This past Easter Sunday, I met and
played poker with a really fun woman who perhaps can best be described as a
PG-13 rated version of my pal Prudence. I was originally thinking that she may have been
a G-rated version, but then I realized that during our time together, we
discussed Strip Clubs, butt implants, prostitution, “full service” and maybe a
few other topics not fit for the kiddies, so perhaps PG-13 would be safer.
The lady in question was already
seated when I took a seat at this table.
She was chatting with a couple of guys near her. She was cute and about the same age as
Prudence. But I noticed an accent. At first I thought British—but then no, it
was clear the woman was from Australia.
I did learn her real name but we’ll call her “Kate” since that somehow
feels Australian to me.
She was in the middle of a
conversation about her efforts to get a work visa to relocate to the U.S. But
she wasn’t moving from Australia. She
was currently living in Canada. She had
taken a job there as a stepping stone to moving to the states. She was talking about how difficult it was
getting into the U.S. (legally, at least).
She seemed to be saying she was considering marrying a U.S. citizen just
so she could get into the country. She
mentioned a male friend of hers who lives in Vegas and who would probably agree
to such a sham marriage in order to help get in the country. Since they were friends and knew each other
well, she could probably convince the authorities it was legit.
And then she said, “But no, I would
never do that. I always say, I want my first
marriage to be legitimate.”
Hours later, I found out that the
whole discussion had been a misdirect. She already had been approved for a work
visa because her employer had transferred her to the U.S.—Southern California,
in fact. All she was waiting for was the
paperwork to work its way through the bureaucracy. She had just been kidding around.
I recalled that, the night I met
Prudence (see here), she said a lot of things
that turned out to be just her yanking our chain too. Was it possible that Kate was already living
in the U.S.—or even Vegas—just like Prudence was? No, that wasn’t true. I don’t think.
Kate was extremely friendly and
out-going. And all the guys at the table couldn’t help themselves coming up
with things to discuss with her. I
suspect the fact that she was both cute and the only woman at the table
contributed to this. But she was not at
all dressed provocatively. She was very
conservatively and properly dressed. In
that sense, she almost stood out, as most women in Vegas anywhere near her age
usually wear much more revealing clothing—especially now that the weather was
heating up. It’s one of the main reasons
I go to Vegas, of course.
This was a club night and surely she
wasn’t planning on going to the club this night. They wouldn’t let her in. Seriously, I don’t know what the dress code
is for the club, but I’m pretty sure any woman not dressed like a slut will be turned away at the door, and she
was not at all dressed like a slut.
At one point early in the session,
Kate looked at me and asked if I was a local.
I said I wasn’t but that I came here a lot. She said I looked familiar and she was sure
that she’d played with me before. This
was the room she mostly played in when she came to Vegas—which was quite frequently.
I acknowledged that was quite
possible, although I honestly don’t see how.
How could I have possibly not remembered such a cute, talkative female
poker player? It’s what this blog lives
for. And the delightful Aussie
accent? I’d forget that too? Not a chance.
Perhaps she had seen me in the room
though, and remembered me even though we had never played together. It makes sense, being such a handsome devil
and all. Yes, of course a much younger
woman would remember my face.
When I found out she was moving to
Southern California, I asked if she thought she might play at the Bike or some
of the other card rooms down here. She
said she that was quite likely. Now, she
had mentioned there’s a poker room about a two hour drive from where she lives,
but she never goes there. She doesn’t
feel like driving two hours to player poker, she’d rather play in Vegas. She said that even though she also maintained
that “all poker rooms are the same.”
And here she was talking about driving
to the Bike (probably a good hour and half drive from where she was moving to)
to play? Didn’t make sense to me. Plus, she’ll be only an hour away from Vegas
by plane (and a much cheaper flight) or a four hour drive.
At one point, my ears pricked up when
I heard Kate say, “I think I saw a woman with butt implants at Subway
yesterday.” Huh?
