It was totally out of control, but she just had a very intense and unexpected orgasm right there on the dance floor. As her body and senses returned to normal, she looked at me somewhat embarrassed as she touched the lower part of her dress and realized it was very wet and sticky. I couldn’t believe what had just happened and could only imagine the discomfort she was now experiencing. Society frowns upon acts like this, but even on the verge of potentially serious alcohol poisoning, I was proud of myself for playing a pivotal role in guiding her to such a high level of arousal. I looked over and caught a glimpse of Ben, who appeared to be fixated on my situation. He looked at me strangely and mouthed, “What the fuck?” I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled like a creep who gives girls orgasms on crowded dance floors, because that’s what I was now. This type of erotic intimacy was usually reserved for the bedroom, but I thought I showed tremendous sexual versatility by adapting to our unique setting. Most level headed people would consider me to be a real pervert, and I couldn’t disagree.
The line was thin and not always easy to define, but it had definitely been crossed. It wasn’t the first time during this trip, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Allow me to explain…
I went to Vegas a year earlier with a group of friends but didn’t accomplish half of what I wanted to, partially due to a conflict of interest within the group, but mainly due to the absentmindedness that comes with doing large amounts of cocaine while drinking unprecedented quantities of hard liquor. I created many memories on that first trip; it’s just too bad I can’t remember most of them. The trip was a total blur, and I hadn’t seen even one naked woman, with the exception of a high quality amateur pornography film that I watched in the hotel room, but that doesn’t count. Many would question my decision to watch pornography while vacationing, but what I do during my leisure time is no one’s business but mine. Besides, society often forgets that pornography is an educational art form, whose brave performers deserve to be applauded, not ostracized. The actors in pornography are often viewed as misguided deviants, but it’s the creep on the other side of the lens that people should be concerned with. Friends often ask if I’d be willing to be a performer in an adult film. I likely would, but would have to see the script first. Either way, I returned home from that first trip with feelings of regret for not accomplishing most of what I had wanted.
The one important thing I came away with was that this city is awesome and did live up to the hype, but Vegas needs to be done right. Going to Vegas without properly preparing is like paying lots of money to have blindfolded sex with a total stranger. It might be a great memory to cherish, or it could be a very sloppy, shameful experience, but either way, it’s going to be expensive.
The idea of going back was loosely floated around amongst my group of friends, but as the months went by, people lost interest. If it was up to me, I’d go every weekend, but traveling to the other side of the continent can be expensive. I had recently incurred a fine for an incident that left one man in a partial coma and a deceased man’s tombstone partially destroyed. It was my opinion that I was only partially responsible, but I just wanted to get the matter behind me, so I accepted my punishment accordingly. I was currently working as somewhat of a freelance entrepreneur, doing chores and odd jobs for several senior citizens and an intellectually disabled gentleman in my neighborhood. The money wasn’t fantastic, but the hours were flexible and it added some versatile work experience to my resume. Plus, if an odd job request was simply too odd, I’d politely turn it down, and not have to deal with any repercussions; a perk that my friends in the corporate world aren’t accustomed to. Due to my financial handicap, going to Vegas again should have been the furthest thing from my mind, but it wasn’t. I obsessively thought about it on a daily basis. It was pathetic that something could occupy my thoughts like this.
A return anytime soon didn’t seem like a realistic possibility. It would negatively impact my financial future, plus there appeared to be very little interest from my group of friends who went the previous year, with the exception of one person. My friend Ben, a soon-to-be child psychiatrist in his last year of school, who was now living in Vancouver, wanted to put a trip together. Ben was a wannabe swinger with an impressive credit rating, so Vegas was a city tailor made for him. He was obsessed with fitness and nutrition, and was likely the most well traveled of any of my friends. He claims to have done everything from smoking hash in Helsinki, to having anal sex in Angola. He always had an interesting story to tell, many of which seemed exaggerated and farfetched. His entertaining form of narcissism wasn’t well received by all, but to those who know him well, he’s very disturbed in a fun kind of way. He realistically shouldn’t be in the position to give anyone advice on the way they function mentally and emotionally, especially children, but he made his way through the Canadian University system and passed all the tests, so I suppose it was within his rights. I knew I wanted to go, but told him I wasn’t interested for financial reasons. As the weeks went on, he slowly chipped away until I agreed to join him.
