I apologize in advance for all of the errors I'm going to make in this post -- I got three hours of sleep last night between landing at the airport from a long weekend in Las Vegas and getting up this morning to get the kids off to school. And yes, I may very well be suffering through the tail end of a hangover. It's certainly within the realm of possibility.
A long weekend in Las Vegas has the potential to be life-changing if you do it right, and while that sort of thing didn't happen this weekend, I did make several very intriguing field observations about Game in the wild, untamed, anything-goes erotic landscape of Las Vegas. I like Las Vegas, if you can't tell. It's like Disney for adults. While they used to call it Sin City, I prefer the more accurate term the "City of Id". If you've got a sexual itch to scratch, Las Vegas is like a premier buffet.
But before I expound about my Single Game in Vegas observations, I want to cover the Married Game advantages to a weekend away in this most decadent of environments. Some couples fear the idea of Vegas, too insecure in their relationship to be tempted by the fleshpots of Nevada. Me, I just needed a vacation, and Mrs. Ironwood had a conference there, so we killed two birds and while she was being all noble and saving the world I was getting wasted around the clock and spending my kids' inheritance on penny slots and fruity rum drinks.
This was my third trip to the burgh, and after Mrs. I's conference was over and I was able to sober up enough to go and be social with her, we decided to blow off the closing session for something a little more . . . intimate.
"Intimate" in this case meant dirty dancing with my wife in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.
Look, everyone wants a hot sex weekend in Vegas, and as you get older your expectations for such events go up even as they become more infrequent. And there was plenty of sex -- but that wasn't the draw for either of us. We already have plenty of sex, thanks to the Red Pill. But what is often missing from the lives of middle-aged married couples is that sense of excitement and intensity that may have faded over the years as you get used to each others' personal sexual idiosyncrasies. The stuff that turns into hypergamy and/or infidelity if you aren't careful. There is real danger in relationship ennui, and as Athol points out in yesterday's insightful post, you just can't count on a regular Date Night to keep things spicy and interesting.
But a drunken weekend in Vegas ...
We hit the buffet at Harrah's and pigged out, which did both of our stomachs good. We were actually planning on heading over to the Erotic Museum, which I've planned on attending each of the three times I've been in Vegas and never quite making, and this time was no different. We were even headed to the taxi stand to splurge on a cab there when we walked passed the open-air Carnaval bar at Harrah's and decided to stop inside for a smoke and get our bearings. We ended up staying there for over six hours.
The reason was the band. Now, you can find every kind of entertainment known to man in Las Vegas, from transvestite lounge acts to comedy to acrobatics to a donkey show, if you know where to look. The entertainment options are truly limitless. But the mid-Sunday-afternoon band at the bar, an 80s tribute band called the Nancy Rayguns was free, enthusiastic, and actually quite good. Throw in some drink specials, a flair bartender named Flippy, and a crowd of middle-aged Gen Xers who actually remember the songs that the band played, and you have one hell of a pink-and-teal acid-washed party.
But I had the nascent beginnings of a plan. The point of this exercise wasn't merely to be entertained: it was to pay some very public attention to my wife in a way she would be reluctant to see if we weren't in the land of the 24 hour hooker, surrounded by a sea of Asian tourists and drunken old farts. The point was to show her that I'm still hungry. Like the wolf.
I think that's a trap too many Blue Pill dudes fall into: once they are safely in a relationship, they forget the need to publicly express their desire for their woman. Mrs. Ironwood and I went into that bar as a middle-aged husband and wife, and while that didn't change ostensibly, in actuality it was far more like a boyfriend taking out his girlfriend to a show than a husband and wife enjoying a quiet afternoon of entertainment.
Simply put, the moment I heard the first rockabilly strains of "Goody Two-Shoes", it was like it was 1987 all over again. Sure, there was an element of nostalgia for my lost youth -- but it was far more a reminder of how far I've come in my life. In 1987 I was overweight, underconfident, and mired in Blue Pill ideology that saw me get my heart handed to me by a series of women. Hearing that band brought me back to my youth, sure. Only this time I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to girls. And I had conveniently packed my own.
So it was SHOWTIME for Ian.
