Excuse me, what is the NGRA? (Day 2 in Vegas)

Monday = jet lag.

I spent about an hour lying awake before finally getting up around 9. I tried to take a nice warm bath before SoHo Crush got up, but after about 10 minutes, it was just too hot. When SoHo Crush finally did wake up, he wanted to go to the pool first thing. It was a private pool for the Four Seasons, and the young lady at the booth acted like a hostess would at a restaurant, asking us if we had a preference for seating. She then laid down terrycloth covers for our chairs before we lay down.

Me: “Shall we get a cocktail with breakfast?”

SoHo: “It’s only 11… perfect time for a screw driver.”

They brought us breakfast on trays that reminded me of my family dinners growing up (i.e., my mom, dad, and I all happened to end up around the TV making sarcastic commentary at the same time after Mom left dinner on the stove). Because it was a private pool, the people watching was a bit dismal. Luckily, I was tired enough not to need constant stimulation. After a second drink, we went across the way to the Mandalay Bay beach. Strangely enough, our server (a bearish guy) told us it would be $40 for us to get in.

SoHo Crush: “Wow, I thought it was free.”

Server: “No, I mean, women are only $10, but you guys are already topless.”

Me: “Wait, are you talking about the topless section? We’re just gonna check out the general area.”

Server: “Ooooooh! Yeah, that’s free! It’s funny: usually in the topless area, it’s like 50 guys and only 3 or 4 girls. Everybody wants a peek.”

 

I guess some people really just don’t have gaydar.

We got to the “beach”, which was a huge wave pool and hundreds of beach chairs on sand. We were over it in about 3 minutes and went back to the Four Seasons’ pool.

Remember that gold glass building I mentioned (i.e., Mandalay Bay)? Definitely affects the temperature when you're lying in its glare.

SoHo Crush suggested that we check out Mandalay Bay’s spa, where he had been seriously cruised the day before.  It definitely felt like the cheating-gay-husband scenario because the spas are separated by sex. While wifey’s getting her mani/pedi next door, Harold, Sr. is cruising men in the steam room and sauna. We got keys to lockers with the softest robes I’ve ever felt. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much use for them. After a quick shower (if you’ve ever been to New York Vers and Bottom Health and Racket, I believe they have the same changing-area-to-shower setup with 2 doors that makes it that much easier to mask the presence of 2 bodies… SoHo Crush and I went to in separate showers, btw), we headed to the steam room.

The steam room was about 3 times the size of any one I’ve seen in New York, and they had some sort of minty element to their steam that cleared up my (very agitated) sinuses on contact! A couple of guys were already in there, and SoHo Crush and I sat down together.

“So… where are you staying?”

“The Four Seasons.”

“Ah, okay. How long you in town for?”

“Just a few days.”

“Mm. How long til your wife gets back from shopping?”

“A good 2 hours. Room 36143.”

 

We were both cracking up through our staged convo. SoHo Crush had thrown out the suggestion of stranger role-play, but that whole scenario would have put a severe tent in my towel as my speedo was in the locker.

After a brief sit in the sauna, there was some light monkey business in one of the 3 large hot tubs before he suggested we finish what we started. It took me a minute or two to get ready to get out of the bubbles.

“You wanna go ride the roller coaster at New York, New York?”

“You like roller coasters?!”

I love roller coasters.

We took the tram (not to be confused with the monorail) over to Excalibur, which may be the most ridiculous-looking hotel on the strip, so that we could cross the street to New York, New York. The tram only has 4 stops, but apparently there was enough demand to construct an “express” tram that skips the middle two.

Random drunk douchebag probably talking about the roller coaster: “Wait, do you need cash?”

SoHo Crush: “I most definitely need cash.”

Random (truly bothered): “Dude, I wasn’t talking to you!”

We rushed across the skywalk to New York, New York.