“Subway? Which one?” Not that I would
go to a Subway just to see a woman with butt implants. It just seemed like an
odd observation to make. I didn’t really
know if there was any context to this revelation. It seemed to have come out of the blue.
But I misheard. “The Sapphire Club. It’s a strip club here in Vegas.”
Ahh.
Yes I’d heard of it. Not that I
would ever patronize such a place.
“Oh, a Strip Club. Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” I explained what I thought I heard and
everyone found that amusing.
Before I could get to the alleged butt
implant, I had to ask her about the strip club, because this is an issue that
totally baffles me.
I’ve already discussed this subject
previously, in the post here. I don’t understand women wanting to go to
strip clubs where women take their clothes off.
I just don’t get it. Sure I can
understand them wanting to see male strippers (and for posts about male
strippers, see here and here.)
So once I realized that this otherwise
proper woman was telling how she and her female friend had visited a Strip Club
the other night, I had to ask about it.
“I don’t get it, why do girls go to
strip clubs?”
She actually seemed surprised by the
question, like it was ridiculous. She
acted almost as surprised as if I had asked why a guy would go to a strip club.
“Why not? It’s fun.
I enjoy watching the dancers, most of them are good dancers, certainly
better than male dancers. And we can go
there and not get harassed by the guys.
The guys pretty much ignore us, they’re paying attention to the dancers. So it’s hassle-free. Women don’t like male
strip shows. It’s not appealing. It’s just weird. It’s not fun or sexy at all.”
Wait.
People go to strip clubs to see the girls dance? Really?
I though they went to strip clubs to see naked girls.
She also said it’s not expensive. Just $30, including the limo there and back,
one drink. I guess she didn’t spring for
any lap-dances.
So I said, “It’s just weird to me. In my
day, no woman would ever, ever go to a strip club. Not one with girls stripping that is. Maybe a Chippendales show, but not to see
naked girls. It just wasn’t done. They would never do that.” Note: I actually mentioned in an early post a
story about a woman going to a strip club “back in the day” here, but that was a rare exception to his
rule.
Kate—and everyone else, all much
younger than me—acted like I was speaking a foreign language. When was “back in the day” they demanded to
know? Like, the 70’s?.
Someone—I don’t think it was
Kate—associated the ‘70’s with Farrah Fawcett.
True she was a big sex symbol back then.
They got that right. But there
was more to the ‘70’s than Farrah.
Anyway, they all went back to basically insisting that women in the
‘70’s went to strip clubs just like the women of today do.
And then Kate proclaimed, “It’s just
like it was then. The only difference
with women then and now is less hair.” Although Farrah was famous for her long,
flowing blonde hair and her personal hairstyle, I can assure you this was not
the hair that Kate was asserting that there’s less of. She was referring to the hair down
under—so-to-speak.
Before I could argue, I was
interrupted by the dealer, Dennis (for a really early story about Dennis, see here).
As you can tell, Dennis has been dealing to me for a long time. I was sitting immediately to his right and he
spoke to me, kind of in a whisper. “Why
are you saying ‘back in the day’? Don’t do that. You’re not old, don’t talk like you are.
Don’t make yourself seem old. Stop it
with the ‘back in the day’ crap.”
Wow.
It was nice that Dennis didn’t think of me as old, or that he was trying
to prevent me from looking and sounding old.
The irony was that I was in town to celebrate my birthday and the
birthday poker game was going to be held the very next night (see here). So maybe I was feeling a bit old.
But of course, I was right about what
I was saying. I was there and most of
them weren’t—at least not as sentient adults.
But chastened by Dennis, I stopped
trying to convince Kate and the others they had no idea what women were like
“back in the day.” And as such, I never
got to make my other point. So I’ll make
it here.
Not only would a woman back then never
be caught dead at a strip club, if your wife or girlfriend ever found out that you
(a guy) went to a strip club, you would soon be found dead yourself.
Seriously, you could never admit to a
woman you were interested in that you liked strip clubs. You could never admit to a woman that you
ever, ever, ever had been to a strip club.
