Divas Las Vegas (3 page)

"Antiques Roadshow," said the voice over the phone.

"Um, hello, my name is Bill Miller and I'd like to speak
to one of your producers, please," I asked, ever so politely.

"And the nature of this call?" replied the voice.

"Oh, er, well, you see, I'd like to find one of the people
you had on the show this week. She had that two-hundredyear-old vase and it used to belong to my grandmother and
I'd like to try and buy it back from her," I tried to explain.

"I'm sorry, sir, we can't give that kind of information
out. It's confidential. Thank you for calling Antiques Roadshow, and have a nice day." Click.

Click. My heart shattered.

Click. There went my good intentions.

Click. Now what?

Click came the sound of the doorknob turning to reveal
the answer to my prayers-though the good Lord sure has
strange ways of answering you sometimes.

"Dude, how's it hangin'?" asked the one man I knew
who could help.

"Dude, like, the fickle finger of fate has rammed itself
up my ass and I need some help lubing it up," I answered,
somewhat metaphorically.

"That's a visual. And am I supposed to supply the lube
or actually do the lubing?"

"Never mind. Just help."

"Gladly, old friend. Does it involve anything illegal,
immoral, decadent, depraved, wicked, or corrupt?" He was
beaming in anticipation.

"Oh, poor Justin, you must be bored."

"Totally, so lay it on me, sis."

And I did. I told him the whole story of the vase, all the
way up to the previous three minutes. His face went from
jaded to jaw-dropping in a flash.

"Man, that fickle finger has just been joined by a thumb
up your ass. You ain't gonna believe this, but this totally
jibes with what I had planned for you to do with your
moolah," he practically shouted at me.

"Tell me, tell me," I shouted back.

"Wait, can you remember if Mary said she lived in Vegas
or not?" he asked me.

"Yes, definitely. She said she had retired there because
that's where her daughter lived. I remember it very clearly
because I thought I actually liked her. Thought she reminded
me of my own grandma. That is, until I found out how
much that damn vase was worth. Why?"

"We're going to Vegas, Em!"

Most people call me Em, as in Auntie, in keeping with
the whole Oz theme Glenda and I have going on. Sometimes
I refer to Justin as the Tin Man, as he clearly is in need of a heart. "We are?" I thought to ask.

"Boy howdy, yes! It's what I was planning anyway. Now
fate has stepped in and showed us the way."

That fickle finger was starting to feel good up there. (I
prayed it wasn't into fisting.)

When the jubilation died down a bit, I asked, "But how
do we find Mary?"

"Hard, but not impossible. Did you happen to tape that
episode last night?"

"Of course I did. It is my favorite show, you know," I
proudly answered.

"Man, you need a boyfriend, Em. That is really sad. But
on this occasion it bodes well for us," he said, squashing my
already diminished pride.

"How so?"

"Because now we can get some pictures made of our
dear friend Mary to take with us to Vegas. Duh. Make that
a boyfriend and some common sense."

"Hey, can we throw in a new best friend, too?" One
small point for moi.

"Fucker."

"Fuck fucker."

"Love me?"

"Of course. Now get out of here and go get that picture
made for us. The tape is in the VCR."

Before I knew it, Thursday night had rolled around. A chapter in our lives was ending and a new one was about to begin.
To be certain, I was going to miss my morning cup of coffee
with Glenda, miss hanging out in the cafe with Justin, miss
all my regular customers, the arrival of the newly printed
and fresh-smelling books, and everything that my life as a
bookstore manager entailed; but I was still relatively young
and I had a major adventure ahead of me. More important,
I had a suitcase with thirty thousand dollars in it. So when it came time to close up shop and start the farewell party, I
was, more or less, ready.

Justin organized the whole shebang. Brian, Glenda, and
I had nothing to do but show up and invite a few people.
Was this a wise idea? In truth, handing over responsibility
to Justin was never a smart thing to do. But what were a few
fines and shattered brain cells in the grand scheme of things,
just so long as everyone had fun?

