Hot guy-on-guy action

The problem with hanging out exclusively with writers for six weeks is that I stand a good chance of being quoted when I least expect it. I don’t mind my mutterings being recorded and published for all the world to read. It keeps me honest. Still, after six sexless weeks in Las Vegas, I sensed a theme building among the chronicles of the sexless.

Example #1 (from Tao of Poker):

“I need to have sex. For three weeks straight,” he muttered fidgiting with his wedding ring with his thoughts drifting towards Mrs. Otis back home in G-Vegas.

“That’s funny, because I want to have sex right now. If you want to…” answered Ryan.

Example #2 (from Michael Craig’s Journal):

My night with Shannon Elizabeth – I had a great time playing hooky from the Main Event by watching Shannon try for her third cash of this World Series. I’m writing “Shannon Elizabeth Has a Cold” for my Mr. Inside column for BLUFF in October but that’s about her. This post will be about US – us means, me, Shannon, 45 other players, Wil Wheaton, a bunch of other writers who spotted me, and Brad “Otis” Willis (who, when I told him how interesting this was compared to the final two tables of the Main Event, said, “what I find so interesting is the visible butt crack on the guy to Shannon’s left).

Yeah, it appears my time in Sin City turned me onto the love that dare not speak its name. As somebody once said, I am as straight as John Wayne and Casey Kasem put together (imagine that Brokeback Top 40…), but damned if Vegas doesn’t get lonely.

About four weeks into the trip, my back tangled itself into a mass of high tension wire and faux-tumors. My first thought was to find one of the comely poker massage girls who wandered the room and sold their hands for a buck a minute.

(Aside: I just remembered one late night when a North Carolina redneck sat down at a poker table and ordered a massage from the prettiest girl in the room. Ten minutes into his twenty-minute session, he pulled out $100 and handed it to the girl. She looked a bit surprised and said she would get his change. “No change,” he said and stood up. He pulled the girl’s ear to his mouth and whispered something. Her eyes suddenly looked more tired than they should’ve been–even at 5am. “I can’t do that,” she said. The redneck retreated underneath his cowbody hat and sat back down in his seat. He only said, “Okay, then. Just give me the rest of my twenty minutes.”)

While I really wanted one of the girls in the room to tear me up, they were often more busy giving two-hour massages to the high-rollers who carried their money in bundles of $10,000. The only available girl was a 40-something puddin’-face who had taken a shine to Pauly. She scared the lot of us and I wasn’t about to give her money for fear she would try to make me simultaneously stare at a crystal and rub her netherparts.

Finally, though, the pain became too intense. After dinner one night, I happened by a massage station set up in the convention hall. It was populated entirely by the less-fairer sex. With memories of George Costanza and “it moved” flashing in my head, I saddled up on the massage chair and let the obviously gay dude go to work on me. For twenty minutes, he rubbed his man hands all over my back, neck, and shoulders. About two minutes into it, I decided that his strength was actually a good thing. I also decided that it didn’t make me gay.

Five minutes later, I couldn’t speak. The dude was seriously in the groove, expertly spotting my knots and tense-spots. I was gurgling into the napkin-draped headrest and thinking, “If I have to be gay to feel this good, my wife is just going to have to understand.”

By the time I stood up (no erection at all, thank you), I felt better than I had in days. In fact, while I wasn’t perfect, the guy’s work would continue to improve my physical health over the next three days. I ended up over-tipping the dude and walking away with a swagger.

Somehow, I avoided going to a bath house or a manicurist during my six week tour of duty. Still, I sense that my apparent latent homosexuality is now less-than-latent. Yesterday, I went to get my hair cut and ended up with a 50-something bald guy standing behind me. He wasn’t a barber, mind you. He was a stylist. With nary a word from me, he started running his hands through my hair. Now, I understand, just about any stylist will do that–you know, get a feel for the canvas and such. Still, his trip through my follicles took just a little longer than it should’ve.

Well, you know how this ends.

I ended up over-tipping the guy and walking away with a swagger.