people of the Vegas scene, do some people watching, get some motivation.
There’s always the nickel slots.
I rush around my apartment, scrounging up change. I find a five-dollar bill in the bottom of my discarded black purse that I wear out on dates; it’s not had much use in the past year. A roll of quarters in my top dresser, and a myriad of loose change in my kitchen drawers and the pockets of my discarded jeans.
When I add up my findings, the total is almost twenty dollars. I won’t have money for dinner tonight, but it’ll buy me one drink and an hour of slots.
Now, for the outfit. What can I wear to inspire my most romantic mind? My pen name is Scarlet Rose. Why not play on that? I choose a dress, red and short.
I shower, shave, and blow dry my hair into soft curls.
Shimmying the dress over my hips, I take a look in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed pink from my shower, my soft blonde curls just brush my shoulders. Not too bad for a twenty-three-year-old romance author who hasn’t been laid in twelve long months.
The irony of my profession and lack of love life is not lost on me.
Slipping into my clearance rack high heels to add a few inches to my height, I fluff up my curls, hoping to keep them for a few hours at least. Waving my hand in front of my face, I clear the air. Leaning into my mirror, I apply a little sparkly gold shadow, a few coats of mascara, and the very last swipe of my Big Apple Red lip gloss.
“Time to go to Vegas, Baby.” I wink at myself. I toss the bills and coins into my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and strut out to the parking lot to find my car.
Unlocking the tiny red sedan, I crawl behind the wheel, tossing my purse into the passenger’s seat beside me.
Sticking the key into the ignition, I murmur, “Come on, old girl. You can do it.”
Pushing my fears away, I shake my head. “Tonight, this madness ends.” Desperation fills me. I so want my words to be true, to unlock my heart, my mind, and make the romance flow from my fingers.
Maybe it’s going to take a little more than inspiration. Maybe, just maybe, it’s going to take a little firsthand experience to warm the cockles of my mind and wake up my cobwebbed vagina.
Maybe… I need to get laid.
How does one super shy, clumsy girl with a dorky sense of humor track down a one-night stand?
All the men I’ve been with were college boyfriends, our romance blooming out of late-night study dates. Or, up to a year ago when the men completely ran out, blind dates were set up for me by Sarah, my publisher, her intentions being to keep me lubed and ready to write.
As I drive down the street, the lights get brighter and more plentiful as I near the strip. My nerves double. I remind myself I’ve got this — red dress, killer heels, and my hair is behaving tonight.
I can do this. I can lure a man for sex, then write a kickass scene about it, thus throwing myself back in the writers’ ring.
Vegas, Baby, in bright neon lights, looms ahead of me.
Waving ‘no thank you’ to the valet parking attendant that approaches my car, I pull past the entrance, parking on the street.
Teetering on my heels, I make it to the grand front door. The doors swivel open and I step into another world. Red carpet, bright lights, elegant gowns, dark suits.
It’s perfect.
I make my way to the bar, ordering a Sex on the Beach, the perfect drink to begin my mission. Taking a sip of the fruity beverage, I let the rum slide down my throat, warming my insides.
I park myself in a seat where I’ve got a good view of the room, right near the slot machines. I slide some coins into the slot and begin to play.
I pull the handle down, watching the pictures as they roll by. Lemon, Cherry, Dollar Sign. In between pulls, I gaze around the room, taking in the couples, heavily made-up women hanging on the arms of wealthy men. I’m not here to play slots. I’m here for inspiration.
My eyes are riveted up front at a flash of red. A group of women as tall as Amazonians on their spiky, red-bottomed heels, breeze past the attendants, all edges and curves, dressed like