A late evening in Las Vegas,
post work seminar and I
needed a drink. A drink
away from the slot machines,
cheering, shouting crowds, and
the general riff-raff.
A drink of fine scotch was in
order, something to round out
the sharp edges of stress, anxiety
and my mild distaste for travel
away from my beloved Chicago.
I sat at the sports book bar where
the scene was thin of gamblers and
the pedestrian traffic. There was the
usual grizzled woman, still dressed as if
she was in her 20’s but was likely in
her mid-seventies, the two bros trying
to figure out how to hit it big and the
other lonely business guys.
I found an isolated bar stool with a view
of the casino floor and the other late night
denizens of America’s sin trip. I ordered
my drink and sat finally feeling closer to
myself.
A beautiful prostitute sat down across the
bar top from me. I knew she was a prostitute
because, well, I’ve been around and I know one
when I see one. She looked at me with a mild
come-hither-to glance, to which I calmly shook
my head in the negative, but I did smile in an
oddly flattered way.
She understood and set her sights on the
a thin, balding, middle aged man, who was
eager to acknowledge her intentions. He moved
his seat closer to hers without much encouragement
and she began to play and flirt her way into his
wallet. I chuckled
and took another sip of my
last Las Vegas night scotch.
As I did, another young, lovely
prostitute slid her way onto a bar stool,
to my right hand side. She had dark hair,
full outlined lips, eyes made up smoky and
cat-like, her top was loose and the shoulder
straps easily slid off in a way to fire the
imagination.
I did not make any eye contact with her
at the time. I figured I would finish
my drink, consider another, and likely head
off to my room as alone as I had arrived.
But I saw this new young woman do something
that struck me as odd.
She took a very deep breath and moved her
arms across her body in a yoga type mediation
movement. I don’t know what the maneuver was
called but she was elegant and graceful in the
movement. She caught me spying on her.
I smiled and commented, “Were you just doing
a little meditation at the bar?”
She smiled at me and laughed while she nodded.
She got up from her seat and moved to the bar
stool next to mine. I
did not expect this but I
did not stop her from joining me.
She gave me a fake name, I gave her my real
one. She asked what I was doing in Vegas,
I told her the truth about work. I asked her
why she was there, but she didn’t answer in
a real way. She asked where I was from
and I told her about Chicago.
She said she was from Dallas originally,
I said I had been there several years ago
for the anniversary of the assassination of
J.F.K.
“Who”, she asked.
“John F. Kennedy. President John F. Kennedy,” I said.
She looked at me, blankly, behind beautiful blue eyes.
I said, “You never heard of J.F.K., our President who
was assassinated in Dallas in 1963?”
She said she had not.
So, as is my nature, I gave her a history lesson.
She listened to me, seemingly absorbing the
information I was imparting to her. That’s the thing
about beautiful prostitutes, it’s hard to tell when
they are listening or just pretending to move toward
the business end of their profession. But I believed she
was listening.
As I droned on and on about the historical significance
and how American was fundamentally changed on that
day I got the sense that perhaps my history lesson was
ill timed, that a sports book bar was not the best place
for a teachable moment. So I stopped my lecture and
asked her if she was doing okay. She teased me a little
and said she was doing very well and happy to have met me.
Having confirmed her pleasant mood I delivered her more
truth. “I’m going to ruin your night then,” I said.
“You’re more than welcome to ruin my night,” she flirted.
She licked her lips and fluttered her eye lashes at me. A
seductive smile growing across her lovely mouth.
“Okay. Nice to talk to you, goodnight,” I said and got up
from my bar stool.
She stood up. Realizing that we would not be leaving
together and I was not the profitable event she had
hoped. She walked away in her amazingly tight pants in
a huff. I snickered to myself, still feeling that last
happy sip of scotch on my lips.
I went up to my Vegas hotel room wondering about
all the what ifs and the glad I didn’ts, and if I
should one day come back to Las Vegas and open a
school for prostitutes to teach them a little more
about history.
