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.


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.

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