Divas Las Vegas (5 page)

THE NEXT MORNING, WITH MEGALUGGAGE IN TOW, WE
found ourselves at beautiful San Francisco International
airport-ready, willing, able, and fully medicated. I really
don't like to fly, even though we were flying first class.
Something about being suspended thousands of feet in the
air, with nothing holding me up but some incomprehensible technology, makes me highly nervous. Thankfully,
my best friend always has something to make me forget my
worries.

"Yellow, blue, or white?" he asked, reaching out his hand
to me and producing a variety of pills to choose from.

"What's the difference?"

"Ali yes. The yellow reduces stress. The blue reduces
anxiety. And the white, er, oh-well, I forgot what those
are for, but I think they reduce tension."

"Uh-huh. Okay, so really they all do pretty much the
same thing?"

"Basically. Either way, you won't be bothered by the
whole flying thing. So take one and shut up." Doctor's orders. I took a blue one. My favorite color. It went down
smooth and I felt instantly better. Pretty sick, huh? But I
mean, really, anything that helps you get through life a little
bit easier can't be all bad, right? What's a little addiction
problem in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

Thirty minutes later, they were boarding our plane and
my pill had fully kicked in. I smiled and hummed a happy
tune as we took our seats. Truly, one of the best things
about flying first class is being able to board first. This has
two distinct advantages.

One, the obvious perk: you get to board ahead of all
those icky poor people. And getting on the plane first also
means plenty of room for your overhead luggage. Though on
this trip we had way too much stuff with us, and it was all
resting comfortably in the cargo hold. Since we had no idea
how long we'd be in Vegas, we packed for a very, very long
trip. Basically, clotheswise, we were ready for everything:
from blizzard to searing heat and everything in between.

And two, and not as obvious unless you're as trashy as
Justin and me, you get to cruise all the other people while
they board the plane. Plus, they get to see you while you're
sitting in first class, sipping your wine and snacking on
cashews. No bigger aphrodisiac than gazing at rich, goodlooking people. (Yes, shallow, I know. But my pool started
draining years ago.)

Unfortunately, this trip looked less than promising: old
women on Vegas junkets, families on their way to Circus
Circus and Excalibur, straight businessmen traveling to
seminars and conventions, etc. Not what I would call good
cruising material. And then, as chance would have it, some
major hotness stepped on board.

Luckily for me, Justin was absorbed in his Out magazine
and hadn't noticed. His eyes rarely traveled farther than the
drink in front of him when he flew. I don't think he liked
to concentrate on more than one or two things at a time. He couldn't operate on that many levels. (But put him at
Macy's during a one-day sale and just watch him go.)

Anyway, I was glad he hadn't noticed the beau-hunk as
he walked by and nodded at me. He would have pounced
and left me in the dust for sure. This way, I had a clear
advantage. His ignorance was my bliss. I decided that I'd
make my move when the plane was in the air and Justin's
booze and pills had fully kicked in. (Though with the tolerance he'd built up, that could be well into the next decade.)

A short while later, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Quickly scanning the plane, I saw my quarry seated
only two rows from the lavatory; and there was a vacant seat
next to him. Oh, lucky day. I nonchalantly strolled down
the aisle, past the nasty straight people and their pestering
broods, and all the businessmen with their plastic cups and
minibottles set before them, and headed for my man. He
looked up as I approached. He smiled. My heart sped. I
panicked and kept walking straight on to the bathroom.
Damn.

So I peed, waited a few moments for good measure, got
my heart rate down to almost normal, and then decided to
make my move once again. Coming from behind, I wouldn't
have to look directly at him. That would make it a bit easier
on me. I unlatched the door, squeezed past the several people
waiting to use the facilities, walked two feet down the aisle,
and immediately noticed a head in the seat that was once
vacant. Double damn.

I walked a couple more feet and stopped right to their
side. The flight attendant had her cart parked ahead of me
and I had to wait as she made her way down. So of course I
looked over to take a gander at who had stolen my seat. Can
you guess who it was? He looked up when he realized that
someone was standing there.

