From
I’ve been meaning to relay a recent “only in Vegas” adventure that seems to demand an audience. And since I’ve been noodling the topic of sexuality in gargantuan doses lately, it’s perfect timing.
A couple of weeks ago, a super-dear friend from LA – I’ll just call him the Scribe (he writes BRILLIANT dark scripts, and he’s gonna be famous) – came to visit for one day / night of adventure. We hadn’t seen each other for a good eight months or so, so we started out with lots of hardcore chat / catching up / bonding. Eventually, we hit the strip to have dinner with a co-worker (I’ll call him Jammer – he’s a jam-band addict) and his lovely g-friend. GOOD times. Sake was flowin’, incredible raw fish dishes, a waiter that flirted like crazy with me – REALLY good times.
As the night wore on, Scribe got a message from one of his LA friends who also happened to be in Vegas. She’s the personal assistance to a rather famous porn star, and there was a “private” party going down in a Venetian suite. We got an invite. One of those offers we couldn’t refuse.
The party offered up everything we could have expected: gorgeous, scantily clad women with HUGE breasts (some were even topless – how kind of them to share – seriously, I was grateful), smarmy, odd looking men, fake smiles and fake tans and fake *everything*, plus plenty of libations / substances a-flowin’. Scribe decided a drink was in order, and though I wasn’t drinking, the bartender WAS topless, so I had to join him for a better look. She was clearly hired for her assets, and not her mixology skills – the girl fumbled over making a rum / coke, and we just yammered as she tried to figure out the complicated skill. Both Scribe and I did note that another drink was on the table – one were were told was “for some other girl who’s just wandering around the party.” Let it be known that Scribe and I are still unsure whether he grabbed his drink, or hers. Yes, that’ll be important here in a second.
Next up, we got invited to the “special room.” Can you seriously expect us to turn that down? The “special room” was on the other side of the sauna / walk in shower. It was basically the place folks were smoking. What, I do not know – they said pot, but my nose definitely disagreed. I didn’t have a drag (yes, I was That Sober Girl at this gig – tis my role these days), but Scribe indulged. I started feeling really, really uneasy in this “special room” (trying to talk to these people was starting to scare me), so I suggested to Scribe that we move back to the main room.
Scribe, his friend the PA, and I started having a great chat. She revealed to us some very intense and odd relationships that were brewing in her world, and she clearly just needed a sympathetic ear – of which we had four. Suddenly though, Scribe looked at me and went ghost-white pale. “Water,” he said, and I rushed off to fetch a bottle from the Topless One.
By the time I returned, Scribe was on the floor – conscious, but pretty out of it. He tried to stand up and shake / laugh it off, then he went out COLD – keeled over backwards and sent the party reeling. He was totally gone yet his eyes were wide open – this caused what I can only classify as “porn panic”. The place went mad. I kicked into crisis management mode (thank God my years at Disney allowed me to take a bazillion Red Cross classes, so I actually feel somewhat useful in these situations). Cold towels were fetched, along with sugar water. I checked pulse / breathing — both were very normal. Temperature, too felt fine. He came back briefly and told me he felt no pain – and he kept apologizing. But he fell out again and I just couldn’t figure out what was happening. What on earth caused this? People started accusing me of giving him GHB – grilling me about what the heck we had been doing before this party. Truth is, he had had three drinks. THREE drinks. And believe me, back in the day, Scribe and I were party animals. We downed three drinks per hour. This wasn’t his downfall. No, either that drink he had from Topless One had some sort of special additive, or the special room was doling out something other than some innocent weed.
In any event, amidst the panic – “Oh my god, he’s turning purple! Call the cops – HE’S DYING” – Scribe finally came back. I held his hand and felt the squeezes strengthen, and then he was able to talk again. He felt strong enough to walk within about 15 minutes, so I escorted him down to the cab station, and we started laughing about the ordeal. Lessons learned – no special rooms at porn parties, and keep your eyes on your drink at all times. But wow, WHAT an adventure.
I just found the whole seen achingly sad. These were people so out of touch with their real sexual selves, using sex to mask the *incredible* depths of their sadness. I can’t possibly have judgment for a single person in the room – they’re just trying to push away all that they are avoiding – knowing that it’s a mountain of abuse / programming / stories / etc. It’s heart-breaking, really, and their profession totally ostracizes them from the outside world, as we “moral” peeps are just aghast that people actually make these bad, bad films (though most of us have plenty in our DVD collection). Anyway, it was the perfect place for someone like me to land – a girl coming to grips with her own sexuality, finally being in integrity about what / who I am and what / who I am sexually attracted to, and someone willing to feel whatever I need to on the healing path.
Scribe is fine, and we have one hell of a story. Don’t be surprised if you catch a flick in a couple of years with a similar scene – he’s certainly got an awesome tale to tell. And me, I’m just grateful for the learning experience – that another layer was pulled away, and all that we had to give up was a little dignity and a large dose of panic. I’d call that a very, very good night.
Nice post, thks =)