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By Courtney Sheets
Dating in Las Vegas is nothing like it seems in the books, especially the 1Night Stand shorts. I must admit I love to read them because I love the idea of people falling in love in my very own home town. However for those of us single chicas who don’t have a Madame Eve giving a helping hand, Vegas can be a scary place for dating.
The best and most accurate description of dating in Las Vegas would be like telling a rabid dog to sit calmly at the foot of the bed while a pair of howler monkeys bounce up and down rapidly. Not a pretty sight. The single, male Las Vegas, a creature unlike any other, when faced with the choice of a smart career-minded woman in sensible shoes or Bambi the weather bunny, seem to experience full brain meltdown. Following that object located in the Southern Hemisphere of their bodies, men are ultimately drawn to Bambi.
With breasts that levitate through the smoky air of any nightclub in a way that befuddles even David Copperfield, wedged into the smallest top available at the juniors department, these women blind the average male in Las Vegas, with the rigidity of their nipples alone. Come on girls, it ain't that cold in here. Mere mortal women like myself do not stand a chance.
Perhaps part of my dating trouble is I refuse to squeeze my ample endowments into something so tight as to cut off all bodily functions. Now don't get me wrong. I like to dress sexy, but I feel if one fears going to the bathroom because you're not too sure your pants are going to make it all the way back up, then said pants are too tight. I speak from a vicarious experience here. Personally I have too much pride, or fear of every hot guy in the room seeing my granny panties, to risk the ultimate humiliation of my pants splitting down the seams in the middle of a dance floor.
In Las Vegas, as I am sure this happens in every big city but with different names, there is a plethora of what I commonly refer to as Leisure Suit Elvi. They are a cross between your average dirty old man and a baboon, with a little Richard Nixon thrown in for good measure. This makes for an unholy combination that would scare the leather pants off Alice Cooper. Imagine being faced with such an abomination as you clammy stand at the bar, daiquiri in hand. The sight alone would stop the Croc Hunter dead in his tracks with more than just one 'crickey!" Not quite forty, but well above thirty, their favorite prey is a woman of around 22. Someone with enough brains to know what sex is and how to do it, but not enough to realize that polyester should have died with disco.
What makes dating in Vegas different from other cities, is it the neon? Is it the casinos? Is it the fifty foor billboards plastered with women in bondage gear on them? No, it's the mentality of the people. It is a sandbox for the young, bored, and emotionally stunted. Don't get me wrong we have a fair share of smart people, but they are hideously overshadowed by the pod people who inhabit downtown, uptown, and everywhere in between. I think the disease stems from too much neon light soaking into their veins.
In a city that markets sin and sex in every flavor, it is amazing how little of either a single person can get. I think drastic measures are in order. Full frontal nudity is an arrestable offense here so perhaps I won't go that route. I could be a naked table dancer, but I can't even stay firmly planted in my sneakers let alone those tall spiked objects of torture strippers wear on their feet.
So I fear I must go the traditional way, and wait for Prince Charming to meet me halfway, if he isn't in a Strip club. Keep your fingers crossed for me. There has to an Elvis out there for me. If not, I can always be a nun, a rare commodity indeed.