Back when all of these songs came out, I had been stunted by insecurity and brow-beaten by the Blue Pill: it made me either a sullen wallflower or an over-the-top spaz when it came to girls. It was the Age of AIDS and date rape seminars, the height of the cultural purge of masculinity the feminists waged throughout the Age of Teal. I had been awkward, ugly, low-value, and sullenly embittered by the unfairness of it all and the hopelessness going forward. You know, Teen Stuff.
Now . . . . not so much. It took that nostalgic, painful flash of teenage angst associated with that music to make me appreciate just how far I have come. The dude I was would never have dared to nuzzle a chick's neck in a public place without three pieces of signed and notarized documentation stating in advance that said neck-nuzzling was an acceptable and mutually consensual act agreed upon before hand that in no way obligated either party to any further activity not covered herein.
But now, I brazenly nibbled and more or less felt her up in an affectionate-and-socially-acceptable way in front of a crowd of drunken strangers. I knew now what all of her Indicators of Interest were, and how I could arouse them through a combination of brazen cockiness and bold Alpha displays, especially in the social context of fellow adults engaged in similar pursuits.
I knew that the ragged strains of Joan Jett and the smooth crooning of Boy George, not to mention the naked , raw sexuality of Oates (sorry, Hall not so much) triggered a similar sexual nostalgia for her, taking her back to when sex revolved around cute boys and marrying someone rich and famous, not the titanic interpersonal struggle it evolved into as we matured. I knew, without a shred of doubt or a hint of insecurity that I looked good, I was out with my chick, I could exhibit my social prowess through a series of increasingly-humorous and sexy displays, and, with a degree of certainty usually reserved for a cash transaction, that Ian would be getting lucky in Vegas that night.
The band played "Lets Get Physical" and I cavorted around Mrs. Ironwood's chair like a drunken teen, up to and including borderline obscene pelvic thrusts. Then we had another drink and the time of our lives. A drink later, I hit the jackpot. They played Duran Duran's Hungry Like A Wolf.
Now, while I really didn't know Mrs. Ironwood back in the 1980s, I've picked up enough about her personal history to know which songs and performers elicit specific memories. And I know for a fact that there has always been a certain damp spot in her panties for Duran Duran. Something to do with a middle school crush, perhaps, I'm not sure of the details but based on memorabilia and previous response, Duran Duran -- Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor, Andy Taylor and Roger Taylor -- just does something to Mrs. I. Live Duran Duran, after three rounds of fruity rum drinks and a free pour-in-your-mouth shot courtesy of Flippy the flair bartender, and I could only imagine what was going on in her libido. And I knew just how to turn it up.
All the way to 11.
(It's like everyone else just goes to 10, but ...)
When Hungry Like The Wolf came on, I got up in front of everyone and started dancing with the two drunk chicks who were celebrating their 40th birthday and reliving their own nostalgic moments on the dance floor. Mrs. Ironwood giggled girlishly as I paid them some nasty (but tasteful) attention, and got some solid preselection points in return. Then I went back to the table, grabbed her by the hand, and led her out on the dance floor.
Now, Mrs. I, as a rule, doesn't dance. She's still recovering from breaking her heel and other foot injuries, so the entire trip revolved on her walking as little as possible. But three drinks drunk, with herhusband boyfriend insisting that he wanted her -- her and only her -- so much, so publicly, that he was willing to risk looking utterly ridiculous in an effort to impress her with his manly strutting. But I owed it to her.
No one puts Baby in a corner.
So strut I did. I pulled every 80s dance move but the Robot (even I have some pride) my tired old body could manage. I put on my my my my my boogie shoes. There was moonwalking involved. There was more funky pelvic thrusting . . . and drop-to-your-knees grinding in a most indecent fashion, my face making scenic detours through her cleavage on both legs of the round trip. There was gyrating and spins. There was Footloose-style white people dancing. I even attempted a half-split that didn't end too badly.
I dragged Mrs. I out of her safe chair near the stage and into and out of my contortions on the dance floor, never loosing eye-contact, never letting my full intention waver from her and her alone. There was macho struttery and arrogant posturing. There was lurid movements and gratuitous crotch-grabbing. I was on like Donkey Kong, putting it out there, working hard for the money.
And Mrs. Ironwood ate it up like Pop-Rocks.
That's when I went to 11. I popped my collar. Like The Outsiders. For real. And I meant it.
