Sex & Relationships

Bedroom Stories: Losing Big In Vegas

V* is my best friend. She’s a tall, pretty brunette with legs up to her armpits and eyes that can either slit your throat or tear your clothes off. She’s witty, sharp and the sound of her raucous laugh can fill a crowded room. Her dirty mouth rivals mine, as does her ability to filter what comes out of it. V’s the kind of ballsy girl you’d want next to you in a street fight – loyal to the death. V don’t take no shit from no one – especially from men. As far as V’s concerned you can take her or leave her. And if you have a problem with that, well, you can go fuck yourself.

V was completely burnt out. If she had to listen to one more temperamental, spoiled client bitch and moan about ad placement, she was going stab her own eardrums out.  She needed to blow off some steam. She needed a pool and a strong cocktail. She needed to party. She needed to exist in a place where Hedonism was her sole responsibility.


One quick phone call to her friend Sara* – who spent half of her work week teaching Pilates to rich, white women and the other half waxing the muff of rich, white women – and the two were headed to Sin City in a car full of tight dresses, six inch heels and several items falling under the ‘What Happens In Vegas…’ category.

After a swift check-in to their hotel, the elevator delivered V and Sara to the 28th floor. Within ten minutes of dropping their bags and squealing over their baller suite with the sickest view ever, they were in their bikinis, popping champagne and toasting to the next 24-hours of debauchery.

As the end of the second bottle was drained, V stretched her arms out wide, taking in the view of the Strip, stood atop the hideously modern egg-shaped balcony chair and declared loudly:


“YEAH!!!!” Cheered the balcony full of drunken douchebags two floors below them.

V and Sara decided that pre-gaming was over and it was time to head down to the pool to really set this absurd escapade into motion. The pool was packed. Half-naked, tan, sweaty, writhing bodies everywhere moving to whatever DJ Too Cool was playing. It was a thousand degrees and V couldn’t stop thinking about how much better it would be if she were just naked – and holy shit, that chick over there was naked!

After a quick re-con lap around the perimeter, V and Sara found a cabana full of at least seven smoking hot men and parked themselves in the two loungers directly in front of them.  Fully settled and oiled up in an inappropriate amount of SPF, the two girls reclined lazily and sipped on their alcoholic beverages.  Waiting.

It took Hot Guy #1 a solid fifteen minutes before he approached and smoothly told V and Sara that they should definitely be partying in the cabana with him and Hot Guys #2 through 7. Sure don’t have to ask a girl (in Vegas) twice. Free booze and washboard abs? Yes and fuck, yes. Duh.

Once inside the cabana, V quickly spotted her target. Dark, broad-shouldered and handsome lying casually on the couch in Spy Optic shades and low hanging board shorts. Come to mama!  Sara was chatting and flirting with both Hot Guy #4 and Hot Guy #5 but V couldn’t take her eyes off this Johnny and she was quite sure that even though his eyes were hidden behind those pitch-black lenses, they were luring her in, daring her to make a move.

V loves game.  She loves the thrill of the chase. And she loves her a playmate that wants to play mouse to her pussycat.

V approached.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

She took in his long toned body in all of its manly glory. Yup, that’ll look real good on her later.

“Nope. Not even a little bit.” Replied Panty-Dropper coyly and shifted his legs so she could take a seat.


“I’m Lola. And you are?”


“Ha! Great Vegas name.”

“Nah. That’s actually my name.”

“No way. Phoenix is your real name?”



“Yeah. Seriously.”

V did a rapid and thorough calculation in her head. Hot. Ridiculous name. Fantastic body. Ridiculous name. Sexy. Ridiculous name. Could she really fuck a guy lassoed with the name, Phoenix? Eh, at least it wasn’t something creepy like Ken or Gene. Besides, she’d forget his name in a few weeks any way. Phoenix it was.

