We’ve been known to get some interesting tips, but this one takes the cake.
The tip, along with the Craigslist "Missed Connection" ad was entitled: "Sorry I Thought You Were a Hooker." It’s a story of a male DC resident who’s desperately trying to reunite with a young lady he recently met in Las Vegas. He mistakenly thought she was a prostitute. It’s priceless.
Sorry I Thought You Were a Hooker
Me: mid-20’s, brown hair, brown eyes, glasses
You: early 20’s, blonde hair, black and gold dress (very shiny)
Where: Jet Night Club, The Mirage, Las Vegas
When: Recently
Vegas can make a guy crazy. So when your group of 4 smokin’ blondes and one brunette melded with the bachelor party group I was in, I immediately thought you were all hookers. So first of all, sorry for instantly assuming you sold your body for money. To be fair, though, your dresses were very short, and your hair was very blonde. Also, you were friendly, which is rare in this world of stuck up short skirted blonde bitches.
Also, my self-esteem is similar to that of an anorexic 16 year old girl whose sister just won the Miss America pageant and whose parents refer to her as "Our Little Miss Piggy." So you know, the thought that any girl as good looking as you would want to talk to me without financial compensation never crossed my mind. Add in the fact that we were in Vegas, and you can understand my suspicions.
Anyway, we started chatting. You told me where you went to school and that you sold complex financial instruments for a certain large company. That should have been my first clue that you weren’t a hooker. Honestly, could there be a less sexy profession? I’m no expert, but I would think a hooker would have a more alluring cover story or "day job." And your friend who just started law school at Georgetown? Also clearly not a hooker. I owe her an apology, too, so pass this along.
Somehow, through the noise, foam and red bull and vodkas, we connected…I told you I think most people suck, and you agreed…you said you hate popped collars, and I swooned. I said I hate douchery of all kinds, and you grabbed my ass.
A little more than an hour into our courtship, we started dancing. I said your hair smelled great (seriously, what shampoo do you use? I’m going to use it on my sheets). You said I was cute. I said you were gorgeous. You said you liked me…a lot. I said I preferred whipped cream cheese to regular. You were puzzled.
Again, you clearly were not a hooker. Because hookers don’t spend hours talking to someone who is clearly not interested in paying for it. Time is money. As a vendor of complex financial instruments, you know this.
We danced some more…nothing we couldn’t do at a Bar Mitzvah (did I tell you I’m Jewish?), but you know, not exactly PG. The song came to an end, and you went to our table to get your drink. I received a text from my buddy (the bachelor, to whom I am no longer speaking) informing me he believed you were a prostitute.
I freaked out and bailed without even saying goodbye. I should have told you I was leaving. I should have told you why. Because you’re not a whore. Anyway, I made like Wile E. Coyote, and left a dust trail as I bounced from the club.
Outside, I found more of my so-called friends. They were headed to the blackjack tables, and did NOT, in fact, believe you to be a hooker. They had been watching us, and being assholes, were judging and laughing. They knew how paranoid I was, were ready to leave, and figured I would buy it if they said you were a prostitute. They were right, and I suck. Again, I’m sorry.
Anyway, if you read this, my bad. I hope we can meet up again. I’ll explain about the cream cheese.
Sincerely,
I’m An Idiot
PS: For those of you thinking about checking out the smokin’ hot cocktail waitress serving drinks at the Mirage Casino, don’t. They look like Bea Arthur.