That Hooker In Vegas

It’s the Spring of 2000. I’m temporarily living in Las Vegas, and I’m walking up Fremont Street, which goes from the southeast part of the city up to downtown.  It’s around 7am, so the streets are devoid of all the craziness that usually surrounds it. I’ve seem bum fights on Fremont Street, just kept walking like there was nothing to see.

So this brunette hooker approaches me with an offer: how about you buy me a cup of coffee, and I’ll perform a certain service for you. It’s the “service” that ends with the letters J-O-B, people. That kind of J-O-B that got President Clinton in trouble and made Monica Lewinsky famous. She’s got a bit of a face that tells me she’s probably done a few drugs, has a petite build, didn’t look like she was wearing a bra.

As she’s telling me this, I notice something very telling: the lack of eye contact. I knew enough about Las Vegas from my visit there in 1996 to know that this was a red flag. Never read anything about it up until that point in 2000, but instinct kicked in.

So many things I don’t know about this stranger who wanted to grease my weasel. She could have an STD for one, or be a front for some drug gang or thieves. Stories are abound in Vegas about women like this who slip mickeys into a guy’s drink to render them unconscious so that they can be robbed of their money and their possessions.

So I politely decline, and that was that. I’m not all that street smart, but my Mom didn’t raise no fool.

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