and call Val?”
“Nah.”
Royce finished his drink, pitched the plastic glass into the trash can.
“Come on. Let’s call her.”
Cliff scowled. “I already did. This afternoon.”
“And?”
“And the bitch gave us a bogus number. It belongs to the Vegas Planned Parenthood clinic.”
Royce chuckled.
“You think that’s funny?” Cliff said angrily.
“Hell, yes, I think it’s funny.”
Cliff finally smiled. “Guess you’re right. Hey, it’s that cunt who’s the loser. Missing out on a couple of cocksmen like us.”
“We’re studs all right. We can’t even get laid at a swinger’s convention.”
“Well, we’re gonna do something about that right now.” Cliff had thrust out his right forefinger to make his point and spilled his drink on Royce’s Topsiders. “What we got to do is get us an invite to one of the private orgies later. And I think I’ve got just the thing for easy entree.” He tenderly patted a tubular lump in his left pants pocket. “I’m perfectly willing to contribute some stash to the cause. All for one and one for all, I say.”
Royce frowned. “You think that’s wise? Here? They seem so straight.”
“You think if they were straight they could dress like this? No, we’ll be ass deep in pussy by midnight.”
“You might be right. But I think we should split up, work the crowd, better our chances.”
“Sounds like a plan. But don’t forget to tell them about the blow, Royce.”
“Certainly. Meet you back here, in say an hour?”
“Okay. Good hunting.”
Royce watched Cliff disappear into the crowd, in pursuit of a very tall, buxom redhead (Cliff had a special fondness for women of Valkyrie proportions).
Royce was glad to be rid of his friend for a while, especially since there was a chance of his pal making contact with an undercover narc. It seemed likely, in all this uninhibited cavorting, there might be one or two Vegas gendarmes. Hanging with Cliff you could never be too careful. Royce had developed a “You go first” posture when Cliff proposed stunts that were illegal, dangerous, or both.
Free of encumbrance, he wandered, feeling something of the nastiness of a voyeur but enjoying himself. There were many sexy women to ogle, and even some male physiques that gave Royce homophobic twinges. After awhile, all of it sort of took on a unisexual cast for him, as if overall body perfection was a more sought-after attribute than primary or secondary sexual characteristics. It struck him that he and Cliff never stood a chance of cracking this party. These swingers were just too healthy, not immoral—corrupt—enough. They didn’t smoke. Didn’t swear. Didn’t come for the gambling. And if the short lines Royce encountered at the cash bars were any indication, they didn’t drink either.
They did screw, no doubt with wild abandon under the right circumstances. He was sure of it. But they only fraternized with creatures of their own kind, which is where he and Cliff had made their big mistake. In Vegas, tonight, pay for play was the only option open for them.
Still, it did no harm to look. It afforded him a splendid opportunity to evaluate these people as a potential market (he’d minored in marketing at business school). Demographics? Firmly middle class, predominantly white, with an average annual household income of forty K. White collar and managerial blue collar, many self-employed. From what he could pick up, there seemed to be a preponderance of Southern accents—Texas, Georgia, Tennessee. Males in their forties and fifties; females in their thirties and forties (although occasionally the difference in ages was even more striking, and usually manifested itself in a potbellied, fiftyish, ex-hippie type in tandem with a hard-body blonde in her twenties). Many, he deduced, were on their second marriages. The couples were childless, for the most part, or their children were away in college.
Psychographics? A high degree of self-indulgence, with a
“Nah.”
Royce finished his drink, pitched the plastic glass into the trash can.
“Come on. Let’s call her.”
Cliff scowled. “I already did. This afternoon.”
“And?”
“And the bitch gave us a bogus number. It belongs to the Vegas Planned Parenthood clinic.”
Royce chuckled.
“You think that’s funny?” Cliff said angrily.
“Hell, yes, I think it’s funny.”
Cliff finally smiled. “Guess you’re right. Hey, it’s that cunt who’s the loser. Missing out on a couple of cocksmen like us.”
“We’re studs all right. We can’t even get laid at a swinger’s convention.”
“Well, we’re gonna do something about that right now.” Cliff had thrust out his right forefinger to make his point and spilled his drink on Royce’s Topsiders. “What we got to do is get us an invite to one of the private orgies later. And I think I’ve got just the thing for easy entree.” He tenderly patted a tubular lump in his left pants pocket. “I’m perfectly willing to contribute some stash to the cause. All for one and one for all, I say.”
Royce frowned. “You think that’s wise? Here? They seem so straight.”
“You think if they were straight they could dress like this? No, we’ll be ass deep in pussy by midnight.”
“You might be right. But I think we should split up, work the crowd, better our chances.”
“Sounds like a plan. But don’t forget to tell them about the blow, Royce.”
“Certainly. Meet you back here, in say an hour?”
“Okay. Good hunting.”
Royce watched Cliff disappear into the crowd, in pursuit of a very tall, buxom redhead (Cliff had a special fondness for women of Valkyrie proportions).
Royce was glad to be rid of his friend for a while, especially since there was a chance of his pal making contact with an undercover narc. It seemed likely, in all this uninhibited cavorting, there might be one or two Vegas gendarmes. Hanging with Cliff you could never be too careful. Royce had developed a “You go first” posture when Cliff proposed stunts that were illegal, dangerous, or both.
Free of encumbrance, he wandered, feeling something of the nastiness of a voyeur but enjoying himself. There were many sexy women to ogle, and even some male physiques that gave Royce homophobic twinges. After awhile, all of it sort of took on a unisexual cast for him, as if overall body perfection was a more sought-after attribute than primary or secondary sexual characteristics. It struck him that he and Cliff never stood a chance of cracking this party. These swingers were just too healthy, not immoral—corrupt—enough. They didn’t smoke. Didn’t swear. Didn’t come for the gambling. And if the short lines Royce encountered at the cash bars were any indication, they didn’t drink either.
They did screw, no doubt with wild abandon under the right circumstances. He was sure of it. But they only fraternized with creatures of their own kind, which is where he and Cliff had made their big mistake. In Vegas, tonight, pay for play was the only option open for them.
Still, it did no harm to look. It afforded him a splendid opportunity to evaluate these people as a potential market (he’d minored in marketing at business school). Demographics? Firmly middle class, predominantly white, with an average annual household income of forty K. White collar and managerial blue collar, many self-employed. From what he could pick up, there seemed to be a preponderance of Southern accents—Texas, Georgia, Tennessee. Males in their forties and fifties; females in their thirties and forties (although occasionally the difference in ages was even more striking, and usually manifested itself in a potbellied, fiftyish, ex-hippie type in tandem with a hard-body blonde in her twenties). Many, he deduced, were on their second marriages. The couples were childless, for the most part, or their children were away in college.
Psychographics? A high degree of self-indulgence, with a
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