What Happens in Vegas...Scares the Vegas Out of Us (Night #1)

Ahhh, Vegas. What's not to love about that scorching, sparkling, desert paradise of vice? I was recently there representing a client at a trade show (yes, my parents are proud) and managed to lure SWF to join me for the weekend with promises of partially subsidized hotel rooms and rollicking, all-night adventures.

After barely surviving three days of 9-to-5ing at the Sands Convention Center, SWF came to the rescue Friday night, blazing into town with her Jane Fonda-inspired outfits (think hot-pink footless tights, 80s tunic dresses, rocking reddish 'do), up-for-anything attitude, and a (backup) set of iPod speakers, ideal for rocking our festive dance tunes.

Following a few glass-shattering rounds of gleeful, girlish squealing at the reality of a weekend together in Sin City, we headed to The Bank at the Bellagio, having secured a spot on the fabled "list," thanks to my sister's well-connected and very sweet boyfriend. While there are usually about 20 said lists at these clubs on Friday nights, we'd been assured that we were on THE List—as in the list that God would be on, were He to visit Vegas (which He clearly does not). We were immediately escorted through the throngs of horny, menacing dudes and pontoon-boobed chicks, and whisked through the door. Amen.

Somewhat terrified by the general scene and way too old for this, we sought refuge where any nice, mob-fearing girls would: in the comparable calm of the VIP area. Having first been turned away (gasp!) because, well, we weren't hookers willing to pay off the bouncers (gotta love this town!), we spied a table of guys who A) weren't wearing Ed Hardy shirts, B) weren't motor-boating the silicone bosoms of trashy Strip strumpets and C) didn't appear to have pockets full of roofies. Score!

After a bit of hair-flipping and neck-craning, we caught their collective eye from our perch amongst the hoi polloi on the main dance floor, and they quickly invited us to join them. Turns out they were in town for the same trade show...and had been getting a table there every night that week. Hhmmmm...must've been the pounding, trainwreck techno—beatmatch, shmeatmatch!—$450 bottles, myriad Midwestern bachelor parties, classy ladies and surly staff. Hell, what's not to like? Pass the Patrón!

We were pleasantly surprised by the trio's graciousness, hospitality, and relative lack of tattos and body piercings, and were dancing and having a grand ol' time when we spied a curious young lady who'd suddenly appeared next to our table. Clutching the top of the Plexiglas wall that separated the VIP section from the masses, she flung one leg up atop the railing, latched onto it with her four-inch heel, and lurched into a stripper-style standing split (look Ma, no underwear!) as she simultaneously bent her head backward, her eyes rolling back all the while. Oh, dear—please cancel our subscription; we can't deal with your issues. Our hosts seemed to agree, ignoring her as she gyrated madly and thrust about wildly, while SWF and I clutched our stomachs and smacked our thighs, laughing hysterically. Her parents must be proud, too!

After a quick bathroom break—another anthropological thesis begging to be written: "The Vegas Nightclub Ladies Room"—we returned to find one of our hosts with our new lady friend's legs literally wrapped around his waist, riding him like Barbaro down the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby (nothing against Barbaro: God rest that magnificent horse's soul). His take on her had apparently changed dramatically, as he alternately smooched her and rubbed his big sweaty head all over her boobs. Holy toledo, Batman! Can we go to the bathroom for five minutes without all hell breaking loose? Bewildered but not particularly surprised, SWF caught his eye with a questioning gaze.

"My problem is I'm too nice of a guy," he said apologetically, and in utter seriousness. "I don't know how to get rid of her."

Our hearts simultaneously broke for him: A true humanitarian in our midst…with a video camera likely ready to roll upstairs, to chronicle his good deeds (and the giant sweat patches on his back). Check, please!