I’m writing this article while drinking-off last nights hangover and preparing for night two, so ya, I’ve had a few, sue me. Actually, don’t sue me; I just had to find a Wells Fargo so I could withdraw money from my savings account because every goddamn ATM in the hotel’s casino has a $200 minimum withdrawal. I can’t even hear the iHome because there’s three girls in the bathroom giggling and blasting the hairdryer, they must’ve had a great nights sleep on the queen-sized beds while I had to pass out on the floor using my sweatshirt as a pillow. I tried using the edge of the bed, you know, the one me and my friends paid for, but Jessica thought I was ‘creepin’ when I tried to cover my frost-bitten toes with one square foot of the down comforter. Anyways, this is what happened:
1. The Suite
We brought three girls (friends) with two friends and myself because it seemed like a good call at the time, we’d have an even ratio and wouldn’t look like a bunch of Steven Glandsbergs. Six people sounds like a lot for one suite with two beds, so we asked the girls to split the room with us six-ways. They thought that was a really funny joke, how could we expect they’d each have $150? We got haggled like a Mexican flea market until Steve said, “Dammit, let’s just split it ourselves, this is getting ridiculous,” besides, the girls knew some ‘promoters’ and would help us get into the club so we could watch Calvin Harris stare at his computer and play the same fucking set he’s played all year. Chivalry wasn’t dead, it was being abused.
2. The Day Party
Sun’s out and guns are most definitely out. We pregamed hard and I was sporting my Allen Iverson ‘Georgetown’ jersey with Rainbow sandals and a fresh pair of Blublockers, looking like a real douche but hardly giving a shit because this would be the cheapest entrance we’d have to deal with: $30 to see Eric Prydz? Sign me up. The sexism started as soon as I got to the elevator and the juiced-up lifeguard said, “No jerseys, you can’t come in with that jersey,”
We were still in the hotel at this point, “Ok, so can I just take it off right now?”
“Not inside the hotel,”
“So…can I take it off right when I get out of the elevator?”
“If I see you wearing it, you’ll be out with no refund,”
Jesus, that seemed like an unnecessary power-trip. The girls’ ‘Party with Pi Phi’ tanks got the green light but I couldn’t debut my Iverson jersey? After I paid the $30 entrance and everyone threw their stuff in my drawstring bag, I saw the TSA strip-search: emptying backpacks, sifting through wallets, clutches and pockets. Natalie gave me an innocent ‘eek!’ face and said she had a baggie of blow in her clutch. Perfect. I made my way out of the ‘no reentrance’ line saying “I have my friend’s key card,” went to the bathroom, snorted as much as I could, packed a horseshoe lip of Natalie’s blow, and paid another $30 for entrance.
I checked my backpack full of the girls’ shit with the concierge while coughing against my heart palpitations, sparing my debit card of course. I reunited with Mike and Steve and saw the girls off in the distance, jumping around to a champagne shower from some wealthier douchebag’s floating bottle-service island, guarded by a poolside secret-service agent that didn’t seem to care if we knew the girls or not.
Mike, Steve, and myself stood waist-deep in the pool drinking $20 vodka-Redbulls with our dicks in our hands. Worse yet, when we all decided to walk to Chipotle, I discovered someone stole my Rainbows, so it was either walk a half-mile barefoot on the smoldering pavement or steal someone else’s sandals. Now I have a shitty pair of rubber sandals and can’t feel my lips, Natalie even had the gall to ask me, “Where did you end up putting it?” I’m basically here to facilitate their Vegas fantasy.
3. Club Entry
The girls napped off their exhausting day of drinking champagne while us guys ate wings in the sportsbook area, that is, until Steve got kicked out for falling asleep. Mike got off the phone and told us, “Got us in for Calvin Harris, $80 for the guys $30 for the girls.”
How is that even legal? This wasn’t ‘ladies night,’ this was ‘tonight, ladies are worth $50 more than men.’ Is that not blatant inequality? When we reported this wild injustice to the girls they laughed harder than before, “We just sent the promoter pics, he said our entry is comp’d, wooo!” They all stuck their tongues out and Natalie winked and pretended to blow smoke off of the hairdryer. Yea, pics. I didn’t ask, I knew at this point; they’d been given entry because they proved to the promoter that they were hot. That’s more than sexist, if there is a word for that, it’s adjacent to ‘prostitution.’
4. Getting Into the Club
You’d better believe us guys were riding dirty with flasks in our back pockets, Vegas wasn’t going to win this round. We were turnt up, next level, sicker than your average, occasionally swallowing cool nasal drips and feeling increasingly awesome for no reason. The promoter, a clean-cut Ivy League frat-superstar named Brett, greeted our group. By group I mean he talked to the girls and pretended we were homeless. Brett turned to us and said, “Guys, I’m going to take them up right now, if you go ahead and get in line we can try to get you in within the next two hours.” He was referring to the snaking, 500 person line of sobering male depression.
My mouth was already opened, preparing to laugh at Brett’s hilarious one-liner. He started walking away and I grabbed his arm, “Sorry, but are there any other options to get us in faster than that?” The girls and Brett stared at us from the front and we felt the eyes of the sad males pierce the backs of our heads.
“$100 each gets you to the front of this line, not including entry. Or you could get a table, that’ll be $1000 total but you’ll get in right now with a bottle,”
The girls started giving us ‘aww…’-looks. I rattled off the math in my coke-riddled head ($100 front of the line + $80 entry + 3x$20 drinks – flask contents + no table) when Steve cracked. He decided he’d had enough of this sexist, thirsty whore named ‘Vegas’ and threw down his mom’s credit card and said, “We’ll get a table.”
Steve hooked up with Natalie, Mike hooked up with Jessica, the other girl we came with (I forget her name) slept on the couch and I woke up on the floor. Natalie’s the hottest girl Steve’s ever hooked up with and she kept saying how much ‘fun’ that was, so that’s what we’re doing again tonight.
The relevant question we should be asking ourselves is: why does Vegas hate men? All us guys were trying to do is have a great time, yet at every turn we were shat upon for not making it rain while the girls were willingly used as commodities for those with more money. I thought that’s exactly how I wasn’t supposed to treat women. That’s not the 21st century, progressive world I thought we were all living in. I’ve always heard that there’s rampant sexism and inequality toward women, but in this tiny, corrupt little city it’s completely backwards?
Where is the outrage? Why is no one speaking up about this? Come on, guys, we’re all just going to roll over and drain our bank accounts for bottle-service in an attempt to have sex with women? Right now this idea has been contained, but if it spreads from here to other parts of the United States, who knows what’ll happen. We’ll eventually have to pay a tax just for being born male. Scared yet? And women, what’s the deal? Is this payback for the wage difference? We’re sorry! You fucking win! Please, please just let us enjoy Vegas as equals.