Sex Type Thing

Who visits Las Vegas to practice decorum and exercise restraint? Nobody. Not even Mormons.

Despite the justifiably popular “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas” slogan that lures however many suckers from the nation’s tight-assed regions, that O.J. Simpson was jailed and remains so for convoluted activities here proves the advertising somewhat specious.

Yet many believe and they indulge – heartily on the way to and beyond excessively.

If inhibitions are burdensome, I advise a two or three day jaunt to this corner of the Mojave Desert. Daily, especially nightly, it reminds me of the dictum, “All that isn’t forbidden is permitted.” Or in simpler terms, “Don’t get caught!”

A few weeks ago, Raul had come up from Mexico to scout relocation sites. He was involved in a nebulous but profitable business below the border in Tijuana. However, the strength of the greenback was turning the peso into toilet paper. Used toilet paper, and even in that condition it still retained more value than the peso.

Fortunately for him, Raul occupied dual citizenship. A huge advantage because in these pinche days the “wrong” complexion, name, faith, could be reasons for exclusion from and denial of entry into the United States. By the way, that’s a fact not a fabrication.

It’s who we’ve become. It remains up to us whether we continue to accept this.

Anyway, the Golden Door swings both ways for Raul. So does Raul.

In his early 40s and easily looking older, the Mexican was no version of Adonis. Long hair off the back of his head did not make up for the pattern baldness atop it. Perhaps 24 hours of coma-induced sleep might’ve carted away the bags under his eyes, firmed his droopy cheeks, and dried his face’s fevered sheen. Rail thin limbs hung off a torso suffering tamale poisoning.

Alert as he was, Raul nonetheless spoke listlessly.

The evening we met he’d just left a gay bar. Business concluded, looking to wallow in profuse sin now, Raul found himself a place where he thought it would be easy finding a willing partner who’d exchange reach-around type favors. Unfortunately as a lot of straight women have sung, Raul had moored himself amid a swamp of scrubs.

Hours later Raul extricated himself from that dead-end den of iniquity. He landed in the diverse one I then occupied.

We didn’t get into what, pardon me, who he sought exactly. Yet clearly the specimens inside his prior elbow-bender frustrated hm. Far as I could tell, and Raul agreed, he just sought someone complaisant. He needed compliant flesh to realize fantasy. Merely someone to stick it in. Nothing more. Even less.

Through explanation, he acknowledged himself not gay but bisexual. Or pretty damn greedy in the carnal enjoyment department.

His fervid haze cleared enough to realize his interlocutor was neither. He complimented my “chill.” Ah, after a fashion I understood him. As was stated earlier, he needed sex. What human in contact with his or her humanity fails comprehending so simple a matter?

Besides, as secure as Raul was in expressing his ravenous hunger, so solid was my own disinterest in his bent. Disinterest, not indifference. Here was someone in distress – well, late-night/early morning, horny Las Vegas distress. A little mutual respect often shortens disparate roads, no?

Again, Raul claimed himself bisexual. While he sought “Mr. Right,” he also had cast a net for Miss Right Now. Men he hunted after in person. Women he trawled after through an application on his device.

If there’s Grindr, does Switchr also exist? I ought have asked but his concurrent search for female companionship simultaneously fascinated and jarred me.

There’s a vaudeville gag whose subject is a schlub who can’t land a round-heeler. He asks a horn-dog as big as Milton Berle for advice. The pal’s remedy? “Show her your nuts.” Taking the advice heard, the supplicant comes across a pushover. Instead of whipping out his hairy grapes and the veiny stem flopping above them, he smashes her in the face with a pie.

On the woman end of Raul’s quest, a Berle-like advisor would’ve been pleased. Any pastry remained behind bakery counter glass.

Throughout his evening into morning, Raul had been baiting women similarly eager for NSA fucking. One prospect had gone to the extent of asking to see what he’d bring to their party if she hosted.

Her request came during our chat. He excused himself and walked into the men’s room. There in a stall (one hopes!), he aired his gizmo. If so desired, one may imagine how the stall’s confinement, backdrop, and lighting further weighed imminent appraisal. Presumably struck by the arty photo muse, Raul snapped smutty pix which through the miracle of SMS were received and evaluated by a distaff possible partner.

The faceless woman reciprocated. Or at least she zipped back her snapper in return.

Returning after their 20 minute mutual appreciation photo exchange, Raul didn’t show me his – thankfully. Though, he was guy enough to show me hers. But then upon consideration was it truly hers she dispatched? Wonder if she stored stock photos just for occasions like these? The pair had been text-teasing back and forth a good part of the night yet hadn’t gotten any closer to firming a date for mindlessly bumping uglies.

Here was the nay or yea moment and yet she still remained noncommittal. One way or another, the Mexican was ready to explode.

Raul had reached nadir. He doubted her sincerity. Having arrived in Las Vegas with the weakest of inhibitions and the strongest yearning, the city worked its usual affect. That is increasing susceptibility and emboldening recklessness. Hadn’t these already further uncoiled Raul’s quite loose and long rope?

Had he sought “for hire” company his agony could’ve been extinguished hours before. Gratified by a rent boy, Raul now should’ve been slumbering in exhausted contentment. However, he hunted a slut as big, if not bigger, than himself. While nowhere near against paying for a piece, he wanted this Las Vegas moment to be genuine.

“Genuine”?