You could almost hear the gush, and not just from her. The horny birthday girls (with mommy bobs -- sorry ladies, thank you for playing) were visibly envious. The crowd, already watching my antics, went wild. The band called it to everyone's attention. Flippy flipped out. I'm not great-looking, but comparatively speaking I was on the high side of the Sex Rank at that club, and I knew it. I was one of only a handful of guys dancing, and by far the most flamboyant and arguably the most enthusiastic. I worked it. Dance-wise, I was AMOG.
Me. Nerd Boy. Damn.
In 1987 I never would have considered being that, in any venue. In 1987 every glance at a woman was plagued with Betacized doubt and cowering fear. Dance in public? With women? With a girlfriend? Not me, man. I'm not that dude. I'm the nerd, over in the corner.
Now I'm the nerd at the center of attention. I'm the nerd boldly going where I never would have dreamt I'd go. I was a nerd with Game, and that made me mighty.
It also made Mrs. I terribly, terribly enchanted with my display. For one brief shining moment, the kids, the house, the jobs, the career track, the money issues and all the responsibilities were gone, and it was just me showing my chick how badly I wanted her in front of the whole world, without pause or reservation (or, apparently, any sense of propriety). Just me demonstrating how badly I wanted to do wicked things to her body and delight her soul. How I was hungry like the alpha wolf I was. The Red Pill kicked into Extended Release, and I commenced to do nasty things to her leg while I nibbled on her ear while the crowd cheered us on. We concluded the song with a heartfelt public kiss with tongue and my hand on her ass and everything, and we got a round of drunken applause from the crowd that I'd never have imagined I'd be getting back when leg warmers walked the earth..
Thanks to a timely royalty check, we'd been able to do Vegas without looking at our bank balance for once. Which meant I hemorrhaged money over four days. I haven't even figured out how extravagant I was yet, because I'm afraid to total up the receipts.
But honestly, I don't care how much it cost, or how much energy I devoted to making the trip happen, dirty dancing with yourwife girlfriend in a crowd of drunken strangers and making every woman there envy her your devotion and attention, that, Gentlemen, made it worth every fucking penny. It was pure, primal Game. It slashed through years of accumulated bullshit and brought us back to the primal boy-meets-girl that got the whole thing started. It was Game made manifest.
It's all right there in the 16 Commandments, Number 2 (Make Her Jealous), Number 6 (Keep Her Guessing -- no one expects a popped collar . . . until it's too late), Number 9 (Connect With Her Emotions), Number 11 (Be Irrationally Self-Confident -- I told you I went to 11), Number 12 (Maximize Your Strengths - goofiness and gratuitous displays of ego, check!) . . . and especially Number 13.
Ah, Number 13. Always Err On The Side Of Too Much Boldness, Not Too Little.
Too often we married dudes forget that. There's a timidity that can arise from long acquaintance, a mix of boredom and familiarity that needs to be regularly washed away like a bad stain on your Members Only jacket. Blue Pill dudes don't get it at all -- it might as well still be 1987. But as far as Married Game goes, this is a tricky but essential way of keeping your woman's interest high. You must be bold. You must find some way to reach beyond the mundanities of middle-age and grasp the essential testosterone-poisoned, horny-enough-to-screw-a-goat teenage libido and all the reckless abandon it represents . . . without doing something stupid like cheating on her.
You Must Boldly Go, if you want her loins to ache for you. Show her, in public if need be. Fuck propriety. Fuck mature wisdom. Fuck middle age reserve. (And while you're at it, remember Number 14). Show her that you're still the same horny, groping teen you were back in the day. Show her how she makes you throb, and do it unashamedly, without reservation. That she's sweeter than wine. Bust a move on her behalf. Show her that you have that wolfy hunger that made you do awkwardly stupid things in your adolescence . . . but now you have the wit and wisdom to boldly display every nasty shred of Alpha in your aging body. Show her that you're the MAN, and that she's damn lucky to have found you, and damn special for being the center of your personal universe.
And if you do it right, you'll never have to worry about Number 16. Because you've got Game, son. That's the key. Game. Understanding the complex interplay of heterosexual dynamics that leads to high-quality interpersonal and physical encounters with an ever-increasing level of satisfaction, and being able to play those emotional notes like a Moog synthesizer until she's practically begging to do simply nasty things to you once you get back to the hotel room. Like a virgin . . . only not so much Madonna as whore.
