You can’t get anywhere in this hotel without walking through a casino, so despite heading downstairs right after a shower, I smelled like an ashtray before I got to our breakfast planning session. But at least it gave me a chance to take in the more interesting sites — like the hooker at the craps table.
I wasn’t completely sure she was a hooker, as it seemed a tad early for someone to be practicing that particular trade. Isn’t there some sort of time-of-day etiquette for those activities? After all, they don’t call them ladies of the morning.
One other thing that gave me doubts — if she was truly practicing the world’s oldest profession, she was probably the world’s oldest member of it. Still, I was pretty sure she was a hooker based on her fashion sense alone. Her heels and dress were both at maximum legal height. The dress style was textbook “slinky” — I’ve seen thicker slips — and to top it off (or bottom it off, as it were), it had the phrase “Death or Glory” printed across her, umm, assets. I’m guessing the contents of the dress represented either of those words, but I wasn’t sure if death or glory is a choice you make or a chance you take.
I let the matter go as I hurried through the smoke and met up with my team, only to be overjoyed when one of them gleefully asked, “Hey, did anyone else see that hooker at the craps table?” I was thrilled not only to have corroboration, but also to have a fellow rube on my team — one who’s equally awestruck at the site of a prostitute.
A little while later, I nearly ran into the next site — a guy dressed in black leather, with a black tee-shirt that read, “Mount Me.” I can only assume he’s here for the other convention. Whatever the case, I gave him a wide berth, lest he think I was trying to take him up on the offer.
But there was no wide berth to be had on the elevator back up to the War Room. It was packed when we got on, but the doofus running down the hall didn’t want to wait; he jumped on and collided with me in the process. This made me think of pickpockets, which made me want to make a stupid joke. In the midst of the crowded elevator, I looked at my colleague and asked, “Are you still taking pickpocket lessons?”
He laughed, but he wasn’t the one to answer me. That honor fell to the doofus who’d just jumped on, and who now wanted in on the joke. Suddenly I felt a hand snake into my pocket — my pants pocket — as the doofus said, “Hmm. Nope, you don’t have anything in there…” Then he laughed uproariously at himself.
I couldn’t tell if I’d just been insulted, but I’d almost certainly just been violated. This stranger had felt me up, then cracked himself up.
He got off at our floor (or maybe even earlier), then walked the opposite direction. I’m glad he didn’t stalk us to the War Room; I really didn’t want him knowing where he could find me if he decided to milk the joke by going for the other pocket.
What happens in Vegas doesn’t necessarily stay in Vegas; I’m pretty sure this will stay with me forever.