Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

The Curious Case of Holly


Axe was jobless, and I had a week off school for Thanksgiving break. So we went to Vegas. On a Monday.

Nothing Unusual happened on Monday, and Tuesday night was fizzling out faster than a snail in salt. Having lost everything we’d won and more, Axe and I were sick of gambling, and we suddenly craved vagina. Desperate for excitement, we went to five different casinos only to find the same damn thing: nothing. We reasoned that if we were going to get laid, returning The Tropicana, our hotel, would be the place to maximize our sex hopes. We were wrong. The Tropicana was a rotting ashtray.

Axe convinced me that the Luxor would be better, so we made the ten-minute walk there. As we made the transition from the long hallway to the Luxor casino floor, a gorgeous blonde (a 9 or 9.5 minimum) in a flannel and tight jeans was walking in our direction.

Since Axe is one of those guys who always have to walk ahead of people, he had first shot at her. Judging by the looks of this one—tall, blonde, blue eyes, clean skin, beautiful—he’d be all over it. He looked at her, hesitated, and continued on. Considering this girl was a perfect specimen of his “type,” why he didn’t say a word to her was perplexing. I picked up his fumble and approached her.

“I like your flannel. Where are you going?”

“I’m cashing this ticket,” she said. Her voice may have had an accent.

I looked down at her slot machine ticket. It was for a whopping twelve dollars. “Oh really,” I said. “Do you have an accent?”

“Accent?” she replied, flashing me a smile of confusion.

“Yeah. Is it German?”

“Does it sound like I have an accent now?”

“Oh. No, now it’s normal. But you do look German.”

She laughed. “I am part German, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have an accent. I live here.”

I smiled. “Who are you here with?”

“My friend, but he’s playing blackjack. What about you?”

I turned around to find Axe swiveling around on a slot machine chair, his mouth agape in either disbelief or skepticism. I couldn’t make out which. “I’m with my friend. We’ve been to like six casinos already; everywhere’s dead.”

“I know,” she said. “It is Tuesday, though.”

Axe tapped my shoulder. “Hey dude, I’m going to go see if my friend still works here.” He later admitted this was a lie, but since he saw I had a chance with this prize, he gave me space.

“OK,” I said, turning back to probably the hottest girl on the strip at that point. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Holly. What’s your name?”

“Dave.” I frowned at her. “You’re not leaving are you?”

She hesitated and then shook her head.

“Come on.” I motioned toward what appeared to be a bar fifty yards away. “Let’s get a drink.”

We walked.

I ordered a beer; she had a margarita, which she affirmed was her first drink of the night. I found out she was twenty-five, had moved to Vegas from Missouri a year ago, and now worked at a cheerleading store. She also couldn’t free herself from her phone. Her phone was interrupting her every two minutes with a text. I’d been holding in my pee for the last twenty minutes now, so midway through my beer I told her to come to the bathroom with me. “Will you hold my hand?” she asked, a sexy smile dancing on her face.

            “Of course, let’s go” I grabbed her hand and we walked around the corner to the bathroom. I checked my phone. Text from Axe: “Make sure she’s not a hooker. This place is crawling with them.”

Axe had a point. Holly had to be a hooker. I’ve pulled hot women before, but none of them came this easy. In order to answer the hooker question, I decided to put my post-bathroom kiss technique into effect. If she kissed me, she was probably legit.

I exited the bathroom to find her playing a slot—the video one with like five rows and seven columns and pictures of buses and choo choo trains and mushrooms and all different kinds of zigzag ways of winning. I sat down, leaned into her so my face was close to hers, and then went in for the kiss. She kissed me back. There, on a slot machine chair, next to a bathroom, at 2:30 a.m. on a Tuesday night, I made out with one of the hottest girls in Nevada.

We got up after a few minutes of tongue fighting. “We need to get out of this casino,” I declared. She agreed and then texted her “friend” to tell him she was on her own. She didn’t even ask where we were going. I simply led her into the night, and back the same route Axe and I had come. Back to the Tropicana.

Taking her immediately to my room would have made me look like an outright slimeball. Even though it was obvious we both wanted sex, certain rules must be obeyed. Every girl—even turbo sluts—has her: “Actually, I can’t do this” point. When we arrived at Tropicana, I suggested we get another drink at the bar. She requested Jager Bombs and I happily agreed. We downed them and made our way past the tables. Every single guy in the casino turned to ogle Holly.

After the tables came the escalator. After the escalator came the mile long walk past the shopping stands before the elevator. When we finally arrived at my room, I had a flash of déjà vu. If my keycard didn’t work this time I was going pull an assault rifle on all Tropicana employees. I slipped in the card. Click Beep Beep. We were in.

