I walk to meet Jenna in the lobby of the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas, and nod in approval at the swanky décor. I smile at a sign that read 'Eggslut Café.’ I have to give that place a try for breakfast. Who comes up with these names anyways? I check in at the front desk, grab my key card, and walk to the elevators, my black heels clicking across the polished marble floor.

"I thought it was you!" I hear a voice say. "Perfect timing!"

I turn around to see Jenna, running toward me with arms outstretched. Jenna is joining me in Vegas for the convention. She has a head full of curls that bounce and sway like a tumultuous ocean every time she speaks. Her personality is unnaturally bubbly but I’m grateful for some excitement right now. She’s like a human cup of coffee.

I embrace her in a tight hug.

Jenna says, "Tonight. The Marquee Nightclub. We have to go!"

"I don't know…" I say, unsure now if I want to just crawl up in my hotel room or if I actually want to do something fun. "I was planning on staying in tonight,” I tell her. I just don’t feel up for much. I look around and I see plenty of Jenna-type girls. Young, bubbly, excited. I feel old and tired.

"You're kidding, right?" Jenna says in disgust. "No way are you staying in! Who are you, my grandma? We are in Vegas! It's called Sin City for a reason!"

"Fine. Maybe for just one drink," I reply, squinting my eyes at her grandma comment. “Low blow,” I tell her.

Jenna hugs me again and I brush off the comment, knowing she’ll say anything to get a rise out of me and get me to come out with her. She wants to spend time with me, and we could have fun. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do, I resolve.

That night, I comb through my suitcase for the perfect outfit and know I’m making the right choice with my form-fitting sexy green evening gown. It hugs my ass, hips, and breasts in such a way that I feel like my 22-year-old self again, gripping, grinding, and pole dancing my way through college at the Spearmint Rhino.

I apply a coat of classic red lipstick to compliment my green dress, and take one last approving look at myself in the mirror, and head out. I text a VIP club host before arriving at the doors to ensure I would be on the guest list and avoid the lines. The bouncer shines a flashlight on the guest book, finds my name, stamps my wrist, and grants me access.

Inside the club, the dark interior is sultry. People a decade younger than me carry drinks onto the dance floor, asses hanging out of miniskirts, thrusting their bodies to Top 20 pop songs. Drinks with names like sex on the beach, high balls, and dark 'n stormy slosh beyond their rims.

I pony up to the bar and flag a bartender. "I'll have a cosmopolitan."

Then I spot Jenna wearing a glittery top that reflects the light of the dance floor.

"Over here!" I yell, getting Jenna’s attention and half jumping out of my seat.

"Dang, you look hot girl," Jenna says, walking over and giving my arm an affectionate squeeze.

"What?" I say. “I look hot?” I am not sure that’s what she meant. I mean, I think I look okay but I still feel out of place in this club.

Jenna bends toward my ear. "Hot!" she yells. "I said you look smoking hot!"

"Thanks girl," I blush. "You're too kind. These clubs are made for girls your age, not mine."

Before Jenna can respond, a group of men approaches us wearing matching black t-shirts that read, ‘I'm with Goody' in white print. Their accents are Australian. The way their biceps bulge beneath their tight shirts — they could be from the cast of Thunder from Down Under.

"What's your shirt mean?" Jenna asks, seductively drawing in one man by the collar.

"My mate's gettin' married!" the man exclaims. "It's his bachelor party and we're here celebrating. Would you ladies care to join us for a dance?"

For a moment I think, I can’t, I’m married. But I remember that I have a dead husband and unwavering attraction to my stepson, so I just say nothing and reach for my drink, taking another sip.

I mean, you can’t make this shit up, you know?

"Well, I'm in!" Jenna shouts, almost too desperately. She grabs the man's arm, her hand looking small in comparison, throws her head back in laughter, and heads for the dance floor.

Another man stays behind, surveying me. "C'mon, just one dance," he pleads. "What would that hurt?"

But I won’t be persuaded, and after a few failed attempts, the man joins his friends on the dance floor.

I sit at the bar alone, carefully swirling the drink in my glass and absently bending the corners of my drink napkin into careful curls.

I’m surprised by how persistent the guy was. I mean, I look around and see tons of younger, available girls, and clearly my friend, Jenna, didn’t have a problem with me not hanging out with the bachelor party.

