
After our drive, we went over to his house and looked at all his photos from his time over there…and it was SO INTERESTING! I looooooooooove looking at photos — I read a lot of news and stuff, but I really like seeing what I’m reading about. And after seeing all that, I pretty lame bitching about my own stupid “problems…” so I cheered up. This guy always has that effect on me — lately I’ve been pissy and stressed out and high-strung, but he has a calming effect on me. I told him he’s like one of those goats they put in the stall with a racehorse, to keep it calm before a race…I hope he wasn’t offended!
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