"Oh, Em, there you are. I was getting worried and came
looking for you. You know, with your bowel problem and all." He gave me a wink and a smirk and then introduced
me to the stranger to his left.

"Marvin, this is Em. Em, meet Marvin."

Marvin reached over to shake my hand and I reached
down to shake his.

"Nice to meet you, Em. Sorry about your problem."

Ugh. I turned red in the face. "Ignore him, I don't have a
problem," I informed him, grimacing at Justin.

"Now, now. The doctor told you that denying it won't
make it go away." Justin was having way too much fun.
He turned to Marvin and added, "Denial is step number
two."

"You'll have to excuse my friend, Marvin, he has a
strange sense of humor. Honestly, the only pain I have in
my ass is him," I explained in earnest, and punched Justin
in the arm to keep him from continuing.

"Anger is step number three," Justin informed Marvin.

"Okay, enough talk about my ass. Step four is going to be
throwing your nelly self off this plane. Next topic, please."
They both looked up at me and nodded. Great way to make
friends and influence people: anger. I quickly lightened up
so as not to completely scare the man off.

"Is your final destination Las Vegas, Marvin?" I asked,
chipper as could possibly be.

"Actually, Em, that brings up an interesting topic as
well." Justin practically beamed when he looked back up at
me. "Marvin is on his way to Vegas for a convention. Isn't
that right, Marvin?"

"Yes, unfortunately this is a business trip for me." Marvin
frowned and took a sip of his drink. "Damn KQED." KQED
is the PBS affiliate in San Francisco, by the way. And yes,
PBS is the station that airs Antiques Roadshow.

"What? Did you say PBS?" I practically shouted at him.
The people in front of us and to our right looked over to see
what the commotion was about. Marvin looked up at me like I was crazy. And Justin, well, he was gleefully giggling
away.

"Sorry," I whispered to Marvin and to the people
nearby.

"It's the medication," Justin leaned over and explained
to him. I punched him again. Poor Marvin. He must've
thought I was insane.

"Urn, Justin, would you mind coming back with me to
our seats now? I need some help with my colostomy bag."
I whispered the last two words between gritted teeth. "It
was a pleasure meeting you, Marvin," I added, and yanked
Justin out of his seat.

"Catch you later," Justin shouted back to Marvin as I
dragged him to our seats. "Nice try," he added as soon as
we were safely back in first class.

"Huh?" I downed my by then watery drink.

"As if I wouldn't have noticed such a cutie amidst all this
rubbish. Puh-lease. How long have you known me?"

"I guess too long. Anyway, he did nod at me when he
walked by," I calmly explained.

"Oh, really? From where I was sitting, it looked like he
was nodding at me," Justin countered.

"Well, then, it looks like one of us is rather delusional,
but let's move on to the more pressing topic at hand," I
deflected.

"Ah, the PBS angle. I have to admit, that was a pleasant
fluke. Pretty and useful. A rare combination." Justin
finished his drink and raised his hand at our attendant for
two more.

"Did you happen to mention to our new friend Marvin
that we had a certain recent involvement with the nice folks
at PBS?" I asked.

"Nope, didn't think that it was the right time or place. I
thought it best to work up to that. Maybe after he rolls over
in the morning to give me a kiss."

"Uh-huh. I see. So that was what the `Catch you later'
was all about? A little espionage work?"

"Now you're catching on, Em. Hey, I'm only doing this
for you, you know."

"How nice. A regular Mother fucking Theresa you are
these days. And if you happen to get lucky as well-"

"Icing on the proverbial cake," he finished my sentence.

"More like icing on your proverbial shaved chest. Just
forget it, dude. I'm going with you."

"Em, I didn't know you were into three-ways. This trip
is going to be so enlightening."

"Fuck off. He wants me, not you. I'm just going with you
to wherever it is you're meeting him. Now shut up and finish
your drink. The plane is landing in fifteen minutes."

