Miss Morgan's Strap-On
Tales from inside a Vegas titty bar.
When you make that long walk toward your return flight, through the never-ending airport terminal, past the last-ditch slot machines and the Wolfgang Puck Express restaurant, you realize something very important about life: Despite what any commercial says, nothing truly stays in Vegas. (Except most of your money.)
Still, like those stories based upon strip-joint happenings, most desert tales are off-limits for public consumption. So says the Guy Rule Manual. But every so often, something — someone — so wrongfully right happens, the rules don't apply. Like who's depicted in that fancy illustration over in the next column, for instance.
The blonde's Miss Morgan. In her left hand is the $40 she just got from my boy Spree. In her right hand is one of my other boys' ankles; call him Bernard. Miss Morgan is walking toward a wall of beads. More like ball bearings, actually, but suffice it to say, they serve as an effective buffer between a down-and-dirty Vegas strip joint's bar area and the one in which laps are danced upon one too-quick song at a time.
;)
: Evan m. lopez (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION) |
Bernard is a bit skittish. Something just doesn't feel right. He doesn't want to proceed beyond the ball-bearing wall, oh no he doesn't. But little does he know, his life — and the fate of civilization — is about to change forever.
Before we get deeper with Bernard, though, an admission: I'm no ad exec — that's understood. But as I settled into seat 18D the other morning and found the sweet sorta-sleep my tired bones craved, you could've thought otherwise. Rather than finding salvation in a roulette ball dropping on nine with a crisp Benjamin on it, my eureka moment came courtesy of a jingle-developing delusion:
"'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' can't be Sin City's calling card forever, right?" Right. "OK, what about, 'And now, back to your regularly scheduled lives'?" Brilliant!
But a catch phrase does not an effective campaign make, oh no it doesn't. So this is where Bernard and Miss Morgan come in. Fair warning: If you're not all about reading absurd, indulgent, no-point-having tales of borderline-fratboy behavior, walk away from the paper now. (This includes you, Mrs. Hickey.) Gone? Good.
The binge is about 41 hours old when we leave the Bellagio's five-star amenities for some Golden Nugget comfort. (Comfort = a suite in sorta-seedy old Vegas, the place where dental hygiene went to die.) Spree and I try a table variation of Hold 'Em. Holding a six and a 10, I fold 'em. Out with the flop comes an eight and nine. I tell Spree, "I'm going to kick myself in the fucking balls if a seven comes up."
Seven of spades.
I suggest a change of venue. The strip club opens at 1 p.m. By 1:07, we're in.
Minding our own business like good Christians, we're approached by some girls who long ago went wild. Small talk is made. Small talk is ended. But by 2 p.m., all bets were off.
Mannish would be one word. Frightening in a James-Earl-Jones-holding-court-in-a-dark-alley kind of way, a few more. And they'd all adequately describe the voice that delivered the line, "Hello. I'm Miss Morgan. Who wants a dance?"
Spree stared at his shoes. I stared at Spree's shoes. And Miss Morgan went on her merry way, leaving us to 1) repeatedly imitate her voice like a pair of hyperactive third-graders and 2) go wake up Bernard and the other slackers to make Miss Morgan's acquaintance. This was a community service. She wanted to dance for somebody. We wanted her to shimmy all over Bernard. So, back in the suite: "We met you a nice lady, Bernard; a real doll." Delivered, of course, in character voice was the point that the only conceivable drawback would be "Miss Morgan's fuckin' cock slamming into your face." (Full disclosure: As nice as can be, she neither talked like a man — exactly — nor boasted of true male genitalia, but don't let that ruin the fun.)
The return trip is made. The dollars slide out of our pockets, the Jaegers down our throats. Bernard heads to the gentleman's room. Miss Morgan heads over to his empty seat and introduces herself to a friend she'd yet to meet. The friend immediately shoots Jack and Coke through his nose. (It stung like a bitch.)
Spree hands her $40 and explains she's Bernard's type, so show him a grrr-eat time. Still in Bernard's chair, she assures us she's game. Bernard returns and, sitting down next to me, which he mistakenly considered safe harbor, whispers, "Let's get someone a dance with her." Sucka.
By now, Miss Morgan's locked in. She's ready. Bernard isn't. She offers. He declines. Four times. She tells him it's already paid for and grasps his arm with bear-trap intensity. Beyond the ball bearings they go.
Rather not know what went on back yonder? Not me, who dropped $35 to catch a glimpse of Bernard getting Morganized. He looked so smitten that his true love for Miss Morgan immediately entered the realm of reunion lore. By now, mind you, another friend had arrived, a friend who barely knew Bernard, and seeing Miss Morgan delicately lead him back to the crowd thought aloud, Bernard "has some strange taste in women, huh?"
Soon, the loving couple offered a debriefing.
Bernard (whisper): "You know, that was actually, um, pretty good."
Miss Morgan (holding loud court): "I love your friend's cock. Gimme some-a dat alfredo sauce, baby. Alfredo sauce. Baby!!!"
Me (fighting to keep Jaeger from shooting through my nose): "He's into strap-ons, you know."
Miss Morgan (with an expression belying the owner of multiple strap-ons): "Oh yeah, baby. Miss Morgan likey."
OK, that last line's a bit of embellishment. I lost it at alfredo sauce; at that moment, Bernard became "Alfredo" Freddie Morgan for life. And Freddie Morgan (don't seek logic where it doesn't exist) would mentally become a television-show judge with Miss Morgan as his jury, and her strap-on, the executioner. After hearing testimony, Freddie would render his decision, which, inevitably, involved him dancing all ragtimey in front of the bench while Miss Morgan forcefully delivered justice.
So two days of Morgan-speak pass before that long walk through the never-ending airport terminal. Bernard deals with quite a few looks from passers-by who thinks he's a celebrity. This probably has to do with the fact that, walking two steps behind him, Spree and I thought it'd be fun to loudly ask, "Hey, isn't that the guy from TV? Freddie something? Judge Freddie Morgan! Holy shit! Can we have an autograph, sir?"
Drawing even more attention to His Honor, we gushingly tell him he's the absolute best! Then, a suggestion: He ought to hear the case of whether the president and vice president destroyed a nation's credibility and, upon reaching the logical conclusion, surrender them to Miss Morgan's will. For only in this way could justice truly be served, we tell him shortly after taking off our shoes at the security checkpoint.
Well, Judge Morgan thought long and hard about this while waiting for his Puck Express breakfast pizza. Alas, the world will have to wait until next March for his decision. Bernard's returned to his regularly scheduled life.
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