The Almost Threesome


Writer’s block is finally gone!  Enjoy!

One night in Vegas I almost had a threesome.

But it wasn’t the right kind of threesome.  If you know what I mean.

Alright, perhaps I should explain.  My buddy Tripod and I were at this bar off The Strip called The Beach.  The Beach was my favorite spot in Vegas until it closed down a few years ago.  It was a solid mix of tourists and locals, so it wasn’t a total tourist trap but there were still enough young out-of-town girls looking to make some poor decisions.  The staff at The Beach were all bikini-clad girls and board shorts-clad guys, so there was eye candy for all.  It had a giant dance floor right in the middle, with the entire upper level surrounding and overlooking the floor so you could ogle the girls if you didn’t feel like wading in.

The dance floor itself was hot and steamy, with a constant supply of bar napkins being hurled into the air and fluttering down upon the crowd.  The bikini girls behind the bar and working the beer tubs were also available for “body shots,” which consisted of them spraying dabs of whipped cream on their ass, stomach and cleavage, followed by a test tube full of weak liquor between their boobs.  It was nothing short of a hedonistic delight.

(On my first-ever trip to The Beach I was so drunk from drinking triple gin and tonics –known to the rest of the world as gin on the rocks– that when they announced a limbo contest on the dance floor I immediately volunteered.  I made it through the first round because I’m pretty sure the bar was still higher than my head.  The second round though, with the bar around my nose, I was so hammered that when I tried to lower myself six inches I somehow managed to fall flat on my face.  And so began my love affair with this magical place.)

On this night, Tripod and I were already well sauced when we got to The Beach around 9.  Like most Vegas bars, it really didn’t get busy until after 11, so for two hours we didn’t do much but drink and stare at the bikini girls.  But soon the place started filling up, and we quickly found out that there was a big NASCAR race in town that weekend.  I’m not a NASCAR fan myself, I have too many teeth to be accepted into that club, but surprisingly we found a couple of NASCAR girls that weren’t bad looking at all.  There were two of them, both blonde, and Tripod pounced upon them as only he can.  Unfortunately, we discovered they were there with two guys.  Two very NASCAR-y guys.  Shirts, hats, chew in the back pocket of their Wranglers, the works.  These guys couldn’t have been older than mid-20’s, but they were well on their way to being the stereotypical middle-aged NASCAR redneck.

Tripod was undaunted though.  He waded into the fray, chumming it up with the guys (I’m fairly certain neither of them had ever spoken with a Mexican before, and absolutely certain they’d never done shots with a 4’4”, 240-pound Mexican).  In short order Tripod discovered that one of the girls was indeed dating one of the guys, but the other (the hotter one) was single, although it was pretty clear that the second guy was very interested in her.  Retreating for a quick strategy session, it was determined that I should run interference on the guy while Tripod tried to work on the single girl.

And I tried.  Swear to God, I really tried.  But I could barely understand what these guys were saying.  Now, I’m no snob, I grew up in the Midwest, and I’m proud to say I’m a product of the “flyover states.”  But these guys were at a whole ‘nother level of redneckedness.  They said things like “fixin’” and “You better don’t.”  And they were utterly clueless when it came to football, which was really my only hope of distracting them.  (I had been looking forward to a heated debate of SEC versus Big 10 football.)

Eventually I realized I had little hope of distracting him, so I moved to Plan B.  Acting like I was stupid drunk (not much of a stretch) I stood between where Tripod and the girl were sitting and where the NASCAR guy was sitting.  Then I swayed and staggered, shifting from side to side in order to block his view while Tripod worked his game on the girl.  The guy would lean to one side to try and look around me, I’d pretend to drunkenly stagger a step or two in that direction to block his vision.  It was fun.  And effective.

But at some point the alcohol got the better of me and I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on, because the next thing I knew Tripod was telling me the four NASCAR people were heading to a strip club and he was going to tag along with them.  “I think I can nail her,” he said.

I may have been shitfaced, but I knew this was a bad idea.

“Dude, you can’t go off with them, you may never come back.”

Tripod assured me it was cool, the girl wanted him to come with them.  I told him that was irrelevant, the jealous guy and his friend may just decide to beat his ass and leave him in the desert.  But Tripod was adamant.  Details are sketchy, but I think I refused to go in hopes it would deter Tripod from going.  But that failed miserably and soon I was all by myself at the bar while Tripod was off in a cab to the strip club.

Alone at the best bar in Vegas, I proceeded to drink even more and stumble around the place to check out the girls.  And did I mention I kept drinking?

It was sometime after 3 in the morning when I met a girl at the main bar, nursing a drink by herself.  She wasn’t anything special, skinny but without much shape, brunette with a cute face but a bad set of teeth.  But she had a couple tattoos poking out of her black tank top, which I always take as a sign of sluttiness.  I bought her a drink and we chatted for a while.  I discovered she was a stripper at a place I had never heard of in Vegas (which is to say, not one of the better strip clubs), but as I had never banged a stripper before I thought this would be a great opportunity.  I mean, twenty years down the road when I tell people “I banged a Las Vegas stripper,”  people aren’t going to interrogate me on how hot she was, they’re just going to be in awe of my prowess.

At last call I felt like things were still going well, and being in Vegas (where there are no rules) and being utterly hammered, I just went right in for the kill.  “So, you wanna go back to your place?”

“Maybe,” she answered.  I thought she was just being coy.

But then she dropped the bomb.

“I just have to check with my boyfriend first.”

A long, drunken pause as my mind tried to process this.  “Your boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s the DJ here, I’m waiting for him to get off.”

The look on my face must have been more confusion than disappointment.  She elaborated, “It’s cool, we have an open relationship.  I just need to see what he’s up to tonight, but I’m sure you can come back with us.”

Now, there aren’t many moments in my life where I regret drinking as much as I do (other than the hangovers), but this is definitely one of them.  My gin-soaked mind simply couldn’t process where exactly this was heading.

Does she want me to fuck her in front of her boyfriend?  Does she want him to join us?  Does she want to be double teamed?  Or does she want to double team me?

Had I been less hammered or had she been more hot I might have explored this further, asked the questions to ascertain what exactly was on the table.  But I wasn’t sober and she wasn’t that hot, so I quickly extricated from the situation.

And just as I was walking for the door, I got a call from Tripod.  He was in a cab, by himself, and so drunk he couldn’t remember what hotel we were staying at.  I told him, but then he admitted he also had no money to pay the cabbie.  “Well,” I sighed, “just have him come here and pick me up and I’ll cover it.”

A perfect end to a perfect night.  Tripod struck out, I struck out, and we went to bed alone.

Not all Vegas stories have happy endings.

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4 Comments

  1. Been there, done that. Funny post man.

  2. I have to admit, I learn a hell of a lot about life from you 😆


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