The first surprise was the arrival of an entire minicasino,
complete with dreamy card dealers and ravishingly handsome bartenders. All of whom, apparently, knew Justin in
some way or another. My guess, if history is any indication,
was that he had slept with a good number of them. My best
friend was an easy lay. Sometimes this worked in my favor.
Just you wait and see how.

The second surprise was the guests. More specifically,
the increasingly large number of them. With each passing
minute after we closed, the shop became more and more
congested, every other man looking more stunning than the
next. I felt awed and completely out of place. Luckily, the
bar was well stocked with high-quality booze, and, several
gin and tonics later, I felt like the belle of the ball.

And so, newly relaxed and recently out of work, I
mingled. Well, at least I tried to mingle. Besides the couple
of customers I invited, plus my few other friends, I really
didn't know anybody there. Though I did of course recognize nearly all of them, what with San Francisco being a
teeny, tiny town and all. Then, after a full half hour of small
talk with nobody in particular, I found myself at a Blackjack table in the rear of the store. And, to my extreme good
fortune, the bar was situated to my side.

With my right hand I received a hundred dollars' worth
of chips. Everyone received that upon entering the party,
and the person with the most chips at the end of the night
received a weekend at Beck's Motor Lodge. If you know San Francisco, you know that this is no great reward; not that
winning the grand prize was a goal of mine, really. Anyway,
with my left hand I reached for the real desired treasure: a
nice, tall, frosty glass of gin with just a splash of tonic and
a twist of lime. Heaven on earth.

Now that my hands were full, I looked up for the first
time at the waiting Blackjack dealer. Heaven, it seemed, was
missing an angel. I set my drink down, I set the chips down,
and my stomach sank down to my feet. Yu-fucking-ummy.
Chris (it said it on his name badge) was five-seven, blond
hair, deep, dark eyes, and, be still my heart, he had a light
tuft of chest hair peeking out over his collar. He was thin
and tight and oh so stunning. And he was smiling right at
me with his dazzling pearly whites. At first I thought he was
cruising me, but, of course, he was just waiting for me to
place my bet.

Okay, I was no seasoned card player, but I knew how to
play Twenty-one pretty well. And there wasn't anyone else
playing, what with all the schmoozing and drinking going
on, so I plopped down a five chip, smiled nicely up at Chris,
and waited for my cards. Chris drew an eight and a six. I
drew a seven and a jack. I indicated that I wanted to stand.
Chris did the same.

"Um, aren't you supposed to hit?" I inquired.

"Says who?" he responded, with a sly and glorious
smirk.

"Oh, well, them-the people who say, er, who say you're
supposed to." I was eloquent.

"Nah, the rule is that the dealer can stand if the guy
sitting across from him is a hottie."

I pointed at myself inquisitively and turned around to
make sure that he wasn't talking to anybody behind me.
Glenda was behind me, actually, grinning, so I assumed
that he must've been talking to me. But just to make sure,
I pointed to myself again and tilted my head, as a dog does when it's confused. He nodded in the affirmative that he
indeed was referring to me. (Me! Holy cow, me!)

Bravo for me. I received a pretty yellow chip. And a
pretty, glimmering smile from the handsome dealer. Then
I got another gin and tonic. And so did the dealer. "Just
keeping up," he explained, which was fine by me. I figured
my chances were better the drunker we both got. Though I
had no use for a weekend at a so-so motel, I certainly didn't
mind sitting there all night flirting (and drinking).

"I'm Bill," I said, by way of introduction, and shook his
hand. "But my friends call me Em."

"Chris," he said, pointing to his badge. Man, I just
wanted to sit there and listen to him and stare at him and
never, ever let go of his big, strong, and somewhat hairy
hand.

But I did have to let go. And, lo and behold, a good bit
later, I was awash in chips. Piles of yellow and blue and red
chips lay strewn before me, and before I knew it, the party
was drawing to a close. This made me sad for two very
important reasons. First, I hated the night to end because
it meant the closing of my beloved shop. And second, for
a much more selfish and shallow reason, I didn't want my
night with Chris to end either.

