Lonely Domme Syndrome 001 - The Red Rooster
I’m invited to Las Vegas quite a bit, but unless I *have to* go there, I usually decline. When friends ask me for recommendations for their Vegas trips, I offer only this: If you are ever invited to a place called the Red Rooster, and are told it is an “exclusive” club, a) don’t believe them, and b) just don’t go. Unless you want a David Lynchian and potentially Ballardian or Cronenbergian evening.
Normally I hate to go to Vegas. We’d go all the time as kids, and were always stuck at Circus Circus, which I found very overwhelming and germy. I’m not a gambler, and I don’t need a “Las Vegas” excuse to go on a bender, so I’ve never been pulled to it. The desert heat can be extreme, and I hate how smoky it is indoors. But sometimes, I would meet up with J and C, just as a weekend getaway.
J, ex-boyfriend, met in college, moved in together after college, spectacularly cruel and traumatic relationship decline, heartbreak warfare and breakup, eventually wonderful “through the fire/we evolved/remember when we tried to kill each other” special sort of friend.
C, friend, ex-lover, met in college. Wunderkind programmer who retired early (as in before 35) from the proceeds of his internet success and moved to Las Vegas. Had a special room just for Buddhist meditation, another room for home servers and computing, another room for Volcano Vaporiser, homemade sniper ghillie suits, empty bullet casings, gunpowder, semi-automatic weapons, Glocks, Sig Sauers, sniper rifles, NBC (nuclear biochem) suits, etc.
We all met in university. I was their Resident Advisor when I managed a campus apartment complex. When we visit C in his desert bunker (as much of a bunker as it could be in a tract housing division), we pretty much stay away from the Strip, just hanging out at his house and watching Firefly and CSI and going out into the desert and shooting guns, etc. Even when we go to casino’s or restaurant’s it’s at places off-Strip like The Rampart, which you only really go to as a local or perhaps a fan of CSI: Las Vegas. We’re a fun little party crew capable of throwing down balls to the wall, HST style, but also capable of chillin’ like villains in the air-conditioned suburbs, watching DVDs or TIVO, shooting craps or playing blackjack at his home casino tables, and only surfacing to shoot guns and run to Taco Bell.
On one visit, C had some biz friends come into town, in particular, a middle-aged, open marriage Midwestern businessman type, named D. D has a reputation for being a horndog, and was known to his crew by the French nicknamed “Le Menace.” No, Le Menace is not French, he’s a midwestern Sales guy, and he, C and two other friends all worked together at one time. So there are two trios - Team A: me, C and J, and Team B: Le Menace and two other friends, L and J, who are picking him up at the airport that evening.
It’s a Saturday night, and we are stuffed to the gills from casino buffets and pretty loaded. C and J want to go to a strip club, and I’m game to drink and hang and participate in co-opting the voyeuristic male gaze, but a call from Team B comes in, an overly enthusiastic Le Menace has arrived and demands to fuse crews. Le Menace has one agenda - to get laid, and his urgency takes precedence over the group’s collective ambivalence - most of us so jaded or uninterested in the typical “Vegas blowout.” The MBA-powered strategic hive mind of 5 men and myself toss back pre-party liquor and quickly formulate the most “sure-fire, 100% ROI” path to fulfilling Le Menace’s goal, which could also possibly apply to the rest of Team B:
a. Go to some dance clubs, try to score with some “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” good time girls
b. Hire a sex worker for the evening or session
c. Go to a strip club, try to get some numbers and score with an after-hours stripper
All these were dismissed as costly - both in time and resources, especially for those of us not “invested” in the outcome.
But Le Menace had a plan, one that he found to be the most cost-effective.
Le Menace had been chatting up his seatmate on his flight, and while she was not interested in Mile Highing it with him or hooking up in Vegas, she did mention to him that there was “an exclusive sex club” that he could visit - and that for $50, you could BYOB to this private club where there was a indoor pool, dance floor, rooms and everyone there was ready to “get down.”
Cost-effective. Exclusive. BYOB. Sexy vibe. Le Menace was sold, and we were intrigued enough to “go along for the ride.”
Being the sole female, I put on my battle gear - I wasn’t about to show up to this place except as a Dominant Top. That way even the sleaziest of slimeballs would think twice to step to me. Black pencil skirt, Black and Red steel-boned corset, opera length black leather gloves, leather paddle and a long black silk scarfin my purse, stiletto boots. I was no stranger to sex clubs. The minute you walk through the door, and all eyes turn to you, your image in that moment determines you either as predator or prey.
We’re given coordinates to meet Team B in Henderson. Out in the burbs.
“Where is this place?”
“Uh, I don’t know . . yet.” answers Le Menace, “we have to go buy tickets and we’ll get the location there.”
“Like a rave?”
“Where do we buy the tickets?”
“Just meet us there.”
The GPS takes us there. Or rather C does, in his Porsche. We pull up at the spot.
It’s a storage unit facility called “The Red Rooster.”
Le Menace is there, ready to rock. The rest of Team B doesn’t seem as excited as he is.
“It’s $50 for single guys, $30 for couples.”
They all look at me. ”Cost-effectiveness” is on everyone’s mind. In the end, I think I just grab one of them myself and march in to the storage unit office.
Two super normal people greet us. Dressed as I am, there’s no doubt that I’m not here to rent a storage unit.
30 bucks later, we walk out. The rest follow suit, and we reconvene in the parking lot, address in hand.
“We need to make a stop at Walgreens or a drugstore or something.” says Le Menace.
So we drive around this desolate area, trying to find one. When we do, I buy mints and sit in the car, smoking.
Le Menace comes out with Team B. They’ve bought liquor and 2 boxes of condoms. I didn’t bother to see what kind.
