|On bachelor parties and the hookerpocolyse|
I'm plodding down the street toward the home-base of the Cosmopolitan, eyes half-blinded by the stark brightness that was the casino floor of Treasure Island. My temples pulse as my brain cramps off the urge to fight sleep thanks to an espresso assist. The sun peeks over the La Madre Range, turning the Las Vegas basin a grey-blue.
Things come into focus.
Hookers waddle down the street, many arms around shoulders to support each other - blending together in what can only be described as a "Hooker Chain of Support." A man yells and pushes one, sending the hooker chain reeling like a cracked whip. I looked closer.
I knew his face:
Fuck, that thing is going to steal my soul. He looks like that villain from Indian Jones: The Last Crusade after he chose "poorly." I duck into a local Hofrbau to avoid drawing the attention of his wild eyes.
A man approaches me, grinning like the Cheshire cat:
I'm hit across the back of my skull. The last thing I remember thinking was the last piece advice I had received before setting foot in this God-forsaken city:
"You never want to see a Vegas morning."
OK, so that was clearly a fabricated short story based on a very hungover two-block walk of shame I made at 4:30AM to make a 7:10AM flight Sunday morning. The point I should drive home though is that in Las Vegas, that scenario is not at all out of the realm of possibility. The loss of my Vegas virginity only crystallized in my mind as I walked between neon skyscrapers on "the Strip," doing my best Heisman pose to duck the continual advancements of prostitutes.
The oldest profession is very much alive and...humming. During the blur of the nights, its right there under the surface, smacking you in the face if you just look . It is simultaneously hilarious and sad - it is sadlarious the way in which these girls smile and preen for douchbags who think their special because of it. The eventual transaction at the spank bank is as emoationally vacant and as fake as they come, because like Las Vegas itself, it is a mirage.
And so the reality of Vegas smacked me in the face at 4:30AM as I saw these girls stagger down the strip in droves like a cumdumpster zombie army. The ride was over, except upon exiting this ride I had no money, a massive hangover, and was stuck dodging the personifications of herpes.
|See: Herpe Harpy|
And I would be a part of the ride in a heartbeat all over again.
The Ride in Pictures - Austin's Bachelor Party
Often you get pulled into things you might not have been ready for. Luckily, I was around pros who would navigate me through the fluorescent labyrinth of the Las Vegas strip.
Checking in to the Cosmopolitan was like stepping into a Middle-Eastern techno fever dream.
|This will be easy to navigate in a "brownout"|
58th floor does have it's advantages though.
First meal: Hoffbrau. The combination of high-gravity brews that smoothly washes the meat down but knocks you on your ass, as well as the entertainment that comes from purchasing a Jager shot and a paddling from a lady that clearly hates herself made for a fantastic meal.
|The beer was so strong that it made you schizophrenically hallucinate competing with your mirror image in manly ways|
The jager and paddling began in earnest. Most were not eager to receive their medicine.
Some were a little too eager:
|The groom shows how well-trained he already is.|
We made our way to the strip, fighting to stay cognizent enough to gamble effectively.
After a good bit of Casino hopping it was time to go home...I think. I am not really sure, this next image I pulled from my phone seems to indicate there is a substantial amount of badass times that I am missing.
|Is this real life?|
Really, nothing can prepare you for a first time in Las Vegas. Enjoy the ride, boot and rally, and try not to be awake or aware at 4:30AM - some realities should best stay hidden below the surface.
Use Vegas or it will use you. Bachelorparty.