At precisely midnight, when we no longer owned our
bookstore, Brian made a short but sweet speech. He thanked
everyone for coming and for their years of support. Though,
looking at the crowd, I seriously doubted that there were
a whole lot of heavy readers among them. (Inches and
Honcho excluded.) Then, just before we all piled out, Justin
walked through the crowd and counted up everyone's chips.
"We have a clear winner, folks," he shouted. "And it just so
happens to be the manager of this very store. Come on up
here, Em."

Oh, my God, I won. I won! I had never won anything
in my life. And I was embarrassed as hell. The person who throws the party is never supposed to win the prize. But
the crowd was cheering for me and pushing me up toward
Justin to claim my prize, so I humbly accepted. Why not? I
mean, after all, I had just lost my job. I did deserve something good. (Besides the thirty thousand dollars.)

Now, I know you probably saw this coming way back at
the beginning of all this, but I didn't realize it until Justin
handed me my certificate for the motel and I just happened
to glance up and see Chris grinning at me that-"You
planned this whole thing," I whispered in Justin's ear.

He winked at me and kissed me on the forehead. "Nice
gift, huh?" he whispered back.

I looked over my shoulder at Chris, then back to Justin,
then down at my weekend pass, and I nodded a yes; indeed
it was a good gift. Even if it was sort of cheating. But you
haven't seen my dealer man. Sometimes the ends do indeed
justify the means. And Chris had one mean end.

So I kissed my friend on the cheek, ran through the
crowd, grabbed my gift's hand, and headed on out the door
for the very last time. Holding on to Chris, I walked as
fast as I could away from it all-feeling, well, I don't really
know. Sort of a mix between terrified, elated, and super
horny. A fairly nice feeling, I must say.

Chris and I walked in silence for a while. Being alone with
him made me nervous. Mind you, I've slept with my fair
share of cute guys before-well, someone's share anywaybut there was something about Chris that gave me those
fluttery stomach butterflies.

"Um..." I tried.

"Um..." he echoed.

And we kept walking. And my tummy was doing flips.
And my pants were starting to get some heavy lumpage in
them. So I stopped walking and pulled Chris to a stop as well.
And there on the sidewalk, just in front of a lovely flower shop, I turned to him, put my hands around his thin waist,
looked him deep in the eyes, and softly, gently, delicately
kissed him on his beautiful, full lips. They tasted sweet,
with just a hint of gin and lime. And with the smell of roses
and lilacs wafting over us, we stood there in a comfortable
embrace and made out, mere yards away from the motel.

His dick pressed up hard against my leg. "Urn, can I see
it?" I asked, emboldened by all the gin. Not so much by the
tonic, though.

"The motel is just over there," he said, with a sly grin,
pointing up ahead, yet already sliding down his zipper.

"Yeah, but, well, just checking out the merchandise."

"Okay, but once the package is opened, there's no taking
it back."

As if there was a chance in hell of that happening. In
any case, I gave him a nod and then stared down, the moon
now bathing him in a soft, silver glow. His prick sprang
out, thick, the wide mushroomed head already slick with
translucent precum. I ran my hand across it, then sucked
the salty-sweet jizz off my fingers. "Yep, that's a keeper, all
right," I told him.

He swayed it from side to side, slapping the underside.
"Anything else you want to check out before, um..." Again
he pointed to the motel.

"Nope. I'm good," I replied, leaning in for another kiss,
harder this time, more urgent.

There were, of course, some questions that still needed
answering. I asked them a few minutes later, while leaning
on the metal railing of the motel, before we walked into the
room.

"So, obviously you know Justin somehow?" I asked,
rhetorically.

"Somehow, yes," he answered, cryptically.

"Sexually?" Another rhetorical question.

"Is that how you know him?" Another cryptic reply.

"Hmm, hard to answer. Yes and no. At first, sort of, but
nothing ever really happened. We became friends instead.
Best friends. Thankfully. His sexual friends don't hang
around as long. Which class do you fall into?" I tried again.

He leaned in and slid his long, wet tongue in my mouth,
and then down my neck and around my earlobe. "Both," he
whispered. "But we're just friends now."

"Did he pay you to be here?" Last question. Not that it
would've scared me off if he had said yes. I simply wanted
to know.

"He paid me to work the party and to let you win.
I'm here because I want to be here and because I like you.
Okay?"