“It’s BYOB!” Le Menace exclaims. He opens up the boxes of condoms and hands them out to everyone, including me.
“Just in case.” He takes the lion’s share. “Should probably double-bag it,” he says.
Team B tries to rally some enthusiasm with some half-hearted hi-fives. Le Menace proclaims: “Saddle up dudes, let’s get laid.” Whatever.
J and C are totally out of this game, both of them being in relationship lock-down. They laugh along, as per the unspoken “bro” script. I roll my eyes.
We get back into the two cars and roll up to this place, parking in a gravelly parking lot at the end of a cul-de-sac. The area is industrial, no other houses around, but there is a big run down looking house, which stands alone. It almost looks like it could be a small church. There is a forklift in the parking lot, and red Christmas lights strewn everywhere. The wooden door in the front is completely non-descript - and unlocked.
We walk straight INTO A DAVID LYNCH MOVIE -
- rust/brown/orange shag carpet circa 70s, wood panelling, the works
- lots of red Christmas lights, and metallic door fringe streamers
While the boys tried to figure out what to do with themselves, I walked the perimeter, scoping out the joint, through all the rooms. I could hear the whoosh as the 90% male audience tracked me through the crowd, taking in the amenities:
- a staircase for upstairs where only couples are allowed - where the rooms have NO DOORS - I don’t venture further than the hallway, not wanting to see what “bumping uglies” looks like in this place
- a small dance floor and tables, etc with a stage and some loser singing terrible cheesy covers
- a room with a pool table
- a small bar where you can stash your booze and they give you cups and mixers and ice
- then a BACK ROOM, like an enclosed patio - with the grossest looking hottub/pool with fake grotto waterfall
- The talent = Mostly 40s-60s porn store loitering, furtive glancing, misshapen type men - NO ONE IS ATTRACTIVE, not even in an ugly-sexy way.
- The women I guess are all part of a couple, or older ladies that were dressed “kinky” - meaning lots of leopard print.
- No one there was younger than 40, I’d hazard - perhaps retired prostitutes?
(My hypothesis is that if you are willing to have sex with strangers you don’t really like in Las Vegas, and you’re young and hot, you’re probably not going to give it away for free at a sex club - you’ll either make $ off of it or find an attractive one night stand of mutual caliber)
After my recon, I head to the back patio, where J and C are both quietly choking on their vomit, drinking out styrofoam cups.
I know I am being tracked through the crowd, I know there is a trail converging behind me.
The back patio is a sad simulacrum of a sexy Playboy Mansion-style “Grotto” - in the light of day it must be a horror - an enclosed porch area adjacent to the house, a small indoor pool with a plaster “Grotto” complete with waterfall.
Lining the walls, either standing or sitting, are single men, lonely and quiet. I am the only woman in that room, but sitting in full domme gear with 2 young attractive men with me, I don’t look very approachable.
I watch as some of these lonely creatures peel off their khakis and t-shirts, exposing pale bodies, skin bloated, loose, flaccid, hirsute flesh glistening in the hopefully hyperchlorinated water. A few of the actual “couples” meander out, undress and get into the pool, floating and bobbing around each other. All the eyes in the room lock on them, almost willing them into action. A few slimy kisses and some underwater groping no one can see.
I am approached - a few times, in succession. I receive the attention with a sort of compassion and try not to bust balls too hard - it’s probably taken these guys a lot of courage to even step to me. I smile enigmatically and gesture to J and C who say nothing. After awhile, and probably after watching every one else get shot down, no one approaches me.
On the dance floor in the other room, through the sliding glass door, the cover band starts up. ”Play that funky music, white boy” doesn’t require musical genius or prodigious vocal ability to cover, and soon there are many people on the parquet floored dance area.
Some 60 yo grandma type, totally wasted, comes into the patio, strips down to large white granny panties, jumps in pool, then comes out wet and starts dancing by herself in the middle of the terrible dance floor, her arms raised in the air, pendulous breasts swaying to the beat. “Play that funky music!” she sings along in her joyous abandon. Funky indeed. I kept wishing for a backwards-talking midget to cross the floor to complete the surreality. No dice.
I’d had enough. “Let’s go to Crazy Horse.” J and C agree.
Team A, reconvene at Egress point. We try to find Team B to see if they want to roll with.
“You really think you’re going to score … here?” I ask.
Le Menace is liquored up, horny, and determined to achieve maximum ROI. His teammates look fairly traumatized. But they drove him, and he wants to stay.
Team A drives to Crazy Horse, where I cheerfully approach the only Asian Schoolgirl stripper and ask her if she’ll “lap dance my two exes.” She laughs. “Nice tits.” I say to her. “Yours too” she says and walks over with me to where the boys were seated. I have another drink and raise my Stoli Raspberry and 7-up in silent salute to C, whose face is buried in the dancer’s ass cleavage.
The next day, we don’t hear much from Team B. Either they’ve partied too hard or they’ve done unspeakable things they don’t wish to recall. Uncharacteristically, Le Menace is not forthcoming with details about his evening. But apparently, somehow, he saw his mission through to the end.
That’s what made him superlatively successful in Sales I guess. Follow-through.
I suppose it could have been worse - like some cliched movie where maybe I could have married one or both of my friends in a drunken stupor. But we’re not bloody amateurs, right? At least our Vegas adventure was a unique experience. I’ve always wondered if the woman who recommended the Red Rooster to Le Menace was intentionally trying to traumatize him. I’m inclined to think so.
If you can’t stand the curiosity, or if you wonder if this place exists - here’s the link: http://www.vegasredrooster.com/index.html.
Looks like there’s a “down home buffet” that’s served there now. Not sure if I’d have an appetite …