OK so CES was last week which means that this year I saw a 150″ plasma TV instead of the mere 130″ one I saw last year. I’m a product designer. I work in the consumer electronics field. I’ve seen everything before you have. Therefore, I’m jaded. It was still good to go, though, if only for the residuals of CES. In this case, said residuals were:

.: losing a good chunk of money at the blackjack table. This sounds like sarcasm, but it’s actually a good thing. Any time I get to play cards is a good thing. Does that sound like I have a problem?
.: The Peppermill
.: The Rio buffet. Unfortunately, the Rio seafood buffet was closed for remodeling, but that didn’t stop me and my friend from destroying the dreams of many many crabs at the normal one.
.: Roxie

Buffet? I've got your buffet right here.

But who is Roxie you ask? Roxie, friends, is a Las Vegas hooker.

One thing to note: I have never, nor do I plan to, taken advantage of the services of a lady of the night. Oddly, though, I have had an astounding number of opportunities to. Be it the random girl looking for money for blow in Santa Cruz, the wave upon wave of “karaoke” girls in China, the probably not legal but tolerated working girls in Madrid, or the now Roxie…I’ve had plenty of opportunity, I’ve just always liked to think I should be interesting and attractive enough to not have to pay for it.

I’ll leave out the comment about how you pay for it, one way or another, with every girl you’re with. Oops, I commented after all.

Anyway, Roxie (her real name is Roxanne, see. Really! I asked her! It must be true!) and I met at the Hard Rock where my shirt was slowly being stripped off my back by a series of 4-card 21’s and busts. I had noticed her earlier at the bar, and then again in a group of guys chatting her up, and then now at a slot machine 5 feet from me. I remember thinking when I saw her surrounded by guys, “Poor girl, she’s like one of 10 girl in this place and she’s surrounded by CES dorks.” An aside, since when does the Hard Rock only have 10 girls in it? It was very strange.

At any rate, Roxie is a hot little Asian girl, which, along with blonds, brunettes, and redheads, is my favorite type of girl. My friends and I are trying to decide where next to go (because this place is dead anyway), so I take that opportunity to walk up to Roxie and start talking. I’m charming, I’m witty, I’m hilarious. It’s amazing! I’ve always been reasonably good at talking to girls, but I’m doing really really well. I gain confidence. Self-respect. I am a minor god amongst mere mean. I’m doing so well that a few of my friends wander over to ride my coat-tails. “Dave’s talking to a hot girl,” they think to themselves, “Let’s get over there!”

It’s pretty clear by this point that I’m the shit. There’s no doubt that I will clearly be “hooking up” tonight as the kids say. At the height of my bravado, I make another pithy, genius observation and point out how it must have sucked to be one of ten girls in the whole place that night. How she must be constantly hit on by dorks like me (charming self-deprecation). She says, “Yeah, every girl you meet tonight will be working.” Then fixing me with a meaningful look, “Yup. Every. Girl. Will be working.”


I choose to believe I’m still charming…even if it IS her job to think so. I’m savvy. I go with the flow. We talk some more, I get her phone number (what?!), she hangs out with my friends for a while, we leave her and go to the next place. Then, the curiosity strikes, and the text messaging starts. Surely I can get her to just hang out for the hell of it, right? Wrong. Back and forth from the hours of midnight to 3:30, she asks me if I want a “date”. I say well of course I do but I’d rather you just meet up at The Peppermill.
It will cost you.
Of course, what kind of damage are we talking about?
I just dropped your fee at the blackjack table. Come hang out instead.
Use your credit card. Go to the ATM 🙂
You’re worth it, but I have rent to make in LA. Let’s get something to eat
No, I need cash.
Too bad, maybe next time.

And that is how I have a working girl’s phone number and know that she goes for $500/hour. FIVE HUNDRED AN HOUR! If I’m paying that much, there better be something cool I don’t even know about, yet.

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