Monday, November 30, 2009

Running Naked Down the Las Vegas Strip

Armed with a razor sharp wit, a great pair of legs, and a less then perfect body, I have attempted to navigate the choppy waters of the dating pool in the sin capital of theworld, Las Vegas, for quite a while now. The best and most accurate description of dating in Las Vgeas would be like telling a rabid dog to sit calmly at the foot of the bed while a pair of howler monkeys bounce up and down rapidly. Not a pretty sight.

The single male Las Vegas, a creature unlike any other, when faced with the choice of a smart career-minded woman in sensible shoes or Bambi the weather bunny, seem to experience full brain meltdown. Following that object loacted in the Southern Hemisphere of their bodies, men are ultimately drawn to Bambi.

Now I use the name Bambi as a generalization. Sometimes her name is Tiffani or Buffy or Brittany or some other name that should be banned from the English language on the sheer saccharin content of it. Pop singers and beloved TV characters aside. With breasts that leviatate through the smoky air of any nightclub in a way that befuddles even David Copperfield, wedged into the smallest top available at the juniors department, these women blind the average male in Las Vegas, with the ridigitiy of their nipples alone. Come on girls, it ain't that cold in here. Much like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming SUV. Mere mortal women like myself do not stand a chance.

Perhaps part of my dating trouble is I refuse to squeeze my ample endowments into something so tight as to cut off all bodily functions. Now don't get me wrong. I like to dress sexy, but I feel if one fears going to the bathroom because you're not to sure your pants are going to make it all the way back up, then said pants are too tight. I speak from a vicarious experience here. Ask me about a night at Dylans with Deanne. But I digress, that is another blog altogether. Personally I have to much pride, or fear of every hot guy in the room seeing my granny panties, to risk the ultimate humiliation of my pants splitting down the seams in the middle of a dance floor. And me, I likes to boogey.

Go out and meet people my mother, and I think anyone over the age of 25's mother has said, says to me. And I do. But please how many nightclubs, bars, and mixers can a person go to before their IQ is forever damaged. Also in Las Vegas, as I am sure this happens in every big city but with different names, there is a plathora of what I commonly refer to as Leisure Suit Elvi. They are a cross between your average dirty old man and a baboon, with a little Richard Nixon thrown in for good measure. This makes for an unholy combination that would scare the leather pants off Alice Cooper. Imagine being faced with such an abomination as you calmy stand at the bar, daiquiri in hand. The sight alone would stop the Croc Hunter dead in his tracks with more then just one 'crickey!" Not quite forty, but well above thirty, their favorite prey is a woman of around 22. Someone with enough brains to know what sex is and how to do it, but not enough to realize that polyester should have died with disco.

What makes dating in Vegas different from other cities, is it the neon? Is it the casinos? Is it the fifty foor billboards plastered with women in bondage gear on them? No, it's the mentality of the people. It is a sandbox for the young, bored, and emotionally stunted. Don't get me wrong we have a fair share of smart people, but they are hideously overhsadowed by the pod people who inhabit downtown, uptown, and everywhere in between. I think the disease stems from too much neon light soaking into their veins.

In a city that markets sin and sex in every flavor, it is amazing how little of either a single person can get. I think drastic measures are in order. Full frontal nudity is an arrestable offense here so perhaps I won't go that route. Plastic pants and tube tops from Wal Mart don't suit my style or my Rubenesque frame, so that too is out. I could be a naked table dancer, but I can't even stay firmly planted in my sneakers let alone those tall spiked objects of torture strippers wear on their feet.
So I fear I must go the traditional way, and wait for Prince Charming to me meet halfway, if he isn't in a strip club.

So you see that love and life have a hell of a time tryign to mix here in Sin City. Drinks do it easier than humans. But keep your fingers crossed for me. There has to an Elvis out there for me. If not, I can always be a nun, a rare commondity indeed.

1 comment:

Amber said...

I agree so completely! When I was living there I actually worked on the strip at TI. The characters you see walking around... I can't even call them people because they don't seem real. And I have never seen a more materialistic place in my life. Every semester I spent part of my student loans purchasing some designer named purse. And I was usually still embarrassed because I could only afford the cheapest Dooney and Bourke rather than a Louis Vuitton.

All of that got me thinking about the type of people available to date and I was never interested. Did I really want my Prince Charming to be someone I found grinding on the dance floor? Was I attracted to men with the hair slicked back and shirts half way unbuttoned (always in some dark almost irridescent color)? And why was it I had to get decked out in some skimpy outfit when he only has to throw on a button down shirt or T-shirt with jeans? That didn't seem fair.

Of course, now I have surrounded myself with holey jeans, work shirts, and southern drawls. There's a distinct lack of regular bathing here.