“Look at that one there. Look! How is she wearing those to the pool? That’s insane.”
My best friend’s scandalized voice wafts over from her spot in our private poolside cabana—something I splurged on even though it was ungodly expensive and a complete waste of money. To humor her, I hit send on an email I’ve been composing to GreatDane51 and sit up.
Again.
This is the seventh scandalized announcement Becky has made in the half hour we’ve been lying here, and it seems like the parade of floozies isn’t getting old.
“Now who are you looking at?” I ask, tipping my sunglasses back to get a better look. I scan the horizon, but I don’t notice anyone noteworthy, and flop back down onto my deck chair, the fan above us whirring and blowing small bursts of cool air on us.
It’s heaven.
I take it back. It’s the best money I’ve ever spent.
“The one in the leopard bikini and the sheer cover-up. If you can call it a cover-up. That’s someone’s daughter, you know. I hope these men realize that.”
I groan and loll my head to the side to squint at her through the blazing desert sun. “You did not just say that.”
“Well, it’s true,” she huffs, flopping down next to me. “That’s someone’s kid.”
“Becky, she’s a porn star. It’s her job to look slutty.”
“I know that, Janine,” she grumbles, pulling her terry-cloth cover-up down over her one-piece mom swimming suit. “I just feel like an old grandma lying here like a beached whale next to all these sexy women. I’m wearing terry cloth for crying out loud. In Las Vegas, mind you.”
I scoff at her. “Big deal. You’ve been working hard at the gym and it shows. You look great, so stop fussing and have a mimosa.” I lift my limp arm and point lazily to the tray of champagne glasses that came with the cabana. “Drink up. No one is even paying attention to us. You won’t give a crap after one or two of those babies.”
“Yeah, you’re probably ri—Holy crap, look at him! Don’t look at him. Ew!” Becky’s horrified hiss has me lifting my head again just in time to see a short, tan, bald man with a hairy chest stroll by, his belly protruding over a bright red Speedo. The teeny-tiny bit of material does nothing to conceal the impressive package tucked into his swimming shorts.
And by impressive, I mean enormous. The man has a giant penis inside his teeny man bikini.
He slows down his gait as he nears the corner in the vicinity of our cabana, the dark glasses covering his eyes get a hand when he reaches up and pulls them down to stare at us through bright blue irises I can see from here.
He’s portly and a little “ew,” but I’m totally in awe of his eye color.
But alas, he’s an unimpressive approximate five foot five—maybe on a tall day—with darkly tan skin, an unshaved face, and gold chains around his neck, definitely lending him a pimp vibe.
He’s so gross that he’s actually somewhat… dare I say… attractive?
Ugly cute. Is that a thing? Because it should be.
He stares us down, and we return the favor. None of us can look away; even Becky isn’t immune to his allure. He’s like a train bound for a messy collision, but for some reason, you want to be on it just to see where the ride is headed.
As he appraises us, I’m sure he’s formed his own preconceived notion of Becky and me as we lounge and ogle him while he slinks around the pool deck like a patrolman: the two most covered up women in the entire city of Vegas, lying in an ungodly expensive private cabana, wearing one-piece swimsuits in a sea of scantily clad porn stars but not giving a shit.
Well, looky-loo all you want, you chubby little pervert.
I stretch like a cat, enjoying the way his eyes rake my modest swimsuit, even if he is a disgusting slob and probably a porn pimp. His gaze roams from my legs, up my flat-ish stomach, and land on the breasts that are practically popping out of this ill-fitting suit I hadn’t realized wasn’t going to fit me until I put it on an hour ago.
I must have gained at least five pounds since the last time I wore it. Obviously I need to amp up my workouts with Becky. Or, you know—actually work out when I’m at the gym.
Becky clears her throat next to me, dragging me out of my musings. “Um, what’s going on right now? Are you letting him leer at you?”
“What? Me? Pfft, no.” I emphatically deny it, but I’m a big liar and she damn well knows it.
“Don’t you recognize him?” She self-consciously smooths down the front of her cover-up, protecting her modesty from the encroaching Super Guido. “That’s Jeremy James.” She’s hissing at me now, something she’s done a lot of since we arrived in sunny Las Vegas. “Don’t you recognize him, or are you too busy showboating?”
“What?” I pull the sunglasses completely off my face. “Get out of here! I thought he kind of looked familiar.”
She nonchalantly sips her mimosa, watching Super Guido from above the rim of the champagne glass, still holding down the hem of her muumuu.
