Not only does Las Vegas facilitate transience, the city also encourages wading into life’s wild sides. Some visitors plunge in yet escape unscathed. A few who get in over their heads drown.
The adventurous, the curious, those thwarted elsewhere visit Vice City to conduct themselves in manners frowned upon at home. Here, they escape prying eyes and those judgmental acquaintances who squint through them. Since the city caters to inhibitions like few others, visitors can indulge among the similarly-minded and not fret about earning much, if any, opprobrium.
After all, everybody being immersed in some hip-deep misbehavior by choice should limit hypocrisy.
An evening starts with a working girl attempting to hook up with her client. Not any “client.” Her client.
The prospective date has an itch needing scratching. Whatever the stated desire, however one combs through the myriad combinations, a stranger has sought out her favors.
Arrangements are involved on the working girl’s end. Not only must she connect with her client, but also must ascertain whether the prospect is legit or possible entrapment.
Over the phone, the client sounds new to the game. That and the voice heard is uncommon. The novice on the other end of the line gives sketchy information. Or is it a devious vice cop lulling her into a snare? Only after several tries does the anxious voice from the phone’s earpiece yield the trysting address.
Exhibiting a little futile caution, the working girl feints about law enforcement. She asks whether the prospect wears a badge. What in truth should be a straight-forward question deserving of an in-kind answer is actually quite silly. Police aren’t under any obligation to reveal themselves. But the prospect’s response assuages the provider’s occupational worries.
That matter clarified, the working girl asks for a description of the other. A vital point.
From appearances alone the provider’s profession is no mystery.
Nubian black, possessed, and striking, she could embody one of those mahogany statuettes which whetted white imaginations while allowing those same fantasists to rail most virulently against mixing races.
No kinks, coils, or peas roil her hair. The mane’s been relaxed into a short glossy black helmet. A silky Pickelhaube waiting for the spike.
Her impassiveness resembles the stoicism seen on carved wooden African heads. She carries herself with primal, primal, not primitive, yet regal demeanor. Unsavory as some may regard her practice, self-dignity allows her to rise above such disdain.
A gray sheath dress strains to restrain her long tall figure. The fabric traces contours so faithfully one must wonder what musculature remains obscured by flesh. Arched high on platform soles and needle heels that cord her legs into filigree and forces her ass to jut, she struts with an affected leisurely stroll, a la a bluesy Mae West.
Oh yes. This woman’s entry into any swank Strip property becomes fraught. Doubtlessly it brings almost immediate attention from security personnel. She needs a valid cause for being on the premises. Pronto!
It’s not enough that she’s “meeting a guest.” A room number, a name, often sufficiently mollifies security. It’s one thing to be expected, another to be trawling for trade. One effective deterrence against any nosy snoopers?
Meeting in the lobby. Or best yet, outside the lobby somewhere on the periphery, like at the valet. That way she can be escorted inside, upstairs, thus spared any watchful gauntlet.
The novice readily agrees to the pro’s last suggestion.
Turns out the prospect will be difficult to miss. A blazing pink hoodie distinguishes the mufti and clearly marks an imminent payday.
Eagerness compels the client to follow instructions to the letter. Bliss and anxiety scamper across her face. Sighting the working girl surpasses the client’s imagination at its most fevered and exceeds whatever limited her desires. Active as the valet is, she sees through walking talking hurly-burly weaving around her. Indeed, she only has eyes for …
The recipient of such bald appreciation reacts coolly. Used to being appraised, accustomed to becoming a commodity, the astonishment inherent in this initial glimpsing doesn’t faze her. At least not openly. Unless “toys” are introduced, simple bodily mechanics alone will make this date less involved than any with a man. Or men.
Conscious she’s under a loupe as well, the client fidgets. Under conventionally respectable circumstances, her all too human response could be regarded as tender. Pleased by the provider as she is, the meeting’s instigator apparently wonders if she passes the other’s muster.
Right there the prime difference between men and women in matters of for-hire sex. What man would ever bother taking a prostitute’s evaluation into his consideration?
What the working girl sees: a young pale blonde somewhere in her still audacious 20s. A decent figure, though not one that can rock couture or even club wear. No investment in dedicated gym time here. Less kind judges might opine she’s doughy on the short path to dumpy.
Female judges.
Unlike women whose shapes can transform finery into burlap, perhaps she lacks their self-assuredness to confidently offer herself under such exposure.
While male gazes can be harsh, those from her sisters wither mercilessly.
She looks unremarkable. An easily managed coif frames her face. Minimal jewelry weighs her ears or wrists.
Not plain, though no spark distinguishes her face. She’s probably kind. A nice smile has trouble emerging through reluctance. This woman makes no effort to hide her nerves.
Initiative is taken by the working girl. She saunters across the divide. Well aware as she already is, she breaks ice by confirming her date’s bona fides. It serves to release the other. Loudly, she visibly exhales.
On the way through reception to the elevators, past randy smirks that just aren’t merely indicative of knowing but also desirous of watching, begin the first of a succession of awkward questions and instances. By them, the working girl knows her client has bought into Las Vegas’ renown for “anything goes” and has brought something along that wouldn’t have gone far wherever she’s from. Hence this assignation.
Strolling to the lift, their progress slowed by the working girl’s innate sense of stretching expectant moments as well as walking in shoes designed to tarry, don’t both speculate about another?
How many women has she pleasured and have been pleasured by her? Who’ll lead? Experiment or desire presented as opportunity? Will one see this hour, these hours, as yielding to the forbidden, the proscribed, while the other merely needs to submit?
All questions based on experience, demands, and, naturally, comparisons. They reach the elevator. The doors open. Both women enter and ascend for a time.