"And you call me delusional. Right."

"Trays up and seat belts fastened, gentlemen. We'll be
landing in Las Vegas in just a bit," ordered our lovely flight
attendant as she took our empty glasses.

"Las Vegas, here we come," Justin announced, and
raised his hand up to nothing in particular.

"Let's hope they paid their insurance premiums," I
muttered. I made sure to pay mine before we left.

In case you've never been to Vegas, consider me your lovely
tour guide. First, there's the airport itself. Very nice. Basically it's one big advertising zone for the casinos. Each hotel
has its own store or kiosk, and there are billboards everywhere advertising the latest shows and cheapest buffets.
And, of course, there are slot machines at every concourse.
But I warn you, these are notorious for not paying off-so
wait until you get downtown before you start losing all your
hard-earned cash.

"Em, look at that," Justin groaned, soon after we had
deplaned and were walking through the airport. He pointed
somewhere in the distance.

I spotted a massive poster just above where our baggage
was coming out. "Oh, my God, you can see every pore
on Wayne Newton's face. Totally gross. Isn't he, like, a
hundred or something?" I responded, staring at Wayne's
overly bronzed visage. (Old entertainers never die, they just
wind up at the yuckiest casinos.)

"No, dumbass, not that. That over there." He pointed
again in earnest.

"Ah, oh yes, I see now. The other poster. Wow, a tendollar, all-you-can-eat buffet at the Stratosphere. Man,
look at those lobster tails. Damn, I'm hungry. Okay, we can
stop by there, but I'm not going on that roller coaster at the
top. Talk about your stupid ideas." (At the time all these
shenanigans took place, it got stuck, repeatedly. But hey, it's
been replaced by three even more harrowing and equally
ridiculous rides.)

"God, are you blind? THERE!" He grabbed my face and
used his arm as an arrow to point at what he was raving
about.

"The digital temperature reading?" It sat between the
two posters I'd been looking at.

"Yes, my dear, nearsighted Em. The temperature reading
outside. Finally. Look what it says."

"A hundred and one point three degrees?"

"Yes, a hundred and one point three degrees! Don't queer
boys melt at anything over a hundred?" Justin cowered at
the thought. "Isn't that why we live in San Francisco in the
first place?"

"Better not tell that to our brethren in Key West, Palm
Springs, and Atlanta. I think they might take offense," I
explained.

"Freaks. Every last one of them. Freaks. Why would
anyone choose to live like that? All that sweating can't be
good for your complexion," he opined, shaking his head in
disbelief.

"Hmm, well, get ready, because we're about to experience it firsthand." The thought was less than appealing
to me also, being used to the nearly year-round chilliness
of San Francisco. The last time my body temperature was
anywhere near a hundred degrees, I had a cold and a fever.

"Well, luckily I came prepared. You wait right here.
I'll be back," he barked at me, and then hurriedly ran into
the nearest men's room. I dreaded whatever it was he had
planned.

I dragged my newly regained baggage to a slot machine
and whipped out a roll of quarters I had brought with me in
case of an emergency. Since Justin had hauled all his stuff
with him into the restroom, I knew it would be a while
before he reemerged.

Anyway, on with the tour. Las Vegas. No place quite like
it. It's utterly fabulous. And truly, it is the city that never
sleeps. But, and this is a big old but, unlike San Francisco,
you see very few queers. For sure, we pop up here and there,
but for the most part, Vegas is very straight, very white, and
very middle America. In other words: uptight, overweight,
undereducated, and drab. Which, naturally, provokes the
fiber-fruit in Justin. The straighter his surroundings, the
queenier my friend gets. Now, after a few drinks and in the
darkness of a bar, this can be somewhat amusing; but in the
full-strength Nevada sun, and in the middle of the afternoon, well, it could be a tad overwhelming. Thank goodness drinks are free or at least dirt cheap in the casinos, I
thought to myself.