I was recently on a business trip to Las Vegas (I know,
rough life, huh?) for a conference pertaining to matters that I am not at
liberty to discuss. Okay, stop badgering me. It was a credit conference. The
purpose of my conference, however, has absolutely no bearing on this story
other than to relay the fact that not ALL trips to Sin City are fun. Some trips
keep you trapped for up to eight hours in a 63 degree room listening to people
talking about financial trends and making very
unfunny-unless-you-are-in-the-industry-and-even-then-they-aren’t-all-that-funny
jokes about credit policies and procedures.
And then you go back the next day for more of the same
At least they take you out at night for dinner and as many
drinks as you’re willing to have billed back to your company after the entire
table is done and the check is divided equally amongst all the participants regardless
if you had one beer or three bottles of wine. Yes, one credit person can drink
3 bottles of wine at a sitting. I’m not
singling out one particular credit person, it’s just a general statement that
credit people can drink. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of constantly
delivering and/or receiving bad news to or from customers and from semi-annual
trips to Las Vegas.
But I digress
The meetings typically start at 8:00 for a “continental”
breakfast consisting of fruit I won’t eat and pastries stuffed with things I
can’t identify. I go for the coffee. Either way, this breakfast is designed to
get people up and moving around and socializing a bit with the other attendees
as well as filling our bodies with as much caffeine as physically possible in
order to endure 8 hours of credit conversations and presentations. A LOT of
caffeine is needed for this. Trust me.
So, at 8:00 that morning I left my room (don’t want to be the
first one at the meeting) on the seventh floor of my hotel and proceeded to the
bank of elevators. When the doors opened I walked in, turned around, pressed
the button for the first floor, and headed for the back wall which I would lean
against to prop up my, at that point, barely awake body.
And this is where the real story begins.
When the elevator reached the 6th floor, it
stopped and the doors opened to reveal an Asian couple. Now, when I say couple,
I’m only using that term because they were together at the time. As with most “couples”
in Las Vegas, I wasn’t sure if they were husband/wife, brother/sister,
father/daughter, boyfriend/girlfriend, client/hooker, or pimp/hooker. What I do
know is that the male was straight out the 1980s and resembled one of the
henchmen from Karate Kid II (the one in Okinawa) and the female could have been
anywhere from 14 to 42 years old. Oh, and she was stumbling. A lot.
 |
| HE LOOKED LIKE THE GUY ON THE FAR LEFT |
As she moved into the elevator she staggered directly to the
back wall where I was leaning in order to gain some stability. I’m not sure she
had even noticed I was there up until this point but, once she did, it got very
VERY interesting.
Upon leaning back against the elevator wall her arm brushed
up against mine making her aware of my presence for the first time. She raised
her head and essentially eyed me up from head to toe before uttering in a very
thick Asian accent “Oh, you big American!”
Normally, I would have had something I deemed witty to
respond to this with. I pride myself in having a semi-quick wit which is
invaluable in situations such as these where you’re in a town with nothing but
tourists and degenerates and you’ve just been eyed up by an obviously intoxicated Asian woman on an elevator and
you’ll more than likely never see this person ever again for as long as you
live. But, as I mentioned, I hadn’t been to my continental breakfast yet and
had not yet been infused with my daily intake of caffeine.
Instead, I just stood there.
I stood there as she took her hand and placed it directly on
my knee. I stood there as that hand quickly worked its way up my thigh. I stood
there as that hand reached my groin and eventually made a full on grab of my
parts that need to be covered, by law, with underwear or a swimsuit at all
times. Yes, this small Asian woman had, in the span of not even 10 seconds in
the elevator, declared me to be a “big American” and then proceeded to unabashedly
grab my crotch to check for herself if I was, I’m guessing, big all over.
Yep. I just stood there.
Upon grabbing onto what I can only hope she was at least
moderately impressed with, she leaned into my body and whispered up at me “I
high on estasy.” Nope, that was not a typo, that’s what she said.
Estasy.
At this point, her boyfriend/brother/father/client/pimp/Daniel
Larusso Hater began pushing the button for the fourth floor (yes, we had only
traveled down a floor and a half at this point) as fast as his fingers would
go. Her hand was still grasping my manhood as the elevator door opened on the
fourth floor and he grabbed her by the arm to pull her out and away from
whatever she may have planned to do next. The most he could do was simply say “I
solly, I solly” as they exited the elevator and out of my life forever.
Again, I just stood there. I hadn’t had any coffee and wasn’t
awake enough to process any of it. In the span of 15-20 seconds I had entered
an elevator, been approached and groped by a girl/woman/wife/sister/daughter/girlfriend/hooker,
and arrived at my first floor destination without a thought or a word said. I
slowly walked to my conference room where I was greeted by the fruit I would not eat and the pastries stuffed with
things I could not identify and the
coffee that now seemed rather unnecessary as, after thinking about it for a
bit, I was most certainly up for the day.
Not in that way, you damn perverts. I mean I was awake.
Vegas, baby. Vegas
Thanks for reading.
