Weekends later in Las Vegas, I christen my body Russian style, downing vodka shot after shot with dear provocative girlfriends. Tassel-adorned lace halter top meets pierced belly button meets low riding mini skirt meets fishnets meets stilettos. We are here to be vile. Our hips swish as we make our way through dance clubs, ready for exploitative wild fun.
The morning I was to miss my flight home, I awake recumbent in the middle of the fourteenth floor hallway of the Treasure Island hotel to see the top of a mortgage broker’s head resting on my crotch, which is thankfully still clad in red tights. He introduced himself nights prior at a club, attracted to my black stockings and boots. He had a fetish for tights and would make me promise to send him mine, unwashed. I sent them but washed them first. The broker was great. Indeed, he was great practice for my newly installed tongue ring. Upon bumping into him the last night of my trip, a tornado of friends whipped around us giving him brotherly handshakes goodbye and shoving into my hands essentials – phone, ID and lip gloss. As soon as the maelstrom came it left, and then it was just us two. He was fraternally pure, affirmed by a series of failed attempts to make us comfortable enough in his hotel room to do what people stereotypically hope to do only in Vegas. We started under starched sheets that let in painful silence upheld by his two roommates. We then migrated to the bathroom where I perched on a low counter top and dexterously cupped my tights-clad feet around what would have been his nude penis had he been able to squat lower. We finally trailed a cleaning lady down the hall who wasted no time refusing his twenty dollar offer to occupy the room she was cleaning. And so it was in the hallway that we laid ourselves down – me to sleep, him to reach futilely between my legs ensconced in red tights and lick. Red red red.
Back home nursing sore throats from mass alcohol consumption and punctured feet from others’ wayward heels, my friends and I pore over pictures from the weekend. Between fits of laughter and proclamations to revisit the Vegas versions of ourselves, we sit before each other, representing a new kind of single young woman. The kind of woman who seeks sexual adventure without apology or regret. The Modern Day Ishtar.
And then weeks later, the Modern Day Ishtar meets a special man.
Tags: date, dating, Las Vegas, stockings, stockings fetish, tights, tights fetish, Treasure Island, Vegas