I took a leak immediately. Axe’s hooker warning still lingered in my mind, so I peed on the toilet bowl instead of in the water to reduce the noise. I wanted to listen for any rustling sounds in the room in case Holly was robbing me. Right then I received a text from Axe, who was apparently telepathic. His text: “Make sure she doesn’t steal my laptop.”

I texted back, “Don’t worry. Gonna need the room for an hour. Don’t come up.”

I pushed her down on the bed. She smiled, kissing me. She stopped momentarily and turned her head. She obviously wanted to ask me something, so I paused and waited. “I just have two questions,” she finally announced. “Are you going to take me back to the Luxor; and do you have a condom?”

I found it an odd combination of questions, but I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, of course.” Boner.

I went down on Holly for at least fifteen minutes. The flavor wasn’t quite up to expectations, but I went at it anyway, my mind in full-fledged I’m-horny-and-it-doesn’t-matter-if-the-pussy’s-rank mode.

The only side effect of never puking from alcohol, is the overwhelming amount of urinating I do. My friends all think I need to get my bladder/prostate checked out, but I’ve done some research on “Yahoo health” and “Wikipedia,” and my urinating habits are perfectly fine. I just have a pathetically small bladder. Immediately after 69-ing her, I had to take another leak. She was lying on her back, ready to fuck. I had a decision to make: kill the passion and run to the toilet; or hold it in and begin plowing.

I held it in. Seriously, other than European pornstars, who takes a piss just before sex? There was no way I was risking sex for a pee run. It’d be like punting on 1st-and-goal. I slipped on the condom and went at it. Frustratingly, her phone rang just as I slipped my dick in. “Oh come on!” I yelled. Ninety seconds later, I decided it was time to finish the job. I fucked her faster and faster, ejaculating after a meager two minutes of sex. I collapsed on top of her, then got up and ran to the bathroom. “I gotta pee again,” I said as I violently pushed open the bathroom door. Holly chuckled.

During cuddle time, her phone received at least six more missed calls and over nine texts. After a half hour of this, she hopped up, got dressed, and said, “Okay. I should get going. People are worried about me.”

We got dressed, but before walking her back to the Luxor, I double-checked to make sure Axe’s laptop was still on the table, and when she wasn’t looking, I counted the chips I’d had in my pocket and the cash in my wallet. Everything appeared normal, but I still had a fishy feeling about Holly. I gave her a kiss goodbye as we made fake plans of driving out to see each other again.

A good deal of the drive home the next day was spent discussing the mystery surrounding Holly. For one, Axe was pissed at himself for passing her up. Axe and I have differing preferences when it comes to women. If you were to break down our tastes in a Venn Diagram, it would look something like this:

Holly was quite amazing, but Axe was still convinced she was a hooker. He had a good argument: she had a twelve-dollar slot machine ticket, and all of the Vegas hookers we’ve come across were slot players; it’s what they do. She was sober and she was by herself (We didn’t believe her “blackjack friend” thing.). She worked at a “cheerleading store.” Do those even exist? She received nearly ten phone calls and texts in the two hours I was with her—probably all from clients. She was awake, on a Tuesday night, at two in the morning, wandering through an empty casino. And she was hot.

Maybe I’m discrediting myself, but I wasn’t that smooth. Hot girls don’t just wander around casinos on a weeknight and then magically wind up naked on your bed within an hour of meeting them. Maybe I was Holly’s perfect type? Perhaps. I do consider myself attractive, but if you were to take a random sample of a hundred American girls and ask them what they thought about my looks, the breakdown would look something like this:’

-Five would say, “He’s hot.”

-Fifteen would say, “He’s a cutie.”

-Twenty would say, “He’s kinda cute, but not my type.”

-Thirty-five would say, “Eh.”

-Twenty would say, “Ew. Yeah right.”

-Five would say, “Ewwuhh! He’s ugly.” (For some reason I imagine all five of the “He’s ugly” girls being overweight blonde girls who speak in a high-pitched, “Awkwerrrrrd,” even though everything is perfectly fine. I hate those chicks anyway.)

To say that Holly was one of the five “He’s hot” girls is a possibility, but something still didn’t add up. Axe and I then conjectured that she was a hooker, but it was her first day on the job, and she completely chickened out when it came time to discuss “business.”

Whatever it was, Axe was still angry with himself for passing her up, considering that typically girls who go for me also go for him. His excuse: “I don’t know, man; I just assumed she was a hooker. That, and when I used to live at the Luxor (Axe worked on Criss Angel’s Mind Freak show for six months in ‘08) in the same general area where we saw that chick, I met the sexiest, coolest chick ever and talked to her for an hour. Then I found out she was a hooker. Ever since then, I’ve had a sixth sense on pre-judging chicks as hookers.”

            “Man, you were way off.” I said, my eyes on the road.

            Axe laughed. “You secretly think she was a hooker, don’t you?”

            I smiled. “Yep.”


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