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.

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!