Scenes from a Casino

Ahhhh, Fourth of July Weekend in Vegas.

One night at work, we were treated to the sight of a young party girl in one of those skin-tight mini-dresses, barefoot and totally wasted at 10pm, puking her guts up all over the casino floor while her girlfriend held her shoes and her boyfriend tried to pick her up and carry her out over his shoulder, in the process scrunching her dress all the way up so that her bare ass was hanging out for all to see. Vegas!

Another night I ran into an Elvis impersonator on the casino floor, and stopped to pose for a pic with him, to add to my growing collection of photos-with-Elvis-impersonators. He obliged, and then said, “Hey, you look familiar!”

“Well, a lot of people tell me I resemble Lisa Marie or Priscilla Presley.” (They do!)

But he had my number: “Wait a minute…do you go by the name Brandi? I’ve seen your videos on YouTube!” Brandi Bottoms is my nom de fetish…a goofy alias I came up with for my nude and fetish work. And then I recognized who this guy was!

I had answered an ad on craigslist for a foot fetish video, and some lady had emailed me back saying she had this one client who really liked my photos and who wanted a private session with me. She sent me his photo, and advised me to contact him…which I never did, because come on. But lo and behold….that strange perv was this Elvis!!!

Smalllllll world.

And on yet another night (the fun never stops where I work), I was slaving away, shooting souvenir photos of tourists with this godawful creepy/tacky/disturbing life-size wax mannequin of Sally Dingdong that they have set up in the lobby. Photo sales are supposed to raise money for Miss Dingdong’s charitable foundation, but around 75% of all showgoers just walk past, snickering snarkily (can’t say I blame them). Another 20% are totally creeped out, and won’t go near it (can’t say I blame them, either). Still another 4.9% of the crowd are hardcore, devoted fans…and they looooooooooove that mannequin. And then, there’s that last special .1%…

I’ve seen some unhinged fans in my day, but this poor middle-aged Québécoise the other night really took the cake. This was probably this poor woman’s first trip off the farm, and she was evidently a huge fan of Sally Dingdong…because when she saw the mannequin, she freaked out.

Not a bad freakout. And not a shrieking, “OMG” kind of freakout. It was a silent, trembling sort of enchanted rapture. She approached the dummy with a beatific look of worship in her eyes, and as she reached out with a shaking hand to touch it, tears of overwhelming joy and adoration welled up in her eyes and rolled down her beaming cheeks. STRANGE! I hate to see what would have happened to her if she met the real Sally Dingdong!

So the showroom and casino floor have been a laugh-a-minute lately…but what goes on up in the rooms is even more interesting. Unfortunately, I can’t bear witness to every scene of debauchery and prostitution that goes on in the thousands of rooms at the hotel where I work…but I can tell you about one episode in which I personally participated. And it was a doozy! It was also really gross… so be advised.

I have this friend, J.R., a lonely oilman from Tennessee whom I met whilst taking souvenir photos at a Bob Dylan show. He’s a super nice man, and we have become really good friends over the year I’ve known him. He wanted to be my sugar daddy, but I’ve outgrown that phase of my life, alas, so he begrudgingly consented to be “just friends,” and now regards me with a sort of avuncular fondness…the kind of avuncular fondness which can only be found in Vegas.

Anyhoo, whenever he comes to town, I run weird errands for him. My most interesting responsibility I can’t discuss (alas, because it’s reeeeally weird and fascinating — but not sexual, in case that’s what you’re thinking)…but I also do stuff like look into vasectomy clinics for him, and make sure his in-room fridge is stocked with Grey Goose, ginger beer and lime juice (he loves Moscow Mules). You know, the usual.

But mostly, I sit around and play therapist. His beloved long-time therapist back in Tennessee recently retired, so for a while he took to using me as a sounding board for his lengthy litany of complaints: his oil well isn’t producing, his wife won’t give him a divorce, everyone’s always asking him for money, he can’t find a girlfriend, etc. I’m a good listener!

But the last time I saw him, he had an even bigger favor to ask. And this was something only a true friend would do!

J.R. has always had skin tags — little nubbies of skin or cartilage that grow off the body in weird places. He has a small one on his shoulder…and another, larger one at the top of his butt crack. This one was the size of a pencil eraser, and though he’s had it his entire life, I guess it finally started bothering him…and he asked me if I would tie it off for him!

Apparently, his doctor back in Tennessee had advised him to just tie a thread around the base of the tag, and after a week or two it would “fall right off.” J.R. just couldn’t reach his butt crack…so that’s where I came in.

Now I know what you’re thinking: ah, the old “I’m gonna take off my pants so you can tie off my skin tag” ruse. Well, that was not the case! He legitimately needed me to perform this minor surgical procedure…so I did. That’s what friends are for!

So after slugging down 3 or 4 Moscow Mules one night, I bent over his naked ass and tied a doubled-up thread around the base of the tag, knotting it tightly. Now all he had to do was wait.

After returning to Tennessee, J.R. kept me informed as to the state of the tag. Nothing happened at first…but then I guess it swelled up really big, to the size of his thumb!! He sent me all these gross, detailed emails telling me how it appeared to be full of fluid, and how he tried to lance it, but nothing came out except one or two drops of blood. Thanks for sharing, J.R.!!

This went on for weeks…the damn thing just wouldn’t fall off! A friend of mine here in Vegas advised putting a piece of duct tape over it — a home remedy which supposedly works for warts. But that didn’t help, either.

Finally, one night he’d had enough. He had a stiff drink, sat on the edge of his bathtub, and snipped it off himself with a pair of sharp hair-cutting scissors. Only apparently, “snip” wasn’t the appropriate word — “saw” was more like it. He said that little thing was tough as hell to cut through!!

Thoughtfully, J.R. sent me plenty of photos of this gross procedure. What a friend! I’m not even gonna post most of them, because they’re so gross. There was blood everywhere, and it was too much for even iron-stomached me to look at. But he got it off…and now, several weeks later, the scab has dried up to nothing. Mission accomplished!

So there you go…it’s not all sex and debauchery up in those Vegas hotel rooms. There’s a lot of other, grosser stuff going on, too!

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Gross, gross, Grosse, and not the Pointe Blank kind either! But then, I’ve had two girlfriends who were obsessed by squeezing any small blackheads they found on my skin. One would get so excited when she found more than one or two in the same area, her face would light up at the discovery of what she called “a plantation.” I’m surprised J.R. never had those dingys treated with liquid nitrogen like dermatologists do with warts.

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