“Wait a second. How do you know who that is?”
Becky rolls her eyes. “Seriously? You left that porn convention catalog on the floor in the bathroom next to the toilet. What do you think I was doing in there for an hour?”
“Um, not studying a porn catalog, that’s what.”
“Well, so what if I was? Sue me for being bored while you took a nap. A nap in Las Vegas on the day we landed. Now who’s the boring one? Huh? You, that’s who.”
I give her a sidelong glance and shush her. “Stop bickering. He’s coming this way.”
“Coming this way. Nice.”
Shocked, I gape at her, my mouth wide open. “Did you just make a sexual innuendo?”
Becky spits out a laugh. Actually laughs. “Just stop making eye contact with the former porn king of America, please. And don’t encourage him. I don’t want him coming over here. For once in your life, behave yourself and listen to me?”
“I can’t help it if he likes what he sees, Becky. Maybe he wants to recruit me for one of his films.” I say this with a laugh but cringe myself when Jeremy James reaches up and rolls his robust handlebar mustache between his forefinger and his thumb.
He licks that thumb just then, dragging it down his lower lip, neck, and stomach.
Becky watches on and giggles. “Oh, dear god. I’m going to remember you just said that, and tell it to your future boyfriend, the poor, poor bastard.”
“Shut up. Wait…how do you know he’s the porn king?”
“Former Porn King. As in, porn king of the seventies. It was in the brochure.”
“Oh,” I say, shifting my eyes back to him, more intrigued than ever. “Wait… I’m getting my porn stars mixed up. Who is the current porn king?”
“Don Dean,” she says without missing a beat. “Don’t you ever read?”
“Yes, but not porn brochures.” She glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “Okay, fine. So I hadn’t read that one all the way through yet.”
We look back over as Jeremy James continues his showboating, running his hands down his stomach in an attempt at seduction. Becky covers her mouth, trying to stifle the laughter about to take over her body.
“Only you would attract the only man here with not a single ab. Can I take a picture of his granddad bod and send it to Jeremiah?”
“No!”
“Fine, but you set yourself up for that one. And I am not saving you from yourself because you’re flirting with the former porn king. I am going to look at the menu and order lunch. You hungry?”
Jeremy James ambles/waddles/walks closer, his eyes scanning the pool deck, gold chain necklaces catching the sun and shining brightly against his dark brown skin. He waves to someone shouting his name, his hand spanning his gut, and flashes his bright white teeth.
Then he flashes that blinding smile at me.
I chuckle and smile back at the same time a gagging sound fills the air next to me.
Glaring at Becky, I ask, “Are you making fun of me again?”
“Me? Noooo. I’m ordering food.”
“Order me a burger and fries, please. And stop making gagging sounds.”
“Stop flirting with the former porn king,” she counters, lifting the black phone in our cabana and pressing the button for service. She covers the receiver with one hand and silences me with her mom glower. “Sh, it’s ringing.”
“For the record, when you make gagging noises in your throat, it sounds like you’re giving a bad blow job.”
I peel my eyes away as Jeremy James changes direction and walks towards the bar at the far end of the pool, greeting someone he apparently knows, his saggy ass leaving a cringe on my face and a smirk on Becky’s, even as she talks into the phone.
“Yes, Cabana number eight. We’re ready for lunch. Yes. Yup. Mmm hmm, everything is great so far, thank you. Uh huh. Yes. Ready? Okay. We’ll have a burger and fries. Just ketchup and pickles, please. No, that’s not all. We’ll also have a chicken ranch wrap and chips. The fruit plate. And yogurt. And could you bring me the bruschetta?”
My eyebrows shoot into my hairline.
“Um, yeah, I think that’s it. Do you have a dessert menu? Great. Yup, that should do it. Oh, shoot! And two iced teas please, with sweetener, and a carafe of ice water if you have it. Oh, that should already be in here?” She cranes her neck around. “Oh, there it is! Yup. We’re all set. Twenty minutes? Excellent. Thanks.”
She sets the phone back on its receiver and I raise my eyebrows again.
“What? We’re on vacation!” she shouts. “Vegas, baby!”
A few rowdy drunk hotel guests in the pool, pool deck, and cabanas hear her and give their own whooping cheers. One guys screams, “Fuck yeah, man! Vegas, baby!” so loud it throws us into a fit of hysterical laughter.
We giggle until we both have tears in our eyes, and we lift our mimosa glasses, clinking them together in a toast. A toast to us. We sip and grin at each other.
“Vegas, baby!”