You just couldn’t. She would
think you were a pervert—totally updateable.
You were not fit to associate with.
In fact, if you were in a relationship
with a woman, and she found out you went to the strip club with your buddies,
she would accuse you of cheating on her. And this was before the lapdance was
invented! You were cheating on her just
by paying to see some total stranger shake her tits in front of you for a
couple of minutes. Simple as that. And one girl you could be sure of never
seeing naked again was that now ex-girlfriend. Guys who went to
strip clubs back then did so secretly.
But I didn’t pursue it. So I had no choice but to pursue the girl
with the butt implants.
“So tell us about the butt implants.”
Kate said one of the strippers
appeared to have a fake butt. She tried
to describe it and even used her hands to try to show us the unnatural curve of
her ass. It was pretty funny.
Truth is, this did not surprise me at
all. As an observer of the scantily clad ladies who frequent the night club,
I’ve noticed for some time that some of the girls seem to have something extra
filling out that short skirt. Is there
such a thing as butt falsies? I dunno,
but I see some unnaturally large backsides these days. Some nights I wonder if I saw more butt jobs
than boob jobs. There are lots of gals I see I suspect have had plastic surgery
both upper front and lower back. I
wonder if they get that all at once or it if it takes two separate visits? Is
there a volume discount?
It seems that big asses on women are
really in these days. I blame Kim
Kardashian for this. I’m pretty sure she
started it with her humongous derriere. I’ve heard that the Postal Service has
given her ass its own zip-code. Personally, I’m not a big fan of the enormous
tush.
The accompanying picture was sent to
me by fellow blogger MrBen,
who visits Vegas frequently from the U.K. I’ve mentioned a session with Ben
most recently here. On a subsequent visit, when I wasn’t in town,
Ben and his wife noticed some women who appeared to have butt implants. He mentioned it his report here. I
commented about the trend and Ben was kind enough to send me a pic his wife had
taken of a woman who they suspected had a fake ass (or as they say in the U.K.,
“arse”—or perhaps “bum”). Thanks, Ben. I knew I’d find a good use for that photo!
The discussion of the strip club
triggered an interesting comment from the New York Indian, so I better introduce
him. Yes, I called him the NY Indian,
and yes, I know the baseball team known as the Indians is located in
Cleveland. This guy lived in the New
York metropolitan area but was clearly of Indian heritage. The country of
India, not “native American.” But he
didn’t have the accent of someone raised in India. Actually, he had a thick New York accent and
it was kind of weird hearing the New York accent come out of him.
He was hours away from his redeye
flight back to NY. He definitely had a
New York attitude, if you know what I mean.
And a very foul mouth. Every
third word out of him was the f-word. He
said it like some people say, “you know” or “like.” It was, you know, like, “I have a few f-ing
hours to f-ing kill before I have to f-ing leave for the f-ing airport to catch
my f-ing plane back to f-ing Newark.”
Surprisingly, only one dealer warned him about his language. He tried unsuccessfully to cut down on the
f-bombs, with minimal success.
At one point he joked (or was it a
joke?) that he gets through airport security really fast because he has dark
skin.
As I said, he spoke like a New Yorker,
not like an Indian. But for some reason,
at one point, he took on the persona of actual native Indian and did a three
minute monologue impersonating one of those tech guys you get on the phone when
your router doesn’t work (see here). The funny thing was, if he had started
talking like that first thing, we wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But having heard him talk like a New Yawker
for an hour, it was hilarious. It would
have been totally insensitive and perhaps racist if he wasn’t of Indian descent
himself but….well actually, it might have been insensitive and racist anyway.
And that's the end of part 1. I’m going to leave you hanging as
to his comment in response to Kate’s strip club story. But here’s a hint: It involved midgets. And the second and final chapter also involves discussions
of prostitution around the world, a little more on strip clubs and oh, I
may just be able to squeeze in a little poker.
Maybe. Part 2 can be found here.