 

All of these casino/hotels are absolutely mammoth. It’s like trying to navigate an airport when you’re trying to follow this sign and go up/down that escalator and find this walkway. And of course, the roller coaster was on the other side of the casino (and kids’ arcade) from where we were. And it was $14 goddamn dollars to ride! I made SoHo Crush stand in line for a good 5 runs of the roller coaster (which, by the way, was simply called “Roller Coaster” on all the signs) so that we could sit in the front seat even though there was no wait for any other seat.

PS, that roller coaster is a lot more fun than it looks from the Strip.

After our adrenaline rush, SoHo Crush wanted to show me the inside of the MGM Grand (which, btw, had my favorite exterior on the strip). After searching (unsuccessfully) for the alleged Wizard-of-Oz-themed entrance, we sat down to eat at a restaurant that was all decked out in jungle theme. I mean, every inch of the wall was covered in either fake foliage or mechanical animals. And every 10 minutes, the animals would start making noises and moving (not unlike PeeWee's Playhouse when someone said the word of the day). A baby elephant’s trunk was about 6 inches above the middle of one of the tables. My favorite piece had to be the mechanical leopard perched atop a 2-story ledge. When the menagerie of sounds started, it would swing its tail and one of it’s legs and turn its head side to side. It would also move its head randomly (or its just eyes... creepy).

Finally, our drinks came. And they wouldn’t’ stop blinking. This started out as an annoyance, but we entertained ourselves on the walk back by raising our blinking glasses to every single passerby and giving a “woo!”

 

I had set my alarm so that we could wake up for The Thunder from Down Under (which, according to the Excalibur signs, was housed in the  Thunder Auditorium), but I had somehow put it on vibrate. Aussie booty was a no-go, but we started right in on navigating the Vegas gay scene. 

On the interstate, I noticed there was a Motel 6 for $36.00/night. “You don’t wanna stay there,” the driver warned me. “That’s not the best area. It’s where all the drug dealers and hookers are. Not that they’ll hurt you, but still.”

“Damn, that sounds like my neighborhood!”

Our first stop of the night was our favorite. Snicks is a dive bar not far from the Stratosphere Hotel with a rainbow door on the outside. There’s not much else in the area except construction, and our cab driver was wary about letting us out. “You guys go check it out, and I’ll wait til you give me the ok to leave.”

The bear bartender gave us a warm greeting and asked if we wanted our drinks “light, medium, or strong?” The security guy chatted up SoHo Crush between games of… I’m not sure exactly what it was they were playing, but it looked like a combination of bocce ball and curling but on a wooden table.

We perched ourselves at the bar next to a rather rotund black guy in his late 40s who seemed to know it all. “You almost never see interracial couples here. I moved here with a white guy I was with. Own a house together and everything. I still send money for the mortgage every month…” He then proceeded to not only give us his life story but also analyze our relationship. Because we asked and all. I couldn’t remember his name, so I just started referring to him as Willy.

We asked the bartender about a cab, and he handed us the local gay cabbie’s number. “He’ll come in and ask for you once he gets here. He’ll probably want to see who’s in here anyway.”

Out next stop was Spotlight: another strip-mall joint. “Let me get two Skyy Citrus and Sprites, please.”

Bartender (who is bouncing off the damn walls): “Skyy Citrus? What’s that?”

Me: “The liquor on the shelf behind you.”

“Oh, right right right… you wanted that with soda, right?”

“No. Sprite.”

“Here you go. That’ll be $8.”

It. Was. Soda.

 

We watched him run around the empty bar, wondering what the fuck he was on. Then he joined his friend at the end of the bar for a smoke. Then he zipped around the bar some more.

“He’s way too intense to be on coke...”

“Meth?”

“Definitely meth.”

I couldn’t finish my drink fast enough. Badlands was just across the strip mall. As we were crossing the parking lot, whom do we run into? Fucking Willy! Fucking drunk Willy. Awesome. He told us (loudly) about the swingers clubs on either side of the gay bar as we approached. We walked in, and there were about 4 people there. “I can’t. We’re leaving!” Thank god Willy didn’t try to follow us. There's only so much Willy I can take in one night!