Due to the fine I had incurred, I didn’t have much money saved, so I smartly convinced the people at Visa into giving me a credit limit increase. I thanked them profusely for taking a chance on me, knowing damn well that I might not be able to pay them back at the agreed upon date. I immediately checked online to see if the Spearmint Rhino strip club accepted Visa. They did, and things were off to a good start. The financial situations of Ben and I couldn’t have been more different. He was going to be a rich doctor soon, and here I was planning to do the trip almost purely on credit. I soon came up with a simple and convenient excuse to avoid any regrets and insecurities about the upcoming trip – “Fuck it, it’s Vegas.” I try not to swear unless totally necessary, even in my thoughts, but decided it was appropriate in this situation. This is an excuse that couldn’t work in any other city in the world. You can’t exactly say, “Fuck it, I’m in Bangor, Maine.” It doesn’t work in that scenario, and if you try to pull it off you’ll more than likely end up in a very uncompromising position.
A two man trip to Vegas probably isn’t the best idea, unless of course you’re in a homosexual relationship, which neither of us was, but I guess you’ll never know for sure what goes on in the mind of another human. I didn’t suspect Ben of being gay, nor would it offend me if he was as I consider myself to be a gay-friendly heterosexual, but we both knew it would be best to invite a few others along on our adventure to the southwest. An obvious candidate would be our friend Charles, who also came on the trip the year before. Charles was a classic over achiever, and like me, was a total sports fanatic. In addition to this, he had a preference for strong flavored tobacco and bizarre pornography. People often mistook him as a dimwitted simpleton because of his very carefree demeanor and his lifelong habit of speaking before thinking, but he was actually a bit of a whiz when it came to numbers, leading him to a career as an accountant with an insurance company. I liked the idea of traveling with an accountant. If a problem should arise with the people at Visa, he might be able to intervene on my behalf. Like myself, Charles had an obsession with the city and would jump at the chance to return. Unlike myself, however, he had a buzz cut and apparently didn’t mind paying for sex. After pulling some strings at work to get time off, he was in. “Time off for good behavior,” he joked. I didn’t laugh, but knew we’d have lots of laughs ahead of us in Sin City.
So we had a trio, but like a good game of golf, we desired to have a foursome. Enter Virgil, a television salesman at a local electronics store who Ben and I grew up with. Virgil was raised in the lap of luxury, having almost anything he ever wanted. During his youth, he was a provincial level archer with a promising future, but after the untimely death of his father, he had the silver spoon yanked from his spoiled little mouth. Thanks to tax fraud and the gambling debts of his father, his family’s wealth had vanished almost overnight, dramatically changing his outlook on life. This led him to become a bitter and selfish person, with an ‘I don’t give a fuck’ negative attitude. Most were turned off by his defiance, but some women tended to find it mysterious and charming. Like myself, Virgil had no business going on a trip to Vegas, but for completely different reasons. He recently had a child out of wedlock and was choosing the route of irresponsibility. To make matters more complicated for Virgil, the child was of mixed race, which he explains made it difficult for him to relate to it, even though the child was only five weeks old. He took the stance of being financially responsible for the child, but bluntly asserted that he didn’t care for a relationship with the kid. Virgil clearly cared more for his freedom than he did for human life. He also claimed the child’s mother was a “fucking bitch” on several occasions, which didn’t help matters. I decided to stay out of it and not judge him for a situation that many individuals would declare as dishonorable. Due to his new financial obligation to the child, and his falling out with the child’s mother, Virgil had become depressed and was living in a one-room apartment. Had I been in his position, I’d likely be on the verge of an emotional breakdown. This trip is just what he needed to shake him out of his self-inflicted depression.
We were all set. I hoped this trip would be a great bonding experience for my friends and me, but I also had some personal desires I wanted to fulfill. I had big ambitions for Vegas this time around, and things were falling into place. Our foursome was intact and dreams of a booze and drug fueled sex romp would soon be a reality.
