Member-only story
The Men on the Las Vegas Strip
How this city ruins men.
“I just said I’m broke, okay? What the fuck do you want me to do? I’m fucking broke!”
It was unsettling to witness.
I could feel it building for the last five minutes.
“There’s nothing I can do! What the fuck do you expect!”
Now it’s more than unsettling.
Terrifying.
He’s ten feet away from me.
I was alone at a diner in Las Vegas, about to head back to Phoenix. Didn’t take long as a sex worker to realize I could make a lot more money in Vegas.
“I’M! FUCKING! BROKE!”
I’m the closest person to him.
And I have a huge wad of cash in my purse.
He doesn’t know that, though. But I’m thinking he does.
Another outburst. I can’t even remember what he said this time, but it was vulgar.
Casino-adjacent, fluorescent, vinyl. Late morning. A diner.
He was alone. A local. Not dressed up. Not put together. Needed a shave and a haircut. A man can grow stubble in a week. Needing a haircut takes months. He had not had a calm enough week to sit in a barber chair for twenty minutes in a long time.
