Danny's Cocaine-Fueled Vegas Trip (2016)

Danny's 2019 Note: This is may be the finest edition of what used to be my monthly magazine-style newsletter for my email subscribers. It's an on-the-ground, photo-heavy account of my last true drug bender. If you like nudity and sexual excess, please scroll down.

May 2016

All right. Here we are, mother fuckers. Vegas. 

Well, actually, here I was:
 

That's right. Last month's finances were so bleak that I had to stoop to borrowing $ from my parents (it certainly wasn't first time; and by "borrow" I mean "collect"). After this, splurging on a plane ticket to Vegas just didn't seem like a prudent move. Yes. I would have to make the journey by automobile. 
8 hours and 45 minutes. 569 miles. 

Complicating matters was my departure time. Wanting to beat the Memorial Day Weekend traffic, I left San Francisco on Thursday night at 10 pm. 

If successful, the move would be a shrewd one. Blaze all the way through to Vegas at 80+. Sleep through the following day. Wake up leisurely. Whip up a fine rum punch and head to the pool. All while every asshole from San Diego to Los Angeles would be idling on the I-15 in the middle of the desert.

The risk, of course, was any fatigue that might set in during a 9 hour solo car ride in the middle of the night, after a full shift at work. 

Solution? 

30 mg. of Adderall. Given to me by a co-worker.

Besides making a fool of myself to some gas station attendant somewhere west of Fresno (I was peaking; came off pretty tweaky) I was unstoppable. Cruise control at 82 MPH. Pissing in a bottle. Joe Rogan podcast blaring. Crossing the Tehachapi pass into the desert around 4 am. 

Around 4:30 am, the desert sky got light in the east. This one right here is from 5 am.

Here I am somewhere in the 6 o'clock hour. Still feeling invincible. Getting very, very close. 

And then: bam. There I was. In my college buddy Foo's apartment on the Strip. Being fed a shot of scotch for breakfast. 

More than booze, there was the cocaine. 

"Ok," Foo was saying, holding up a large glass container. "So this one here is yours, mine, and Consonant Tift's."

Then he picked up a much smaller vial. "This is the stuff that (some of our other college buddies) gave me money for. I'll give it to them when they show up tomorrow, I guess."

After examining both containers silently for a while, he then opened the little vial, began pouring its contents into our cocaine. 
 

"Hey. What are you doing there?" I asked. 

He shrugged. "Jew Tax"
 

"Ah." I said. Foo is, after all, a Jewish bastard. 

Then, after I took a four hour nap and Foo went off and showed his face at work, we got down to business. 

First, we did a bunch of blow and went to the New York New York.

Then we tried really hard to get the front desk girl from Foo's building to abandon her post and come upstairs.

Then we went to dinner with some Vegas locals Foo knew. One of whom I'm just about certain was an escort girl, and whose tits I could not for the life of me take my eyes off of. 

The party didn't really start, however, until Consonant Tift showed up. 
 

That was around 10 pm, I'd say–aka time to get Fucked Up and go out. 

This is a good time to introduce the crew:

Consonant Tift

Strengths:
–Dogged, inexhaustible determination in pursuing anything with two legs and a vagina. 
–Skateboarding/Snowboarding
–The only person with motivation enough to cook breakfast most mornings. Key, since forgetting to eat is a real problem for us on these trips. 

Weaknesses:
–Tendency to get sucked into black jack benders, disappear for full nights, and return to the cabin in the morning $500 poorer. 
–Big Tits. 

Misc:
Found some guy's credit card on the floor last NYE and bought the whole bar Jack and Coke's before the thing finally got cancelled. 

Foo

Strengths:
–Newly single and highly motivated. 
–Metal head
–Jewish/supremely well-funded
–Taste for fine scotches
–Penis large to the point of being painful

Weaknesses:
–Penis large to the point of being painful
–Recurring shoulder injury that renders him useless in combat
–Potential target for discrimination should we encounter anti-semites.

But instead of hitting a nightclub or a casino or an 11 pm show, Foo insisted on a locals bar. Insisted that that's where we'd have the best chance of meeting a girl like the one with her tits out above. 
 

This is where he took us. 
(Picture courtesy of Google Street View)

A real fuck hole. Place called PKWY Tavern. About 25 minutes off the Strip. 

Or, at least it seemed like a fuck hole. Though, looks wise, we spotted no women even in the same hemisphere as the escort girl from dinner, we discovered quickly that Vegas locals as a group are actually pretty fucking cool. I was just coked out of my tits–making laps around the building, high fiveing everybody, making out with ugly chicks, hugging people–and for all this I don't think I received so much as a dirty look from a local guy or girl. 

(Here I am, wired out of my head in PKWY Tavern)

Also, the weekend's biggest story was born here. It began with a sighting by Consonant Tift:

"Dude, there is this chick in pink with giant tits hanging around in the inside part of the bar right now."

"Pink? Tits?"

"Fuck yes. I tried to wade in, but there are like four other fucking dudes all waiting in line for her."

Tift was clearly shaken here. The girl had made a real impression. 

"Wearing pink, you say? And these tits are pretty spectacular?" 

