What Happens in Vegas Gets Posted on the Inter-Webz for All to Read
Until I took another road trip for a big chunk of last week, I was unaware that there was such a thing as Hookers for Jesus.
The events leading up to this discovery are a bit hazy and have likely been reconstructed out of necessity, the necessity being that my main purpose in going to Sin City with two guy friends was to spend an entire four days drunk and stoned, and by the time this incident took place, I had succeeded admirably. Suffice to say there was karaoke involved, and getting up the nerve to sing karaoke in an outdoor bar overlooking the Strip takes a certain kind of courage that is best acquired in liquid form.
After the karaoke DJ had shut down for the night, one of my friends was chatting up an attractive blonde with obvious motives, whom I shall hereafter refer to as Mary Magdalene to protect the guilty, and the other was heavily invested in a discussion about a sports team I don’t follow with the boyfriend/one-night-stand/flavor of the week of another young woman whom I shall call Judgy Judy. The friend with Mary Magdalene wanted to smoke a blunt and proposed we all go to a sketchy parking lot to do so, but the friend arguing sports stayed behind.
So Mary Magdalene, Judgy Judy, my friend, and I passed a blunt around, seemingly basking in the communal awesomeness of being one with the cosmos or some such nonsense, when Judgy Judy all of sudden pursed her lips and said to Mary Magdalene, “Honey, you need to quit this lifestyle. Why don’t you just go back to Florida, turn your life around?”
“Oh, no, no, it’s all right,” Mary Magdalene said. “See, I’m a Christian!” And she pulled out a fistful of cards that had John 3:16 written in Papyrus font on them. She offered one to me. I held up my hand and said, “You should save those for people who really need them.”
She frowned quizzically. “Are you already saved, then?”
There were only bad answers to this question, and I picked the worst. “I don’t need salvation. I’m an atheist.”
At least I gave Judgy Judy and my friend enough space to finish the blunt in peace. Quickly realizing my mistake, I hastily beat a retreat to my other friend so I could attempt to dodge the conversion attempt, knowing my answer to “questions” like, “I used to be an atheist or an agnostic or whatever, too,” and, “So, how long have you lived in this darkness?” would only be, “Lady, I’m too intoxicated to debate theology with anyone, much less a chick trying to violate my friend’s mind and wallet!”
When I got back to the bar, my other friend was still arguing sports. In desperation, I began talking about life above the 45th parallel with the only dude who was currently unengaged in conversation. Mary Magdalene poked her head in, trying to find a place to convince me of the wonders of Jesus, but I babbled on excitedly about how the dude’s accent was a dead giveaway for either western Canada or very far northern Minnesota, and he was drunk enough to be absolutely captivated by my breakdown of regional dialects.
The man bore a resemblance to Kevin Bacon, as my sports-obsessed friend wandered over just long enough to point out before going back to discussing college football. Meanwhile, Mary Magdalene hovered on the edge of everyone’s conversations, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I eventually accepted an offer to smoke yet another blunt with Canadian Bacon (as he shall henceforth be known) for an excuse to get off her radar.
Yes, I had a perfectly good idea what I might be getting myself into. But while I had indulged in more drinks and dope than I would ever have in normal life, Canadian Bacon couldn’t even walk in a straight line. I knew I could take him in a fight, if it came down to that.
It didn’t come down to that. It did, however, come down to him interrupting himself several times to tell me how I was “so sexy” and “didn’t need to be so macho” and was “really turning [him] on.” So once the blunt was nothing but ashes in the wind, I told him I should really get back and rejoin my friends.
My friends were no longer at the bar, although they’d at least had the decency to take Mary Magdalene with them wherever they were. So I explained to Canadian Bacon that I was going back to my hotel to get some much-needed shuteye.
“Have a beer with me,” he pleaded, as he started following me back to the hotel.
“What the hell, why not,” I sighed. “But I am going to bed eventually. By myself,” I warned him.
He nodded happily and stumbled along after me, although even in his advanced state, he insisted on getting the doors for me.
The two beers were watered down with suggestions of, “Why don’t you sleep in my room? I promise I’ll let you sleep. I’m not going to hump your leg or anything.”
“I don’t sleep with strange men,” I sighed, not really feeling like explaining my possible asexuality to a sloshed Canadian. “Besides, I’ll need to take a shower. My clean clothes are in my room, where you wouldn’t be invited even if I weren’t sharing it with two dudes.”
“You don’t need clothes,” he slurred. “You can take a shower in my room. It’ll be really sexy. The two of us, all that hot water…I’ll soap you up.”
I winced at the taste of bile that had appeared out of nowhere. I tossed the bottle back to make sure the contents were gone, then put it down and said, “No, thanks. Look, it’s been fun, but I’m going to bed.”
It took another five minutes for him to be convinced that I had not silently added, “with you,” to the end of that statement. Finally, however, I returned to my room and fell asleep blissfully alone, though still determined to soap off the sick-making thought of being soaped up as soon as I got out of bed.
So why, one may ask rhetorically, did I do it? If I were to write up a checklist of everything that pushes my buttons, CB managed to hit most of them:
-He didn’t grasp the concept of, “I am not sleeping with you,”
-And, of course, he made it quite clear how badly he wanted to touch me.
So why did I not step up my pace and power-walk fast enough to leave rum-soaked Canadian Bacon in the dust as soon as I went back to my hotel? Sure, the beers and blunt were free, although I want it on record that my attempts to pay for my own beers ended with the check being snatched out of my hands.
The truth is that I was curious. When I first broke up with my ex, I wasn’t particularly interested in dating, but I thought, “Maybe something casual someday.” As the months went on, however, my interest level dwindled down to zero. I wasn’t sure if it was residual trauma from the relationship or if I had somehow turned myself asexual.
Canadian Bacon was far better-looking than the vast majority of the drunk guys who hit on me in bars, and I do have an interest in accents that goes beyond the academic. Besides, while I was nowhere near his level, weed and alcohol had loosened me up enough that my inhibitions were as low as they were likely to get. If there ever were circumstances in which I could take advantage of the wink and smile that accompany the line, “What happens in Vegas…” those were them.
But I couldn’t do it. Even with the pot, even with the rum and vodka and beer and whatever else goes into a Long Island Iced Tea, even with the knowledge that Canadian Bacon was so drunk that I could easily sneak out after a thirty-second fuck without him ever knowing or remembering, I couldn’t stomach the thought of being that close to another human being. Clearly my open-minded and open-legged (but always safe and responsible!) college self had been swallowed by a 27-year-old prude, and that person is too much of a tongue-clucker to ingest the amount of mind-altering substances it would take to make me mentally lose eight or nine years.
But I’m perfectly fine with this new version of me. I’ll at least have a legit reason to out-Holier-Than-Thou the next Hooker for Jesus I encounter.