Single in Sin City

Note from the blogger: In honor of my recent celebration of baby sister's 21st birthday in Vegas, I'll share below my first ever guest-post on one of my favorite blogs: that of my best and oldest friend, Chels. Here's to the success of her recently revamped: Single in Sin City. Thanks for being my inspiration, bestie!

Me and Chels this past weekend - pretending we were 21 again

As an LA native and new SF local, being a guest of Sin City makes me the most run-of-the-mill type of girl walking the Strip these days. I'm in town for a night or two for several purposes. Nope, not work or relaxation... I'm there to party, to have girl time, to meet guys, and to relax, sure (while looking cute and taking seemingly carefree Instagram selfies). I'm there to be the girl that I am not on your average weekday.

Mind you, I am entirely stereotyping AND generalizing at the same time. This is the Vegas I've experienced as a California girl... it's the one I've seen since I was underage and adventuring there with a fake ID on a frat bus full of shit-shows. It's the Vegas that I have done while freshly single, while LONG-single, and while partially-pseudo-single. Never have I been when I wasn't single, I don't think. Hence the title: Single in City City. It's the only way to be there.

What is it about Vegas that allows us to act the way we do? Is it a similar phenomenon to Halloween, in which the standard is so outrageous that we feel comfortable being any form of our real or imagined selves, in whatever costume we can get our hands on? I mean, there's no dress code; there's no way to be sleazier than some you'll see on the Vegas Blvd street corners. There's no one there to judge your appearance (who you'll ever see again after that weekend), and there are no parents or bosses who you might accidentally run into.

There's no pressure to meet the one or act a certain way, because there's no need to impress the dance partner or one-night stand you'll find on the dance floor in Vegas. No one wants to marry the one they met on a Vegas weekend. Right? There's no limit to how high ones dress can hike or high ones heels can spike, because the outfit is only for one night and there's only one place in which you can get away with wearing those things.

You pull out the dress, the outfit you chose for a night out in Vegas because it's too tight and low cut to wear at your average weeknight happy hour. It's too hot to ever throw away, too slutty to ever donate and too expensive not to save forever in the back of your silk-lined underwear drawer, frankly. You wear it because something about that hotel room lighting makes you feel like you look like a million bucks; I mean, your friends told you so and the guys you passed on the way into the cab clearly liked it (according to the whistles). You wear it because it's hot as fuck outside if you're in summer and the short dress is the easiest to dance around in, even if you're in winter.

After a few conversations, a couple strong drinks and maybe even a duck-out from the wrong guy for your ideal evening, you spot the hottie that may end up being your Vegas hook-up... otherwise known as the Sin City Soulmate (as only I would call him). You look over until he makes eye contact -because when ELSE has your makeup, your carefully penciled eyeliner and thickened mascara, ever looked this good? You twist and dance and shake it shamelessly because the music is somehow perfect and booze is now pumping through your bloodstream. You even nonchalantly inch toward his corner of the dance floor because you want to be close to him -- to share this excitement with someone on your level.

You consider how the night will end, and you realize that you don't want it to. You may have mixed friend groups by this time, and you also may have lost all of them by now. You glance at the time according to your iPhone and cringe at the hour, only on the inside. Outside, you're grabbing his hand for another round on the dance floor because your heeled feet are numb now and you may as well capitalize on your adrenaline rush, get a quality workout in. You ask yourself: will I go home with him? Could I do that? He is making you feel like the hottest girl in the room -- hell, in all of Sin City -- holding you tight and keeping his eyes locked onto you even when you flip your hair and pretend to look away. So you'll swiftly exit to the Strip, hand in hand, and notice that the sun is coming is already coming up with both the promise and the inherent tragedy of a new day. 

You may jaunt back to whomever's hotel room with a skip in your steps, in the anticipation of stretching your wild night into the depths of a late morning between the sheets. Perhaps you'll meander back without a deadline in the world because you'd rather share a few drunken stories about your Vegas weekend between kisses, watching that unrivaled desert sunrise over the cheesy, jagged landscape. If you're lucky, you might even make it upstairs in time to watch said sunrise from the penthouse balcony of the Cosmo, wrapped in Egyptian cotton. 

The best part of it all is is the too-true saying: What happens in Sin City stays in Sin City. At least, it probably should stay, according to most modern history of Vegas debauchery. Hasn't anyone here seen The Hangover? Snapchat should always be the social avenue of choice on a night like the one described above. Why is it then that the aforementioned Sin City Soulmate can't get out of my head... nor out of my recent text history?! It all begins with the morning-after sext; before you know it, it's become bed-time FaceTime dates spent wallowing over the distance between you. 

I know I shouldn't waste a second entertaining the possibility; I mean, in most cases of my Vegas luck lover-boy has turned out to live in some far off land - like Canada! But I can't help it... my mind can't help but journey back to that fateful night beneath the flashing lights at XS, alongside the sparkling shallows at Surrender and Marquee. There was the way he snuck his fingers beneath my dress hem as we danced, and the exasperation in his voice when he whispered in my ear: Where have you been?! Maybe there was something just devastating about the innocence in his questions, his genuine curiosity, and the pure absence of any suggestion that I come back to his hotel. You know you're in trouble when Sin City leaves you wanting more.

As it turns out, What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas -- most of the time, that is.

Us circa my 23rd in 2012

For the original post (and an even more NC-17 edition), see the original here.

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