Neophytes, Kings, Sluts—and The Worst Hookers Ever

Last night was my last night of Vegas for my current trip, and it  was a lot of fun.  I finally met fellow blogger Neophyte and his lovely wife, the PQ (that’s “Poker Queen” for the uninformed).  Neo and I played some poker together while PQ hit the video poker machines, and we took a break for some bread-breaking at Wolfgang Puck’s.  Pizza and burgers were consumed, the perfect food for poker players and poker bloggers. (Edited to add:  Neo's version of the night's festivities can now be found here).

Neo is really a great guy, despite all the lies that Lightning has been telling about him.  And a good poker player too.  I’m pretty sure he had a profitable night.  I won a few bucks, and I mean "a few" very literally.  But at least it appears my spell of #runawful is over, knock on wood.

Of course, it was the PQ who had the line of the night.  Over dinner, she looked at me and asked her husband, “so, is this ‘boob Rob?’”

Hmm.  I’m pretty sure she wasn’t calling me a boob, but what she did mean is somewhat of a mystery to me.

The poker consisted of us mostly watching player after player win with the dreaded pocket Kings.  Seriously, I’ve never seen so many hands turned over showing the dreaded hand, sometimes it seemed as if three out of every five hands were won by pocket Kings.  The one time they lost, they lost to me.  A foolish player made the mistake of limping under the gun with them, thinking that someone would raise.  There hadn’t been a preflop raise at that table in at least half an hour (ok, mild exaggeration) so it was a really bad miscalculation.  Some idiot limped in with a weak Ace, caught an Ace on the flop and won the pot.  That idiot was me.

I pointed out that the reason we’d seen the hand win so many times was that I was never the holder of the Kings.  But in fact, after Neo left, I did get the hand on what was my last orbit.  When I saw them, two from my last hand, I figured this was the end of my night, anticipating getting felted right there.  Especially since the dealer was the same one who busted me when I flopped the nut straight, a tale recently told here.

I bet $8 as no one was in the pot yet, and the crazy Frenchman two seats to my left called.  He was the only caller, and I was fine with that since he was quite aggressive and could have been calling with a lot of crappy hands.

The flop was Jack high and I bet $12 and he called.  The turn paired the Jack and I was nervous.  He could easily have had a weak Jack which was now looking awfully strong.  I put out $30 to see if he would come over the top, but he just called.

The river was a nightmarish 4, the second 4 on the board.  My Kings looked awfully beatable right there.  I thought about checking, but didn’t want to give control to the Frenchman.  I knew if I checked, he would bet regardless of what he had, putting me in a difficult position.  So I put out $40 mostly as a blocking bet.

He thought long and hard.  That was a good sign—if he had a Jack he snap-calls, and I don’t think he takes very long to call a $40 bet if he has the 4. Finally he mucked, and I joined everyone else in the poker room as having won a hand with pocket Kings that night.

Before dinner, I was able to point out to Neo the guy playing poker with the orange hair and the blue goatee.  Yes, that's what I said.  He had been playing with me earlier and I was glad I never got into a hand with him.  I would hate to have to blog about losing to a guy with orange hair and a blue goatee.

After dinner, Neo and I were in prime position at just the right table to watch the latest edition of The Slut Parade.  It was a pretty good night for it, far exceeding my expectations.  Now, if Neo was a single guy, I would probably lie and say that he thoroughly enjoyed the show put on by the parade of girls-who-dress-like-sluts-even-though-they’re-probably-virgins.  However, since he is a happily married man, I can honestly report he didn’t even notice the young, ridiculously hot, extremely minimally dressed ladies who walked by the poker room.  He probably didn’t even notice an unusually high number of girls who had apparently forgotten to put their bras on before leaving their rooms.  But I did, surprisingly so.

After the poker, on my way out to my car, I couldn’t help notice the two worst hookers ever.  Now, I should be clear, because I don’t want anyone to the wrong idea.  By calling them the worst hookers ever, I am not saying that they are bad at performing the services they offer.  I have no idea how well or how ineptly they perform said services.  How could I possibly know that?

What I mean is that that they are the worst hookers ever at performing the first, and most necessary part of their job, which is getting a client to test their abilities.

When I first noticed them, I thought they might be working girls, but dismissed this idea based on the way they were dressed.  They weren’t dressed sexily enough to be hookers, I thought.  They both were wearing pants, not short skirts or dresses.  And not particular tight or flattering pants either.  One gal had jeans that were ripped.  Her top was a bit low cut and tight, but really, it was fairly modest.  The other gal had no cleavage, her top was up to her neck but tight enough to give away the fact that she had big boobs that I strongly suspect she paid for.

But the main thing was their shoes.  I’ve never seen a girl in this line of work not wearing high heels.  These girls were actually wearing sandals. Couldn’t possibly be hookers, I thought.

But maybe I was wrong.  At first, one of the girls noticed me and smiled.  I knew that smile.  That was a hooker smile.  I looked away because I didn’t feel like talking to them.

But a few minutes, I was caught.  I stopped to look at a particular hot couple of girls heading for the club.  As I’ve mentioned before, the girls going to the clubs dress way, way sluttier than any hooker I’ve ever seen.  The girls I was admiring had ridiculously good figures that caught my attention and I really didn’t know where to look, but I’ll bet you can guess where my eyes finally landed.

Just then, one of the possible hookers came over to me and said, “How are you? Are you good?”  I don’t think I said anything, but I might have said “OK.”

Then she said, “Are you looking for a friend?”

I knew what she meant, but that has to be the worst pickup line from a hooker I’ve ever heard.  Am I looking for a friend?  Who wants a rent-a-friend?  And why would she want that?  If she wanted to my friend, well, who pays a friend to perform the service she was offering?  I realize she can’t very well say, “Are you looking for a total stranger to give you a blowjob?” but still, she should be able to do better than that.

The other thing is that such a question could easily be misinterpreted. I mean, I kind of felt like saying, "Yes, can you help me find him?  He's tall, has dark hair and a mustache, and he's wearing a blue shirt. Have you seen him?"

Anyway,  when I said “no,” to her "are you looking for friend question," she just said OK and moved on.  Really, I’ve never seen a hooker give up so easily.  Usually they will be a bit persistent.  I didn’t give much for her chances of finding a client with her “immediately say die” attitude.

She went back to her friend and they discussed their next move.  “We have to be patient,” I heard one of them say.  The other one said, “No we need to stand in one place.”

I started to think that they were total amateurs as professionals and didn’t know how to ply their trade.  This might have been their first night out on the prowl.  Clearly they needed an older, more experienced working girl to show them the ropes.  See this post here for an example.

Perhaps they were indeed, you know, Neophytes at this line of work.  How appropriate for me to encounter them on this particular night!

And so, they picked one place and stood there.  They hailed down guys as they passed, and they called after one and he left his buddies to talk to the two.  They were still talking when I saw a security person come over to the three of them.  The guy took off as if he had been shot out of a cannon.  The security person obviously told the girls to leave the property instantly.  And so they did, accompanied by the security person.

I wonder if one of the things more experienced hookers learn is how to avoid getting kicked out by security?

Who knows?