America, You Sexy Bitch by Michael Black Meghan McCain Page B
Authors: Michael Black Meghan McCain
Ads: Link
Salt Lake City leaves at eight, and after two hours of sleep it is only by the grace of God that I’m able to leave my hotel room and make it downstairs to meet Stephie and Michael. My pimp suite ended up crammed with Josh and Kasey, due to a glitch in their own reservation. With all the suitcases and rollaways scattered around the room, packing and winding my way out the door is no small feat.
I drag myself, hung over and makeupless, into the lobby a few minutes late, and Michael’s already there, tapping one Croc on the marble. I feel guilty and embarrassed for some reason, an emotion completely alien to my relationship with Las Vegas.
He asks me from behind his sunglasses, “How late did you stay out?” At almost six feet, Michael towers over my five-foot-two
frame, which makes me feel like I’m back in high school and my parents are asking me where I spent the night.
“Somewhere around four-thirty, I guess,” I say sheepishly.
“I stayed up all night playing poker, so neither of us got any sleep,” he says with a commiserating laugh.
It should make me feel better, but as we get in the taxi for the Las Vegas airport, I am nauseous and uncomfortable. I’m thankful that Stephie’s in the car. Michael’s idea of including her on the road as our tour manager and guide is my hangover’s saving grace: she is the perfect buffer between the two of us. Even so, I feel a looming sense of “what have I gotten myself into?” yet again. The trip is really about to start and I no longer will have my own Stephie in my corner. No more cabin. No more hometown. No more Jimmy. No more Kasey and Josh.
To say it feels strange to get into a taxi, leaving Las Vegas after spending a night together exploring strip clubs, the world of exotic dancing, and buying each other lap dances is an understatement. It’s like everything is going backwards. Michael and I are experiencing things together that normally only close friends would do, but the ugly truth is that we don’t know each other at all. Usually when I meet someone I either love them instantly and we are bonded for life, or I feel more cautious and we end up just acquaintances. The thing with Michael is I still have a difficult time gauging how he is feeling or what he likes. I can’t believe that after watching a bunch of women dance naked together, we could still feel so darn awkward with one another, and this worries me.
Michael: The next morning we meet outside the Palms at eight o’clock for our flight to Salt Lake City. Meghan comes downstairs in sunglasses. She does not meet my gaze.
“How’d it go last night?” I ask her.
“Fine,” she says in a voice pitched a little too high.
“Did you get any sleep?”
She shrugs. She didn’t. She’s embarrassed.
“Did you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m embarrassed too, because after I dropped off Stephie in the lobby, I played poker all night, trading chips with obnoxious tourists until dawn. I am exhausted. There’s a quiet moment when neither of us says anything. We just stand out in the sun trying to blink ourselves awake.
After a few moments of silence, Meghan asks, “Are you having fun?”
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “You?”
“I’m having a great time.”
Each of us is trying to convince the other that we are having a good and/or great time. The whole trip is starting to feel like a first date, a really odd, really long first date. I’m not saying it’s a bad first date, but it’s got that kind of charged atmosphere where each person is hoping to make a good first impression even if they’re not necessarily interested in seeing each other ever again. The problem is that our first date is going to be a month long.
A few hours later, we arrive in Salt Lake City just as Brigham Young and his band of followers did 160-something years ago: exhausted, bedraggled, and filthy. The difference is that, unlike the early
I drag myself, hung over and makeupless, into the lobby a few minutes late, and Michael’s already there, tapping one Croc on the marble. I feel guilty and embarrassed for some reason, an emotion completely alien to my relationship with Las Vegas.
He asks me from behind his sunglasses, “How late did you stay out?” At almost six feet, Michael towers over my five-foot-two
frame, which makes me feel like I’m back in high school and my parents are asking me where I spent the night.
“Somewhere around four-thirty, I guess,” I say sheepishly.
“I stayed up all night playing poker, so neither of us got any sleep,” he says with a commiserating laugh.
It should make me feel better, but as we get in the taxi for the Las Vegas airport, I am nauseous and uncomfortable. I’m thankful that Stephie’s in the car. Michael’s idea of including her on the road as our tour manager and guide is my hangover’s saving grace: she is the perfect buffer between the two of us. Even so, I feel a looming sense of “what have I gotten myself into?” yet again. The trip is really about to start and I no longer will have my own Stephie in my corner. No more cabin. No more hometown. No more Jimmy. No more Kasey and Josh.
To say it feels strange to get into a taxi, leaving Las Vegas after spending a night together exploring strip clubs, the world of exotic dancing, and buying each other lap dances is an understatement. It’s like everything is going backwards. Michael and I are experiencing things together that normally only close friends would do, but the ugly truth is that we don’t know each other at all. Usually when I meet someone I either love them instantly and we are bonded for life, or I feel more cautious and we end up just acquaintances. The thing with Michael is I still have a difficult time gauging how he is feeling or what he likes. I can’t believe that after watching a bunch of women dance naked together, we could still feel so darn awkward with one another, and this worries me.
Michael: The next morning we meet outside the Palms at eight o’clock for our flight to Salt Lake City. Meghan comes downstairs in sunglasses. She does not meet my gaze.
“How’d it go last night?” I ask her.
“Fine,” she says in a voice pitched a little too high.
“Did you get any sleep?”
She shrugs. She didn’t. She’s embarrassed.
“Did you?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m embarrassed too, because after I dropped off Stephie in the lobby, I played poker all night, trading chips with obnoxious tourists until dawn. I am exhausted. There’s a quiet moment when neither of us says anything. We just stand out in the sun trying to blink ourselves awake.
After a few moments of silence, Meghan asks, “Are you having fun?”
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say. “You?”
“I’m having a great time.”
Each of us is trying to convince the other that we are having a good and/or great time. The whole trip is starting to feel like a first date, a really odd, really long first date. I’m not saying it’s a bad first date, but it’s got that kind of charged atmosphere where each person is hoping to make a good first impression even if they’re not necessarily interested in seeing each other ever again. The problem is that our first date is going to be a month long.
A few hours later, we arrive in Salt Lake City just as Brigham Young and his band of followers did 160-something years ago: exhausted, bedraggled, and filthy. The difference is that, unlike the early
Similar Books