The day for departure crept up slowly and had finally arrived. My bags were packed and I had reached an optimum level of hydration that’s required when going on an alcoholic binge in the desert. I was overcome with an unusual calmness on my way to the airport. Instead of wondering about what awaited me in Vegas, I couldn’t help but be curious about my taxi driver’s obvious weight problem. I thought about offering up some simple fitness and nutrition advice, but thought this might offend him and hurt his feelings. He had a serious battle with obesity in front of him, and the last thing I wanted to do was contribute to a battle with depression.
I had some very good luck in the weeks leading up to the trip. During the NBA playoffs, I had been placing modest bets on both the Miami Heat and Dallas Mavericks. The two teams were set to meet in the NBA Finals, which meant I’d have a few hundred extra dollars on top of my increased credit card limit that the people at Visa were so kind to give me.
I had never traveled cross-continent by myself before and was looking forward to the experience. Ben would get there a few hours earlier than the rest of us, while Charles and Virgil would be arriving shortly after me.
After arriving to the airport early, I checked my bag, and made my way towards customs. I was surprised by the friendliness of the female customs agent, who unlike my taxi driver, was extremely fit; perhaps even a little
too muscular for a woman. Some men would find her intimidating, while others would be aroused at the prospect of being sexually dominated by her. I chose not to regard her as some type of sex object, as I wanted to pass through as soon as possible. Everything was good, until they scanned my carry-on bag, and discovered something they didn’t like. I had several hardboiled eggs wrapped in tinfoil that I had planned on enjoying shortly before departure as a healthy snack before I poisoned my body for the next four days. The agent explained that I wasn’t allowed to transport any type of eggs, hardboiled or otherwise across the border, and that I’d have to throw them out. The last thing I wanted to earn was a poor reputation with customs officials, but they were perfectly good eggs that I wasn’t willing to waste. I wasn’t going to let some petty rule about transporting eggs across the border get in the way of my nutrition, nor would I allow the customs agent to intimidate me. I kept my true feelings to myself, and the agent allowed me to step out of line to enjoy the eggs. My good standing with customs remained intact, but I hoped this tense confrontation wasn’t an ominous sign of things to come.
With plenty of time to kill, and now on the other side of customs, it was time to check out the airport gift shop. I wanted to create some instant excitement for my friends within out first minutes together in Vegas. Had the proper funding been available, I would have liked to treat them to a stripper or two along with an 8-ball of cocaine. They’d have to settle for something a little less glamorous. I decided to pick-up a couple of Twix bars for the boys. This would surely cure their hunger after a day of flying. The selfish part of me thought that maybe they’d even offer up something in return at some point during the trip. Either way, I hoped this kind and generous gesture would get things started off right.
Seconds after making the purchase, I noticed a dark skinned woman browsing the magazine section. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five, and was very exotic. I was immediately attracted to her. I definitely didn’t have a type and wasn’t drawn to one race over another, I just liked women who were drama free and who didn’t mind lending me their car a few times a week. I couldn’t figure out what race she actually was, but assumed it was something mixed. A hundred thoughts raced through my head about what type of sex life she had. Maybe she was a virgin? Maybe she was one of those conservative types who left her bra on and refused to get on top? Or maybe she lived an alternative sexual lifestyle and enjoyed engaging in various forms of anal stimulation, something that I was curious about, but regrettably didn’t have much experience.
I had never been much of a pick-up artist, but had been studying up on different techniques in anticipation of the trip. I didn’t see many girls like this, so I figured it would be great practice to approach this young, ethnic looking woman, but something was holding me back. After hearing her converse with the cashier, I thought she might have some Cherokee Indian blood in her. I once dated a girl who was one-quarter Cherokee and I thought they sounded alike. My only other experience with the Cherokee people was when I read an article in the paper about a group of teenagers who vandalized an Indian burial ground. I only read about half of the article as it didn’t interest me, so I didn’t know as much about the Cherokee people as I would have liked.