The rest of the evening was eventful, but I'm going to stop the narrative here. We made it back to the hotel after a few adventures -- Vegas is a hell of a town. Once we recovered sufficiently, and we were far from prying eyes (they're watching you), I continued a display utilizing good old Number 14. I don't need to relate the details here, for dramatic reasons. Use your imagination.
Let's just say . . . I was hungry like the wolf. And there are other things I've gotten much, much better at since 1987.
More later. Must sleep soon.
Ian out.
A long weekend in Las Vegas has the potential to be life-changing if you do it right, and while that sort of thing didn't happen this weekend, I did make several very intriguing field observations about Game in the wild, untamed, anything-goes erotic landscape of Las Vegas. I like Las Vegas, if you can't tell. It's like Disney for adults. While they used to call it Sin City, I prefer the more accurate term the "City of Id". If you've got a sexual itch to scratch, Las Vegas is like a premier buffet.
But before I expound about my Single Game in Vegas observations, I want to cover the Married Game advantages to a weekend away in this most decadent of environments. Some couples fear the idea of Vegas, too insecure in their relationship to be tempted by the fleshpots of Nevada. Me, I just needed a vacation, and Mrs. Ironwood had a conference there, so we killed two birds and while she was being all noble and saving the world I was getting wasted around the clock and spending my kids' inheritance on penny slots and fruity rum drinks.
This was my third trip to the burgh, and after Mrs. I's conference was over and I was able to sober up enough to go and be social with her, we decided to blow off the closing session for something a little more . . . intimate.
"Intimate" in this case meant dirty dancing with my wife in front of a crowd of drunken strangers.
Look, everyone wants a hot sex weekend in Vegas, and as you get older your expectations for such events go up even as they become more infrequent. And there was plenty of sex -- but that wasn't the draw for either of us. We already have plenty of sex, thanks to the Red Pill. But what is often missing from the lives of middle-aged married couples is that sense of excitement and intensity that may have faded over the years as you get used to each others' personal sexual idiosyncrasies. The stuff that turns into hypergamy and/or infidelity if you aren't careful. There is real danger in relationship ennui, and as Athol points out in yesterday's insightful post, you just can't count on a regular Date Night to keep things spicy and interesting.
But a drunken weekend in Vegas ...
We hit the buffet at Harrah's and pigged out, which did both of our stomachs good. We were actually planning on heading over to the Erotic Museum, which I've planned on attending each of the three times I've been in Vegas and never quite making, and this time was no different. We were even headed to the taxi stand to splurge on a cab there when we walked passed the open-air Carnaval bar at Harrah's and decided to stop inside for a smoke and get our bearings. We ended up staying there for over six hours.
The reason was the band. Now, you can find every kind of entertainment known to man in Las Vegas, from transvestite lounge acts to comedy to acrobatics to a donkey show, if you know where to look. The entertainment options are truly limitless. But the mid-Sunday-afternoon band at the bar, an 80s tribute band called the Nancy Rayguns was free, enthusiastic, and actually quite good. Throw in some drink specials, a flair bartender named Flippy, and a crowd of middle-aged Gen Xers who actually remember the songs that the band played, and you have one hell of a pink-and-teal acid-washed party.
But I had the nascent beginnings of a plan. The point of this exercise wasn't merely to be entertained: it was to pay some very public attention to my wife in a way she would be reluctant to see if we weren't in the land of the 24 hour hooker, surrounded by a sea of Asian tourists and drunken old farts. The point was to show her that I'm still hungry. Like the wolf.
I think that's a trap too many Blue Pill dudes fall into: once they are safely in a relationship, they forget the need to publicly express their desire for their woman. Mrs. Ironwood and I went into that bar as a middle-aged husband and wife, and while that didn't change ostensibly, in actuality it was far more like a boyfriend taking out his girlfriend to a show than a husband and wife enjoying a quiet afternoon of entertainment.
Simply put, the moment I heard the first rockabilly strains of "Goody Two-Shoes", it was like it was 1987 all over again. Sure, there was an element of nostalgia for my lost youth -- but it was far more a reminder of how far I've come in my life. In 1987 I was overweight, underconfident, and mired in Blue Pill ideology that saw me get my heart handed to me by a series of women. Hearing that band brought me back to my youth, sure. Only this time I knew what the hell I was doing when it came to girls. And I had conveniently packed my own.
So it was SHOWTIME for Ian.