Just as the DJ introduces a new song, I look over my left shoulder and see an older gentleman with deep penetrating eyes staring at me curiously. His gray hair has a slight curl to it. Even when I gaze back, he doesn't divert his stare, so I give him a quick smile before quickly turning my head in another direction.

The man begins to fidget in his barstool, shuffling his feet, and glancing my way every few seconds. Finally, he looks around the room to see if anyone is watching, stands up, adjusts his jacket, and walks toward me.

I wonder why a man—especially a man of his age, I’m guessing he was easily in his 50s with salt and pepper gray hair and wild eyebrows—is this nervous and paranoid about approaching me.

He grabs the barstool next to me and sits down.

"What is a beautiful woman like you doing sitting alone in a place like this?" he asks.

"Is that the best pick-up line you've got?" I reply playfully. "I've heard better."

The man smiles. "Can I buy you a drink?"

I laugh. "Sure, why not. There's no harm in one drink, is there?"

The man orders me a drink and then extends his hand for a shake. ”I’m Rick, what's your name, beautiful?"

"My name isn't 'Beautiful' but you can call me Christina.”

As he extends his hand, I see the flash of his wedding ring, and recoil at the thought of this man married—his wife at home, possibly a handful of kids. Just another dirt bag, I think. I knew his type back from my years at the Spearmint Rhino. The kind of man who would head to the strip club minutes after his wife brought home their first child. But maybe this wasn't the case. Maybe he and his wife have an open relationship—swingers. I bite my lip and decided to hear him out. It is too soon to judge.

I notice his gaze scanning my thighs, my ass, and my breasts—everything except my face. He doesn’t seem shy about it either.

"My face is up here," I say with a laugh.

The man stares at me for a moment, and an awkward silence sits in the air.

"Right," he says.

Rick takes a swig of his whiskey and asks, "How much?"

"What do you mean?" I ask. "You mean, how much are these drinks? I'm sure they're expensive. It's a Vegas clu—"

Before I can finish, Rick interjects with a soft laugh, "You know what I mean. I like the games though. Would $1,000 work for the next couple of hours? I know women of your…quality…are usually a lot more. Latex is okay, right?"

I can barely suppress my shock. I ask, almost too loudly, "Why on earth do you think I'm a prostitute?"

Rick shoves one hand in his pocket, leans back in his stool with eyes wide in shock, and answers, "Well, you are a gorgeous middle-aged woman sitting alone at a bar in Vegas, flirting with me in a playful way.” He runs his hands through his hair, looks around, and strokes his chin before continuing. "I'm so, so sorry. I can't believe I just offered a woman on vacation at a bar $1,000 for sex. I'm so sorry for the misunderstanding.”

"I'm not here on vacation," I reply, because this stuns me and I can’t seem to think of anything else to say. "I'm here on business."

I can’t help but wonder how is it that a complete stranger is offering me $1,000 for sex. My knee-jerk reaction is that this is repulsive, but then I start wondering. If I let him fuck me for a couple of hours, I would have $1,000 cash in hand. Given Rick’s age, would he even last two hours? How hard can it be…and yes I know what I said? It will be a lot of money, especially with the budget crunch I have right now. But what am I thinking? I’m not a prostitute. Why am I even considering this?

Just as soon as I dismiss the thought, I reconsider. Rick would be wearing a condom. I would insist on that. It would be safe. No one would know and for just a little bit of effort, I’d have actual damn money right now.

Rick, still visibly shaken and confused, takes out his wallet. He opens the fold and reaches for money to pay the bar tab. A plethora of $100 bills spill out of the leather of his wallet.

I take notice of the money. There must be thousands in that fold. Just this once, I think. If I fuck this guy tonight, my financial problems will be solved. I'll have enough money to maintain my life—spa dates, wine, clothes, daily non-fat lattes, the whole thing. And it's not like I'm being unsafe if he's wearing a condom, right? I wouldn't actually be touching his cock inside my body. Like the old saying goes, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." No one would ever know that I did this, or that I am broke.

My mind contemplates all of these thoughts while Rick stands up to walk away.

Before he can exit and without any further thought, I tap him on the back.

Rick turns around.

I lean into his ear and whisper, "I was just joking, honey. I love to tease. Let's go up to you’re your room. Are you staying at this hotel?"

"In fact, yes I am," he smiles, his relaxed composure returning.