The more I thought about it, she might have just been really tanned. Her race didn’t matter, but what did matter was my hesitation. I should have engaged her in conversation the moment I’d laid eyes on her. It’s not like I was completely useless when it came to women. I’ve had intercourse with a respectable number of them and have gotten plenty of blowjobs without even dating. Right then and there I made a promise to myself that when the opportunity to speak with a beautiful woman in Vegas presented itself, I’d strike with the precision of a boa constrictor, sinking its teeth deep into the throat of a mongoose. The brief experience taught me that I’d have to approach women with a well-thought-out game plan and an unwavering confidence.
The flight to my connecting city, Chicago, was flawless. It was no-frills flying at its best, and it was hard to complain. The employees elicited a strong team spirit and appeared to take pride in their customer service skills, something that I knew plenty about, as I once received a perfect score from a mystery shopper while working at a business supplies store during my teens.
Although I wouldn’t get to see the city of Chicago at all, I was excited to have a bit of a layover at the airport. I killed time by visiting the food court, where I decided to try some world famous, Chicago deep-dish pizza. The gentleman behind the counter was African American, so I did my best to sound casual when making my order, as I didn’t want to come off as some type of bigot. He seemed quite neutral when he handed me my pizza. Maybe he thought I was trying too hard? This guy was a real brother, likely hardened from growing up on the streets, and he wanted no part of my racially motivated mind games.
The personal size, deep-dish pizza had awoken something in my stomach, and it was time to find a bathroom. I’ve never been a fan of public washrooms, especially when needing to make a bowel movement. There’s something about sharing a toilet seat with hundreds of strangers that’s just not right. Why would I want my buttocks to touch something that another person’s buttocks have touched? It’s flat out bizarre, but unless I wanted to have an involuntary bowel movement on the plane, immediate action needed to be taken.
Little did I know, I was about to take part in one of the highlights of the trip. I entered the stall and saw what looked to be some type of hi-tech machine attached to the toilet. There were directions to wave your hand above the toilet seat. I did so, and a piece of plastic emerged from the machine to wrap itself around the toilet seat. Wow, I was impressed. I quickly relieved myself, but the futuristically advanced toilet had more tricks in store. Instead of needing to remove the plastic myself, the toilet automatically disposed of it when I flushed. I left the stall in a fantastic mood, happy to live in a world that will stop at nothing to improve the satisfaction of public washroom users. The machinery that I witnessed in that stall was by far the best use of technology I had witnessed in quite some time.
The flight from Chicago to Vegas would be a comfortable one, as I ran into some very good luck. Every seat on the plane appeared to be occupied, with the exception of the one next to me. I could only hope the momentum I was gathering with the extra space and technologically advanced toilet would carry over to Vegas.
Unfortunately, the plane was screening one of Adam Sandler’s latest excuses for a movie, ‘Just Go With It,’ a film I had no interest in watching. Like most in my demographic, I was a fan of Sandler’s earlier work, but I’m not sure whom he’s trying to appeal to with his latest films. The same could be said for Emilio Estevez, whose uninspiring performance in ‘D3: The Mighty Ducks’ almost derailed the entire series. Instead of watching the movie, I entertained myself by reading a very revealing article about film actor Bradley Cooper in Esquire magazine.
A few hours into the flight, I realized that the four-hour trek might not be as comfortable as I had first hoped. In the aisle next to me sat a pudgy looking, tanned couple in their fifties, who looked like they could be parents to one of the ‘Jersey Shore’ cast members. I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation they were having that seemed dramatically inappropriate for an airplane setting. “He was accused of rape, but wasn’t formally charged,” said the man to his wife.
“Well, innocent until proven guilty,” she responded. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, as there’s a lot of grey area as to what actually constitutes as rape these days, but I thought their nonchalant discussion about an acquaintance of theirs and his rape charge was highly insensitive to the other passengers. These certainly weren’t the type of people whom I liked to surround myself with, although Virgil was once on the receiving end of a statutory rape charge. Luckily for him, charges were dropped after it was proven that the teenager had lied about her age. Even though I’ve never been on either side of a rape, I felt their indifference towards the topic lacked a common courtesy that airline passengers should have for each other. I don’t like to get involved in other people’s politics or beliefs, but I felt something needed to be said, for both my peace of mind and the comfort of others on the aircraft. I wasn’t a fan of confrontation, especially while sober, but I needed to intervene.