Back when all of these songs came out, I had been stunted by insecurity and brow-beaten by the Blue Pill: it made me either a sullen wallflower or an over-the-top spaz when it came to girls. It was the Age of AIDS and date rape seminars, the height of the cultural purge of masculinity the feminists waged throughout the Age of Teal. I had been awkward, ugly, low-value, and sullenly embittered by the unfairness of it all and the hopelessness going forward. You know, Teen Stuff.
Now . . . . not so much. It took that nostalgic, painful flash of teenage angst associated with that music to make me appreciate just how far I have come. The dude I was would never have dared to nuzzle a chick's neck in a public place without three pieces of signed and notarized documentation stating in advance that said neck-nuzzling was an acceptable and mutually consensual act agreed upon before hand that in no way obligated either party to any further activity not covered herein.
But now, I brazenly nibbled and more or less felt her up in an affectionate-and-socially-acceptable way in front of a crowd of drunken strangers. I knew now what all of her Indicators of Interest were, and how I could arouse them through a combination of brazen cockiness and bold Alpha displays, especially in the social context of fellow adults engaged in similar pursuits.
I knew that the ragged strains of Joan Jett and the smooth crooning of Boy George, not to mention the naked , raw sexuality of Oates (sorry, Hall not so much) triggered a similar sexual nostalgia for her, taking her back to when sex revolved around cute boys and marrying someone rich and famous, not the titanic interpersonal struggle it evolved into as we matured. I knew, without a shred of doubt or a hint of insecurity that I looked good, I was out with my chick, I could exhibit my social prowess through a series of increasingly-humorous and sexy displays, and, with a degree of certainty usually reserved for a cash transaction, that Ian would be getting lucky in Vegas that night.
The band played "Lets Get Physical" and I cavorted around Mrs. Ironwood's chair like a drunken teen, up to and including borderline obscene pelvic thrusts. Then we had another drink and the time of our lives. A drink later, I hit the jackpot. They played Duran Duran's Hungry Like A Wolf.
Now, while I really didn't know Mrs. Ironwood back in the 1980s, I've picked up enough about her personal history to know which songs and performers elicit specific memories. And I know for a fact that there has always been a certain damp spot in her panties for Duran Duran. Something to do with a middle school crush, perhaps, I'm not sure of the details but based on memorabilia and previous response, Duran Duran -- Simon Le Bon, Nick Rhodes, John Taylor, Andy Taylor and Roger Taylor -- just does something to Mrs. I. Live Duran Duran, after three rounds of fruity rum drinks and a free pour-in-your-mouth shot courtesy of Flippy the flair bartender, and I could only imagine what was going on in her libido. And I knew just how to turn it up.
All the way to 11.
(It's like everyone else just goes to 10, but ...)
When Hungry Like The Wolf came on, I got up in front of everyone and started dancing with the two drunk chicks who were celebrating their 40th birthday and reliving their own nostalgic moments on the dance floor. Mrs. Ironwood giggled girlishly as I paid them some nasty (but tasteful) attention, and got some solid preselection points in return. Then I went back to the table, grabbed her by the hand, and led her out on the dance floor.
Now, Mrs. I, as a rule, doesn't dance. She's still recovering from breaking her heel and other foot injuries, so the entire trip revolved on her walking as little as possible. But three drinks drunk, with her
No one puts Baby in a corner.
So strut I did. I pulled every 80s dance move but the Robot (even I have some pride) my tired old body could manage. I put on my my my my my boogie shoes. There was moonwalking involved. There was more funky pelvic thrusting . . . and drop-to-your-knees grinding in a most indecent fashion, my face making scenic detours through her cleavage on both legs of the round trip. There was gyrating and spins. There was Footloose-style white people dancing. I even attempted a half-split that didn't end too badly.
I dragged Mrs. I out of her safe chair near the stage and into and out of my contortions on the dance floor, never loosing eye-contact, never letting my full intention waver from her and her alone. There was macho struttery and arrogant posturing. There was lurid movements and gratuitous crotch-grabbing. I was on like Donkey Kong, putting it out there, working hard for the money.
And Mrs. Ironwood ate it up like Pop-Rocks.
That's when I went to 11. I popped my collar. Like The Outsiders. For real. And I meant it.
