My Buddy Fell In Love With A Stripper In Vegas And It Ended Poorly

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Well, I may be done with Las Vegas. I’ve finally reached the point where I’m willing to draw a line in the sand and shoot down any notions of that deviant town being a viable weekend getaway or bachelor party destination.

The funny part is, I’m not even the victim in this. Okay, we were all victims in one way or another, but there’s one guy who really took it on the chin. We’ll call him Mike, because using his real name would just be cruel. Mike took a big loss in Vegas, and he barely gambled.

Everyone knows that Friday night is strip club night on a standard Vegas trip. It just makes sense. Arrive in town late-afternoon, knock out a top tier steak dinner, and seamlessly transition from steakhouse wine drunk into strip club watered down cocktail drunk. That’s the move, because if you’re flying out of McCarran at 9:40 a.m., there’s just way too many bear traps you can step in the night before if you close your trip by buzzing the titter.

We went Friday and Saturday because we are trash.

I’ll spare you all but the most important details of Friday’s trip. It was, by most standards, a routine trip. We called ahead to get a table, we showed up late, they gave our table away, we pretended that we were high rollers, we bitched, we got another table, we douched it up big time with bottle service, etc. etc.

On this particular weekend, Mayweather was fighting some spare, and “The Money Team” was rolling real deep in town. By “The Money Team” I mean a bunch of random dudes wearing TMT shirts and hats that had zero affiliation with Mayweather, but thought that wearing TMT gear would grant them special Las Vegas powers. Unfortunately, that kind of attitude won’t get you very far with dancers, and it drove an unholy amount of the action toward our table. It was ground zero for bad decisions.

Mike was the MVP Friday night. He was a single guy on a bit of a dry spell, and he made a few trips back to VIP for the eternally sketchy “private dance.” I was sitting next to him at the table tossing Ketel and sodas down my throat when I heard the nice young gal he’d taken a liking to whisper, “I’ll let you get away with more in VIP.” Ughhhh. Classic stripper. It worked, though, because Mike went full T-Pain and fell in love that night.

I happened to be rooming with Mike that weekend, and as we laid there in silence watching Gameday on Saturday morning, Mike burst into maniacal laughter. “What?” I shouted as the FOMO hit me hard. He didn’t respond. Then, I noticed a new message pop up on my silenced phone that somehow wasn’t dead and/or broken. It was a screenshot of a text conversation.

My goodness, Mike got her number.

I wasn’t really shocked, as I’ve seen this happen before. My first reaction was to demand he solicit pics, but Mike wanted to slow play it. I rolled my eyes, as I knew he had played the “I can save you from this life” card. Douche.

The day went on in standard Vegas fashion: overpriced brunch, college football at the sports book with other degenerates yelling obscenities at 19-year-old student athletes, and multiple Miami-Vices at the pool. Our plan was to take naps after the pool, grab dinner in the hotel, then go straight to a club where one of our well-meaning, yet completely tool-ish, friends had a connection.

Look, I generally frown upon any “club” that’s not my boss’s country club, but sometimes you have to ride the wave. And I did.

We had a good time. The promoter guy, or whatever he’s called, constantly shuffled groups of outrageously dressed girls to our table. It was a goddam meat market, but we stuck out like Jim Webb at a Democratic debate with our oxfords, sans dragons, and jeans, sans embroidery. A few members got some numbers, one even had a disgustingly aggressive public make-out, but the squad wanted more.

“Text your girl,” I shouted at Mike. “See if she’s working.”

I regret those words.

You can probably deduce that not only was she working, but she convinced us to pay her a visit. Blood in the water.

We arrived at the shake joint with less fanfare than the night before, but we were way more boozed up. We hadn’t even been seated before Mike’s new little forbidden fling ran over and greeted him with a highly inappropriate hug. Some of us looked at each other with wide eyes, because we knew how hard Mike was about to get played.

As we sat there at the table, doing standard strip club things, Mike’s girl sat on his lap, drank from our bottle, and talked to him exclusively. I asked her for a dance just to be a dick, but she declined. Mike was in deep.

One of my last memories from the strip club was Mike, about one hour into the night, going back to VIP. As I watched him make that sad walk to the ATM, stripper in tow, I knew he was done. He was Joe Pesci in Goodfellas on his way to get made, but much like Tommy, his story does not have a happy ending.

I’m not positive, but I think that seeing Mike walk the green mile was enough to sober me up and get me the hell out of there. I apparently vanished/ghosted/departed/Irish Exited at some point like the responsible adult that I often pretend to be. My flight was leaving before 11 o’clock the next morning, and I was well on my way to a respectable 4.5 hours of sleep. Then I heard a loud banging on door. It was him.

Mike came home. He brought a friend.

I pulled open the door and immediately walked back to my bed. I had no interest in taking part of whatever was about to happen. He had successfully wrangled a stripper back to the room, but by doing so, he put us both in danger. I grabbed my wallet, phone, and the meager $80 in chips I earned through mediocre blackjack play and brought them into bed with me. I’ve heard absolute nightmare stories about escorts stealing some poor SOB’s phone and threatening to call his family if he didn’t pay up.

That didn’t go over well. That classy broad started barking at me with the classic “You don’t know me, man,” routine to which I responded from under the covers with a Manziel-esque middle finger. Funny enough, though, I did know her, man, because she took Mike to the cleaners.

We did the math, so I’ll just lay it out there:

1. Roughly $3,400.00 Friday and Saturday at the strip club. This included multiple trips to VIP, all with her, a bottle of champagne that he allegedly purchased in VIP but disputes, the bar tab he opened up Friday night for some unknown reason that included six rum and cokes we assume he purchased for her, and seven scotch and waters we assume he was drinking to look important (we had bottles at the table that other people paid for), and the various lap dances Mike was charged for even though this chick was just sitting on his lap and not even dancing for half of the time.

4. Finally, and most hilariously, 38 dollars for the Red Bulls and Grey Goose they raided from the mini-fridge.

That’s a grand total of $3,905.

But the best/worst part about? This chick was a 7 at best. Not even close to being worth it. Luckily, Mike’s single so he has no one to answer to, and he makes good money, so this only set him back morally. They haven’t spoken since, but I often try to convince him to send out a late-night text.

Be careful out there, boys, the world is a dangerous place. .

Image via YouTube

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Hey, I saw this on Post Grad Problems. Check it out.

Adrian Smeltre