Many drunken stories have come out of my trips to Vegas. It’s a town powered by booze and debauchery, so no one should be surprised by this.
For those of you who know me, I think you would agree that I normally do not dress overly provocative. Sure, I own some shorter skirts, low-cut tops and heels, but usually will not wear them ALL together. Sometimes, but not usually. I’m all for showing off your assets. But, unfortunately, they do not make many clothing items that highlight small ankles and wrists. Seriously people, I’m not working with much here!
Please realize that this is not coming from a place of jealousy. I just have never understood women who dress like prostitutes. Now, if women are only looking to bang and not be taken seriously by men, by all means wear your booty shorts with your belly-baring shirt and top it all off with a sweet pair of clear heels and loads of makeup. You’ll have no problem contracting syphilis, but if you are thinking a man will actually want to listen to anything you have to say while you are dressed in that get-up, well, don’t hold your breath. Although most people don’t want to listen to what I have to say anyways, so perhaps I should make some wardrobe modifications!
Now I’ve been to Vegas my fair share of times. I usually don’t change up my style too much when I’m there, although I may pull out that crazy “going out” shirt I would have no use for at home. The one I purchased on sale at bebe eight years ago that is collecting dust at the back of my closet. It is likely two sizes too small and 10 seasons out of style. But hey, it’s Vegas!
On this particular night I recall that I was wearing jeans, heels and a silky tank top. Definitely not fodder for any fashion magazines, but not something to be found on a Hustler model either.
My friend and I had done the requisite drinking, dancing, gambling and overall merry-making while in town. It was the wee hours of the morning and we made our way back to our hotel. This was during my full-forced “I’m a social smoker” phase. Apparently during this phase, social smoking meant smoking an entire PACK of cigarettes every time you went out drinking. And as you are all aware, I definitely do my fair share of drinking.
So we stoped at the lobby bar to have a cigarette before going up to our room. As we are sitting there inhaling the nicotine goodness, another fellow sat and started chatting us up. He leaned in and asked, “Slow night?” As he said this, he wiggled his eyebrows and smiled knowingly.
Not at all clueing in to what he meant, I begin blabbing away as to how our night was actually quite busy – the places we had been, people we had seen, etc.
“Sooo…” he responded, “you’ve made a lot of money then tonight?”
Made money? At this, I’m thoroughly confused and informed him we SPENT a lot of money and did not win anything gambling. My friend started to get a weird feeling when she noticed some rather scantily clad ladies at the bar sneering at us. One chick then actually stuck her tongue out at her! Finally the pieces came together.
“Wait a second!” she exclaimed. “Do you think we are prostitutes????”
I turned my head incredulously and waited for his response, as he groped for an answer. A whole lot of stammering took place, offering us ample opportunity to put out our cigarettes and escape this moron as fast as we could.
The funny thing was that we actually ran into this guy again at the pool the next day. He did a double take when he saw us and seemed VERY confused. Apparently he thought the pool had a “no hooker” policy. He was wrong.
No glass bottles allowed, but floozies are welcome.
Moral of the Story:
If you are too drunk to distinguish between a whore and a non-whore, drunk, 25-year-old woman, put down the bottle. Seriously.
I admit some of my actions may qualify for street-walking material. Although, on second thought, lifting my dress up over people’s heads doesn’t usually require payment first. If anything, they pay me to make it stop.
I’m like the opposite of a prostitute.
Regardless, my looks alone definitely do not qualify me for a strumpet. My actions, though, could be questionable harlot material.
A drunk, hungry harlot at that.