You could almost hear the gush, and not just from her. The horny birthday girls (with mommy bobs -- sorry ladies, thank you for playing) were visibly envious. The crowd, already watching my antics, went wild. The band called it to everyone's attention. Flippy flipped out. I'm not great-looking, but comparatively speaking I was on the high side of the Sex Rank at that club, and I knew it. I was one of only a handful of guys dancing, and by far the most flamboyant and arguably the most enthusiastic. I worked it. Dance-wise, I was AMOG.
Me. Nerd Boy. Damn.
In 1987 I never would have considered being that, in any venue. In 1987 every glance at a woman was plagued with Betacized doubt and cowering fear. Dance in public? With women? With a girlfriend? Not me, man. I'm not that dude. I'm the nerd, over in the corner.
Now I'm the nerd at the center of attention. I'm the nerd boldly going where I never would have dreamt I'd go. I was a nerd with Game, and that made me mighty.
It also made Mrs. I terribly, terribly enchanted with my display. For one brief shining moment, the kids, the house, the jobs, the career track, the money issues and all the responsibilities were gone, and it was just me showing my chick how badly I wanted her in front of the whole world, without pause or reservation (or, apparently, any sense of propriety). Just me demonstrating how badly I wanted to do wicked things to her body and delight her soul. How I was hungry like the alpha wolf I was. The Red Pill kicked into Extended Release, and I commenced to do nasty things to her leg while I nibbled on her ear while the crowd cheered us on. We concluded the song with a heartfelt public kiss with tongue and my hand on her ass and everything, and we got a round of drunken applause from the crowd that I'd never have imagined I'd be getting back when leg warmers walked the earth..
Thanks to a timely royalty check, we'd been able to do Vegas without looking at our bank balance for once. Which meant I hemorrhaged money over four days. I haven't even figured out how extravagant I was yet, because I'm afraid to total up the receipts.
But honestly, I don't care how much it cost, or how much energy I devoted to making the trip happen, dirty dancing with your
It's all right there in the 16 Commandments, Number 2 (Make Her Jealous), Number 6 (Keep Her Guessing -- no one expects a popped collar . . . until it's too late), Number 9 (Connect With Her Emotions), Number 11 (Be Irrationally Self-Confident -- I told you I went to 11), Number 12 (Maximize Your Strengths - goofiness and gratuitous displays of ego, check!) . . . and especially Number 13.
Ah, Number 13. Always Err On The Side Of Too Much Boldness, Not Too Little.
Too often we married dudes forget that. There's a timidity that can arise from long acquaintance, a mix of boredom and familiarity that needs to be regularly washed away like a bad stain on your Members Only jacket. Blue Pill dudes don't get it at all -- it might as well still be 1987. But as far as Married Game goes, this is a tricky but essential way of keeping your woman's interest high. You must be bold. You must find some way to reach beyond the mundanities of middle-age and grasp the essential testosterone-poisoned, horny-enough-to-screw-a-goat teenage libido and all the reckless abandon it represents . . . without doing something stupid like cheating on her.
You Must Boldly Go, if you want her loins to ache for you. Show her, in public if need be. Fuck propriety. Fuck mature wisdom. Fuck middle age reserve. (And while you're at it, remember Number 14). Show her that you're still the same horny, groping teen you were back in the day. Show her how she makes you throb, and do it unashamedly, without reservation. That she's sweeter than wine. Bust a move on her behalf. Show her that you have that wolfy hunger that made you do awkwardly stupid things in your adolescence . . . but now you have the wit and wisdom to boldly display every nasty shred of Alpha in your aging body. Show her that you're the MAN, and that she's damn lucky to have found you, and damn special for being the center of your personal universe.
And if you do it right, you'll never have to worry about Number 16. Because you've got Game, son. That's the key. Game. Understanding the complex interplay of heterosexual dynamics that leads to high-quality interpersonal and physical encounters with an ever-increasing level of satisfaction, and being able to play those emotional notes like a Moog synthesizer until she's practically begging to do simply nasty things to you once you get back to the hotel room. Like a virgin . . . only not so much Madonna as whore.
The rest of the evening was eventful, but I'm going to stop the narrative here. We made it back to the hotel after a few adventures -- Vegas is a hell of a town. Once we recovered sufficiently, and we were far from prying eyes (they're watching you), I continued a display utilizing good old Number 14. I don't need to relate the details here, for dramatic reasons. Use your imagination.
Let's just say . . . I was hungry like the wolf. And there are other things I've gotten much, much better at since 1987.
More later. Must sleep soon.
Ian out.