We also stopped at Eight and a Half, a club on the Fruit Loop. We got to the front of the line and found out the cover was $20. On a Monday. As we were leaving, a drag queen with orange boots and a 3-foot afro asked what the problem was. We explained to her that we were curious about the scene, but $20 was a bit steep considering the circumstances. She told us not to move and ran to the cashier, trotting back with  a pair of blue tickets for $10 entry. Why not: we're on vacation!

The club was pretty cool (and surprisingly crowded for a Monday). They had a fun mix of music, and the bartenders were hot. Plus I was getting a bit of attention from a few boys (and a couple actually spoke to me!), but SoHo Crush got jealous bored, so we left for Charlie's.

Charlie's was basically a huge square-dancing bar (or a smallish skating rink), but there wasn't much of a crowd. In fact, the cutest guy there was the one checking IDs at the door. But they had a couple of drag queens hosting a tragically funny strip contest (for which a surprisingly in-shape over-40 drunk was all too eager). 

Then we saw this.

Of course, we couldn't leave it alone.

SoHo Crush: "Excuse me, what is the NGRA?"

Bartender: "Nevada Gay Rodeo Association."

SoHo: "Ah, I see. And do some people call it Niggra Appreciation Night?"

I was too busy letting out the pent-up guffaw to hear the bartender's response. It was time to leave.

The last stop was the Eagle. I have no idea why we bothered with a drink there. Dismal was not even the word. I think there were 4 other people in the bar (including the bartender), and one of them had his shirt off. I put about 10 pop songs in a row on the jukebox, but we left after “…Baby One More Time”.

The next day, I kissed SoHo Crush goodbye (he was heading to the pool and then to LA) and ventured south of the Strip to Boot Barn (I googled discount cowboy boots Las Vegas, and that’s what came up). The cabby told me the gas station across the street gets plenty of cabs, so it shouldn’t be a problem getting back. It was about 11:30 when I left, so I had about an hour to shop before I needed to get to the airport.

I have never seen so many damn boots in my life! Leather, snake, ostrich, lizard, alligator. I mean, they had everything, every color. And every pricepoint. I really can’t wait til I can sleep at night knowing I own a pair of $2,000 shoes (we will be fighting if you step on them).

 

After I picked my jaw off the floor, I realized I had to focus. I was looking for something practical that could go with anything. Distinctive, yet not too stylized. Definitely with a pointy toe and not too expensive. I found the perfect size 12 D. They were bit snug. Unfortunately, by “a bit snug”, I mean my feet got stuck in them. I literally worked up a sweat pulling at them, and they were still on my feet. The only employees on the floor were women in their 50s.

“Excuse me, I think I’m stuck in these boots. Could I get some help with that?”

“You see that boot jack over there?”

“Huh?”
“The slanted thing with the hole on the top. Just put your heel in it and put your weight on the back of it.”

She had to coach me on my positioning, but the boot jack slid the shoe right off. I guess I’m a 13.

I settled on a cute black pair for slightly more than I wanted to spend and had them ship it to the office. Mission accomplished. Now I just needed to get home, but there were no cabs in the parking lot of the gas station. The attendant gave me a number, but (after 5 rings) the address on the building wouldn’t come up on the dispatcher’s system. She finally took the cross streets, but when I asked her about how long it should be, she said, “If you don’t see a cab in 10 minutes, call me back.” After 8 minutes, I called another cab company. About 5 minutes later, a cabby called and to tell me that he was about 6 or 7 minutes away. 2 minutes after that, a different cab showed up, so I jumped in.

By the time I got to the airport (about a half hour after I meant to), I had spent about $40 in cab fares and tips. I thought I had to run (because of course my flight was in the satellite terminal), but they were just starting boarding as soon as I arrived at the gate.

Did I mention I that as soon as I got back to Manhattan (though it took me a full hour from the time we touched down to get to Hell’s Kitchen), I went out a-drinkin’ with Panamaniac and his friend? Yeah.

If you missed the first day/night of Vegas from yesterday, click here. 

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