The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking, laughing, flirting and dancing. It was exactly what V needed. Straight up fun. Sara on the other hand had decided that she was in a one-woman drinking competition and the magnum bottle of Belvedere was about to get smoked along with his close friend cranberry juice.

By the time it reached the hour of early evening showers and refueling, Phoenix had invited V to the club that night and Sara was face down, passed out in Hot Guy #7’s lap.

Two gigantic cheeseburgers and snowy cold showers later, both V and Sara were looking insanely sexy from the skin out. Perched atop their stilettos, they strutted to the club ready to dance all night to DJ Too Cool 2.0 and sit at the Hot Guy table before the wee-hours of morning light told them the night of pure indulgence had ended and the day of self-loathing was about to begin.

Upon arrival to the club, Phoenix informed V and Sara that he and the Hoy Guy caravan had eaten some E and were quickly rolling towards lollipops and glow sticks. Awesome. While Sara tore up the dance floor surrounded by men tripping face, V and Phoenix were practically dry humping in the booth of the obscenely expensive Hot Guy purchased table.

Throughout the night Phoenix teased her fluctuating between dirty talk, “I’m going to run my tongue up and down every inch of your body”, and playing hard-to-get, “I’m so not fucking you tonight”. V would throw her head back and giggle, loving every minute of this sexual torture, as he moved his hand up her dress, searching but never pushing her panties aside, no matter how obvious she made it that she wanted him inside of her. By 4am, V was about to explode so when Hot Guys plus Sara decided they wanted to go party in some model/actress/singer’s penthouse suite and Phoenix whispered in V’s ear that he wanted her all to himself, it took all of her self-control not pull her heels off, throw him over her shoulder and race back to his room.

They had just made it through his hotel room door before Phoenix went to work – unzipping V’s dress and taking in the sight of her incredible body, clad only in barely-there lacey black unmentionables. V pushed him backwards onto the bed and climbed on top of him. Kissing him passionately, she moved her mouth slowly down his neck and chest to his stomach until her soft, lipstick-smeared lips reach the head of his cock. She was about to give Ridiculous Name the best blowjob of his life!  A few minutes in, she couldn’t take anymore and just wanted to mount this stallion and ride him straight into the sunset.

“Do you have a condom?”


“So I can fuck you senseless, that’s why.”

“I told you I wasn’t fucking you tonight.”

“Very funny. Now strap on a condom you naughty boy and make me scream.”



“I don’t have casual sex. I don’t believe in it.”

“Uh, your fucking dick was just in my mouth!! I don’t know your last name and I still don’t believe your parents hated you enough to name you Phoenix!! What do you mean you don’t have casual sex?!”

“Blowjobs don’t count.”

One crack of dawn, two wrong turns, barefoot walk-of-unsatisfied-shame later – V pushed open the door to her and Sara’s hotel room. Sara was asleep on her side in bed, facing the door. She cracked one eye open when V entered.

“Did you get laid?”

“No. I got blue balls.”


V took off her dress and climbed into bed with Sara.

“Apparently, Phoenix doesn’t believe in casual sex but wholeheartedly believes in casual blowjobs.”

“I don’t even understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. It’s fucking Vegas!!”

Yup. Fucking. Vegas.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Vegas is one saucy little vixen. Never pronounce the amount of ass you’re about to get while encircled in her rapture because the Universe, in its divine sense of humor, will team up with this sassy temptress and cast a shield around you, guaranteeing that you will be wrapped around nothing but the empty satisfaction of the orgasm you had to give yourself while trying to swallow the pill stuck in your throat called your own retarded arrogance. And most certainly do not go all in and bet your lay on a guy who’s legally named after a city. The odds are not in your favor.

By Tracy Pope

*Disclaimer, Yo: The content is real, provided by several different consenting sources and based on fictional characters inspired by actual people. Names have been changed for obvious reasons. Creative liberties are taken to character build but these experiences happened. Hot, weird, crazy, funny shit occurs when people get naked together. It’s awesome.


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