G-Smash got invited to the Saturday night Olympia After Party at Rain, a club in the Palms Casino, and I was lucky enough to tag along. Before meeting up with the usual crowd at the Alligator bar at the Orleans, we walked down the strip, eating pizza and drinking beer like the classy ladies we are, making occasional pit stops in some of the fancier casinos. G and I enjoyed comparing the custom scents that each casino-hotel complex has pumped through its ventilation system. Treasure Island smells like spicy rum; the Aria is suffused with vanilla mixed with cinnamon. And what does our cheap-cheap hotel smell like? An unforgettable combination of feet and mould.

Drinking in public is thrilling and we had a great time getting ready, stashing cans of beer in our purses. Just before leaving we sent the following text to my partner, who was playing in a poker tournament at the Venetian:

“About to hit the strip. Packing purse. Bud Light, check. Panties, check. Toothbrush, check. Vagina wipes, oops all out.”

Oh yes, it was the height of hilarity, my friends. But the fun had only just begun….

Can I first say how great it is to be a girl in Las Vegas? Men we didn’t even know—nice, lovely men–drove us to and from the Palms, no charge, and we drank for free all night. Glen Livet makes me very, very happy. I downed lots of it—straight up of course–and then began to dance with a close friend named Mr. Glowstick. We could have danced all night, and that’s just what we did, until the lights went on at 4 am and they kicked our asses out. Sadly, I then became separated from Glowy and we did not spend any more time together. Actually, I seem to recall tossing him down G’s bra, lighting up her cleavage in an impressive fashion. But that’s enough discussion of the party hijinks.

Rain was so fantastic. Lots of bodybuilders and their hangers-on were in private boxes above the main dance floor on which thousands of writhing bodies were entertained by smoke machines, occasional bursts of fire, a leather-clad woman who shot firecrackers from her tits, some kind of giant transformer robot creature, and rubbery gymnasts who swung from ropes, doing tricks. I have included a photo for your viewing pleasure. I sure learned a lot at this party. I rarely go to clubs so I did not realize that men have a new way of displaying their interest in you. Imagine my surprise when I felt a male body grinding up against me and heard the whispered command “Kiss me.” I tried to look behind me, craning my neck, wondering who is that? What is going on back there? Turning fully around to see him was not an option, for if he was grabby from the back, what on earth would he try in front? I moved away but this mysterious person—I imagine him to have been half-goat half-man—followed me to give repeat performances, or perhaps there were other grindermen in the club simply doing the same thing. I bet they all have the no pussy blues. Maybe this will sound a little old fashioned but back in my day when a young man wanted to rub his crotch against my buttocks he would first ask permission. We are truly witnessing a sharp decline in politeness and I, for one, am worried about the future of civil society. Or maybe we are experiencing a kind of devolution. I remember seeing a show on the Discovery channel which featured a randy male baboon who snuck up behind the lady baboons and tried to give it to them, with more or usually less success. On Saturday night, I was the unsuspecting lady baboon, just minding my own business, nibbling on a papaya, until BAM!

I realize that I have not analyzed bodybuilding or mentioned figure girls in this post, but I do have a point to make: bodybuilders like to party and they party pretty hard. They are great people and lots of fun, despite the heavy breathing goat boy, who probably crashed the event. At least he provided me with a new signature phrase: ‘I just got babooned!’ I gift it to all of you, so that you too may use it, should the need arise.