Single Weird Female (Day #2 in Vegas)

Following a sufficiently wild first night in Sin City, we dragged ourselves out of bed Saturday morning and reluctantly schlepped our gear over to Mandalay Bay, where we were spending that evening, as hotel rooms at the Hard Rock were going for $600. (Ahhhhh, capitalism.) After a hearty meal and a spin around the gaming floor, we decided it time to embark upon one of Vegas's most fascinating rights of passage: a weekend afternoon at the hotel pool. Donning our swimsuits and lathering up with some 150 ounces of sunblock each, we headed to the sun-and-sand (and sun, and some more sun) playland known as the Mandalay Bay beach complex.

Owing to SWF's notably fair complexion , we thought it best to eschew the conventional poolside perch, as the typical Vegas tan wasn't the look we were really going for. We did take a quick stroll around the grounds, though, perusing the hotel's much-talked-about wave pool. Walking along its edge, we were suddenly almost knocked off our feet by a giant swell. Regaining her footing, SWF stared down at her silver Jack Rogers leather sandals, now thoroughly soaked through. "Uhhhhhh...I don't think these are waterproof," she said, resignedly. Oh dear--the intense heat was melting her brain! Fearing SWF might burst into flames at any moment, I whisked her into the pool bar and, peering around anxiously, spied what appeared to be the one (1) seating area in this sun-scorched wasteland that lay in a sliver of shade. Bingo. We dove onto it with cocktails in hand, ignoring the sweaty tank tops and other male detritus littered about. Soon, the stuff's owners, a pair of dudes from L.A., materialized and joined us. After exchanging a few pleasantries, we learned that one, whose name was Luke, was a porn producer/actor/man-about-town (shocker!) in the city of angels. Despite his rather unseemly line of work, he was surprisingly sweet, though he talked rather slowly and about nothing of interest. He seemed slightly fascinated by us...likely because we didn't really look anything like most of the other girls. Surveying SWF up and down, his brow knitted in concentration, he decided to speak freely.

"You...seem...kinda...like kind of...a...weird...person," he said to SWF.

"Really?" she replied sweetly. "Whatever gave you that idea?" Clad in a teeny, DEEP V-neck black bathing suit from Diesel, pale as an English rose, with short, spiky red hair and giant pink wraparound Prada sunglasses, SWF did indeed appear to be from...well, out of town.

After some perfunctory contact-detail-exchanging and meaningless discussion of plans for that night, we returned to the A/C'd respite of our room. While SWF swan-dived into bed for a disco nap, I made an emergency appointment to get a blowout in preparation for the evening's festivities. In retrospect, I can't believe I did that...but my hair did look nice.