[Champagne’s Café Las Vegas 1 p.m.]
Fucking “In The Air Tonight” is playing in the bar. Come on world, I’m trying to cultivate a good mood over here. Damn song transports me directly to being sixteen and in the mental institution. Anyway...I got bombed Sunday night. I don’t usually start Texan trips on a Sunday. I had fun, but was hurting yesterday. I didn’t think it was too bad at first, but I went to the mall and it snuck up on me like mono. I bought a pair of gorgeous boots and tried to eat lunch—hoping noodles and a cocktail would help. Sadly, my slow decline only sped up. Although I had until 8:45 p.m. to be ready, I cut my mall trip short. I even skipped my traditional Peppermill excursion (you know I’m a hot mess if the damn Fireside Lounge is too much to handle). I thought maybe I could get a disco nap in, but I couldn’t sleep, both my head and stomach were getting worse with each passing minute. One or the other is manageable, but both?! I was screwed. There’s not much room to be that hungover on work trips, and especially not in Las fucking Vegas (even though it’s the home of the hangover). I considered the bottle of scotch on the coffee table, a little hair of the pooch, but the thought of it made me want to plummet to my death from the 22nd floor. So I took a hot shower instead. But my mood was sour. My eyes were sour. Not even bleach would whiten them. I needed live Photoshop and a lobotomy. I was hoping against all hope that he’d be tired. I figured there was a decent possibility considering he had been working since 7:30 a.m., and entertaining clients (drinking) for the past three hours. What I didn’t count on was him being, “gone to the dark side” drunk. My fucking favorite. Unfortunately, due to my poor physical condition, I wasn’t ready to go out when he got to the room. I was in bed, battling. Although had I known what state he was in and what then followed, I would have been waiting by the door with my purse on my shoulder.
He wasn’t making sense. He was sloppy drunk. He was being a total baby about my being hungover. Honestly, I’m not sure he could have fucked much in the boozy form he was in, but no; I’m the bad guy because I’m human. The funny thing is, I don’t think I even said anything about us not fooling around (although I guess me sitting in bed with uncurled hair, my head in my hands, and foundation makeup only, was a decent sign). I don't think it was about me being hungover. I think he was worn down and hates admitting it.
One of the main factors adding to his “dark side” (I found out) was that he thinks I see someone while he’s working. In our hotel room! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING? What is it with men? Interestingly, my Crush’s buddy cracked a joke about The Texan coming to our love motel in New York while he was working (if he had to during our rendezvous). Men have some wild imagination. I would never see The Texan during a personal trip. And definitely not in our love cottage! Sounds like hell on earth. And as far as me “working” during my free time while on a trip with The Texan, well, that’s just fucking insane. For starters, I tend to look hungover on my free days. Secondly, picking up a new john or squeezing one in is the last thing I’m thinking about. I’m usually just tying to hydrate and keep my sanity. Men: so lovely and so fucking dumb. Just kidding. Back to the drunkard and his madness. He had that look in his eye...the one I hate. There’s no winning when he’s in that state, but I somehow managed to at least talk him down from the ledge. Then he started asking for drugs. Can you imagine? Hell no. I peed and secretly took a Halcyon.
I kept trying to get him to get undressed and get into bed—I knew at this point that we weren’t going out—but he just stood there. I had to tell him a bunch of times that I loved him, and that I’d never hurt him (on purpose). He received a text from his wife mid-sentence; it was time for the good night call. He dialed, but before she picked up, he said, “Do you want me to divorce her? I will. Right now.” What?! Where did he come up with that? I barely wanted to be in that room with him, let alone whatever full-time nonsense he was cooking up in his mind. I wanted to slice my own neck. I know the answer he was looking for. He wanted me to say yes. And maybe a smarter ho would have, but I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. First off, I don’t like lying to him anymore than I have to, secondly, I don’t like people holding shit over my head. I never told men at the strip club that I’d be with them, and I’ve never told a john they were the only one; or that he was my boyfriend. After the call, he finally got into bed. He fell asleep almost instantly. I rolled on my side and said a prayer to the lottery gods.
Great, the old men are sifting out of the bar and a few hipsters just came in. I’ll have to wrap this up soon and face my final night in Vegas. By the way, he text me while writing this...he doesn’t remember a thing from last night. Just as well, I guess. I don’t need to have a recap. That’s the beauty of this thing (or at least it should be): that I get paid to come and go. I could have done without the dramatics, but six years in; it’s much easier to let his theatrics roll off me. My friends and I came to the conclusion years ago that he seems to feed off of emotional spectacles; melodrama equals love. If it equaled more cash, I’d be Betty fucking Davis, trust me, but it doesn’t, and therefore I’m just the little ho that could.