Accustomed to easing problems, or if crossed, making them harder, and aware by that hour dregs then peopled the city’s gay bars and swingers clubs, I arrived at an all kinds of bird-killing solution. There was a transvestite bar I proposed Raul visit. I only knew of it because gamblers sharing this particular proclivity raved about the premise’s gaming machines.

Apparently the establishment’s slots, like its clientele, were among the loosest in town. That alone assured a packed house, among other likely things to be filled.

Happy medium stumbled across, a grateful Raul left encouraged. If the interval elsewhere yielded worthwhile satisfaction, one fairly hopes the pleasure given equaled the plumbing received.

Saloons Instead of Salons

This is how perception has re-formed amid the Mojave and the Southern Nevada mountains – bands like the Eagles and the Pure Prairie League sound more appropriate here than they ever did down in Arizona’s Sonora Desert and certainly back East in New York. Those guitars and keening voices cut through the Mojave’s harshness.

Although the poignancy of the bands’ ballads further emphasize the region’s emptiness, each offers relief to the barren horizon and the few figures populating it. Hmmm. Figure that out.

People often ask whether I miss New York, and if so what do I particularly miss. My pat reply is usually, “Whatever I miss was already gone before I left.”

Until recently that response sufficed because it was the only truth. Continue reading Saloons Instead of Salons

Worse Than Death

Met one of the world’s most remarkable men recently. And he wasn’t drinking a beer after performing some incredible feat.

Arturo. Pudgy, balding, brown eyes the depth of infinite sorrow sat on a face that struggled and failed rising past sadness. A great achievement did not distinguish him. Noble, though? Yes. What separated him from our mass of humanity? Arturo had been able to forgive his wife’s killer.

So much so he intended supporting her murderer’s parole bid before the board. Continue reading Worse Than Death

Weak and Worthless

The United States is no longer inspirational. Our people have surrendered aspiration. This Republic has assumed the vilest qualities of Donald Trump, a pig who has been awarded our presidency.

Gone are the verve, curiosity, and intellect which propelled our formerly great nation. Removed is the fresh-faced visage and vigor which once made us indispensable among all countries inhabiting the earth.

Under Der Trump the United States is sliding from vital into nonessential. Continue reading Weak and Worthless

Pixel Addicts

The Consumer Electronics Show invaded and besieged Las Vegas the first week of 2017. Over 175,000 industry people attended this Woodstock for geeks. An IT legionnaires’ event, anyone familiar with sunlight was denied entry.

CES always features next-gen products and devices intended to make pasty-complexioned, socially awkward tech lovers desire and drool. Of course what premiered that first week of January will be obsolete just in time for Christmas.

Such is the rapidity of technology. Continue reading Pixel Addicts

Good Ether

Hear music as ether. Good ether.

With zero apologies to Marcel Proust, music not madeleines better allow ourselves to re-immerse ourselves in the past and fully revivify it. Not so much live music at that as tunes sound engineers have massaged down to their last notes. To me, too much concert music sounds ragged. Live performances allow bands license to mess with the perfection which either narcotized or motivated me in the first place.

I generally prefer my ether unadulterated and exactly the way I’ve come to favor it. Continue reading Good Ether

It Can Be Said

Larry Flynt made a Las Vegas appearance recently. The Hustler publisher visited Southern Nevada for the grand opening of another of his adult novelties emporia.

Although I seldom bother glancing at Hustler – the magazine’s content is too artless for my taste – I nonetheless trekked over to Flynt’s new smut hut. Not because I’ve become more prurient, but in our encroaching Donald Trump times it just seemed proper to pay homage to Flynt, a man who rose to the forefront of defending and strengthening our First Amendment.

While he doesn’t suit any image Americans prefer of their heroes, the Hustler publisher has done much to preserve and expand our ability to opine without censure or censoring. Had Flynt lost his fight, the public’s room to dissent, to ridicule, to deflate, would’ve been circumscribed today.

Too many Americans misunderstand the First Amendment. A great many of us mistakenly believe it only pertains to them, what they believe is “good” and “decent.” The amendment doesn’t only provide protections for views we favor. It also secures much of what we may find objectionable. That is the measure’s greatest strength. Continue reading It Can Be Said

Ring’s the Thing

On a late November evening, Plush ignited a streak of spontaneous passion.

Certainly Las Vegas visitors are transfixed by the swarms of working girls so overtly advertising and plying their horizontal trade. Live here long enough, though, and the sight of so many intimate pleasure providers simply becomes tenderloin wallpaper.

Occasionally a standout presents herself. Plush is one of the notables. Continue reading Ring’s the Thing

Dissolute Figures

New Las Vegas residents need accustoming themselves to the local incongruities. Living in Nevada, a state on the fringes of the mind or amid the spatial void, the usual standards seldom seem to jibe.

Las Vegas is a community where those of us passing as solid citizenry mesh daily among what others elsewhere would regard as unconventional, unhinged, unmoored, and uninhibited.

Easy as it might be to ascribe the behaviors to weirdness or eccentricities, indifference is the apt word. Remoteness and the regional disposition conspire for perfect conditions which allow a good many individuals to flout or ignore recognized forms of comportment altogether.

Probably explains the locals’ mania to mar and disfigure themselves with tats and piercings as well as dye their hair in colors unseen in nature. On the upside, though, these deviations help tell the bags of shit apart. Continue reading Dissolute Figures

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