“Excuse me,” I said politely, as I leaned into them. “Perhaps your conversation would be more appropriate for a more private setting. Also, I’m sure those involved in the rape wouldn’t appreciate it being discussed so publically like this,” I warned, hoping they’d learn from the experience. Was I being unreasonable, or was this type of frank discussion more socially acceptable while flying? The couple looked at each other, unable to understand my more than sensible request.
“We’re talking about a TV show, you ass,” said the man.
“Just mind your own business,” his wife added, not realizing that there was a misunderstanding.
“I apologize,” I sincerely said to the couple. I had made a bold accusation, and recognized it might be in my best interest not to jump to conclusions after hearing an offensive remark halfway through a conversation that I was eavesdropping on. Any chance of a friendly conversation with the couple was now ruined. I would have liked to ask what TV show they were talking about. It sounded interesting, but the content was likely too racy to appear on network television, so I assumed it was something on HBO. I was embarrassed, and had learned my lesson.
With the incident behind me, my thoughts began to drift elsewhere. The mile high club is something that I’ve always been curious about. A plane is one of the most exclusive places where a person can engage in sexual intercourse. It ranks just below sex on a rocket ship and just above sex on a boat. Unfortunately for me, sex in a wheelbarrow doesn’t rank. In my early twenties, I had a sexual experience on a farm where the only private spot was in an oversized wheelbarrow full of hay behind an old barn. I ended up with a mild rash on my lower right buttock, and with the exception of the intense orgasm I experienced, it wasn’t a memory I’d want to relive.
I can’t help but be skeptical of anyone who claims to be a member of the mile high club. Unless you’re on some type of private jet, having sex on a plane seems next to impossible. To kill some time, I decided to visit the bathroom to try to better imagine the possibility of having intimate relations on a plane.
Upon closer inspection, it would be very difficult, no matter how determined you were. It was pretty tight in there even for me, and I’m a male of a medium build at best. I suppose if I had some rail-thin, flexible girl in there it would be possible. We would have to be in some type of standing position, where she put one leg up on my shoulder. A reverse cowgirl position with me sitting on the toilet might be a possibility too. Either way, it would help if she was wearing a skirt.
I wasn’t sure if becoming a member of the exclusive mile high club was a possibility for a guy like me. Every girlfriend I ever had was way too conservative to do something as sexually provocative as this, and I wasn’t cunning enough to convince a stranger to have sex with me in any room, no less a tiny bathroom on an airplane. I couldn’t help but wonder how many people joined the mile high club solo, or in other words, how many people were bold and perverted enough to masturbate in an airplane bathroom? Due to the hectic excitement in the days leading up to the trip, I hadn’t masturbated for two days, which was probably some sort of personal record. I wasn’t aroused, but that never stopped me from stimulating myself in the past. Plus, I didn’t come across any type of masturbation policy enforced by the airline. “Fuck it, it’s Vegas,” I conveniently said to myself and began the early stages of pleasuring myself. About 20 seconds in there was a knock on the door.
“Are you doing alright in there, sir?” said an unfamiliar voice. There must have been a lineup building as I explored myself sexually.
“Yes, I’ll be right out,” I said, as I zipped up my pants and ended my pleasure session prematurely.
Upon leaving the bathroom, there was a lineup of two people and an intrusive stewardess who gave me an inquisitive look. Part of me felt bitter. I paid good money for the flight, and I should be able to masturbate in peace as long as I do it privately. Sex is known to relieve stress and anxiety, so shouldn’t the airline almost encourage it? The other part of me felt conflicted. Should buying a plane ticket give me the right to masturbate quietly in the privacy of the washroom? I suppose the whole topic of public masturbation is very subjective. Masturbation seems to have a poor reputation, but it’s important to remember that there are countless health benefits associated with it, and we shouldn’t allow the insecurities of others to infringe on our right to pleasure ourselves. Either way, jerking off would have to wait. The plane was about to make its descend towards Vegas, and I had some serious drinking to do.