"Dude, they were giant. Holy shit I wish she was alone."

Without saying another word, I beelined for the interior bar, spent about five minutes lurking near an empty booth, and then intercepted Pink Tits Girl on her way to the bathroom. 

"Hey, what's up. I'm, uh, Danny," extending my hand. 

I remember pretty much nothing of what was said. The next morning, I wouldn't even remember what she looked like. 

But yes. Somehow, in near blackout, I managed to secure Pink Tits Girl's phone number.

And while our squad was getting nice & drunk for the Marquee pool party the next morning, I was covertly texting the girl. 

Not only did she seem receptive; she agreed to make the half-hour drive to the Strip and join us at the party. 

Holy shit, I thought. I'm really going to stick it to that sonofabitch Tift this time. 

My plan was to not even tell him. Just have her show up midway through the pool party as an Oh By the Way kind of thing. Drive the bastard wild. 

That–her showing up halfway through the party–was exactly what happened. 

And before she showed, I had the time of my fucking life.
 

I got to play with this girl's boobs

This girl below, on top of being the hottest girl I interacted with all trip, was content to let me grind my full-on boner on her ass for a full 20 minutes. 

We had girls like this waiting in the wings.

But when Pink Tits Girl text me–"I'm coming up the elevator now!"–I had to quit it with the random puss hounding and get serious. 

My first thought upon laying eyes on Pink Tits Girl? much more sober than the night before, and in broad daylight?

Godammnit. 

A massive disappointment. 

Big Tits, yes, but with a catch, if you know what I mean (fat). Consonant Tift's legendarily poor eyesight, and my legendarily poor functioning while Fucked Up had come back to haunt me.

But hey. She was here. And also, it seemed, down. 

"Hey, (Pink Tits Girl), good to see you." I went in for a hesitant hug.

"Hi! Wow, that line was so much–"

"Wait, follow me."

No fucking way I was going to be seen in the open with this girl. Not a chance.

Marquee Day Club, on top of being loaded with hot chicks, is also a real UCLA stronghold–crawling with girls I used to go to school with. I have a lot of problems in my life right now as it is. Having a former lover spot me embracing something heavier than myself in a Las Vegas pool? Let's just say that that's not something I need to add to the stack.

Solution: I took her right out into the middle of the crowded pool, kept my sunglasses on, and kept low in the water. Like a crocodile. 

(The exception being this picture, which I took for the sake of journalism, and for all of you.)

Yes sir. I am a scum dog of the highest order. And after the life guard gave me stern a warning for getting jerked off in the pool, I smuggled this girl back to Foo's apartment. Basically the second we got inside, I took a standard kitchen spoon, dug it into the cocaine, and snorted all of it. A colossal amount. 

Then I made myself one of the strongest screwdrivers the world has ever seen. 

"You can, uh, help yourself to whatever," I told Pink Tits. 

That was my solution: get All Fucked Up (she was here, after all; I no longer had to be charming or even really coherent.) Then I'd put on some good music, stretch out on the bed, and make the best of a less than ideal situation...

There you go, people. Titties. Don't say I never did anything for you.
 

I guess she's really not that overweight. Smee pointed that out to me: that compared to him or Consonant Tift–both of whom routinely fuck the human equivalent of brontosauruses–I sometimes throw out the word "fat" a little too quickly. Sorry, Pink Tits Girl. You're average. 

I tried to have sex with her, yeah, but I kept going limp after a few pumps. The condom and the cocaine weren't helping in the least. After a while I just laid back and let her blow me. Fuck it. 

Though I remember almost none of what happened afterward, here's what I've been able to piece together from iPhone footage and next-day interviews: 

At some or another point, Foo and Tift came back to the room and started filming me and Pink Tits hooking up. 

Sometime after that, I went on this insane Jiu-Jitsu rampage. 

For reasons unknown, I kept trying to foot lock Consonant Tift. 

For reasons equally unknown, I then started trying to foot lock Foo. 

I think everyone got fed up with the Jiu-Jitsu antics pretty quickly, and my last coherent memories of that afternoon are getting a glass of water poured on my face (Tift) and then getting slammed onto the tile floor (Foo). The water and the slam sort of pacified me, and, just minutes afterwards, I lumbered over to the bed and passed out. 

What happened for the rest of the trip, you ask? Well, owing to the influence of our good friend cocaine, I can't really relate it to you in any detail. 

Or, rather, I can, but the thing about cocaine is that it makes my behavior kind of, um, uninteresting. 

For the next three events on our itinerary–Omnia Saturday night at the Caesars Palace, Wet Republic Sunday at the MGM, and Hakkasan at MGM that Sunday night–I pretty much did the same exact thing for a combined ~12 hours:

Jumped up and down asexually, pumping my fist to music I don't enjoy (EDM). 
 

That's right. When the cocaine really takes hold, I'll stand in one spot on the dance floor, not even acknowledge the women in my vicinity, and just hop. 

Here I am, doing it at Omnia.

The next day at the pool party? You bet your sweet ass–more jumping. More asexuality. 

(Tift and I did piss ourselves for the lulz on the Mirage casino floor, though. That was admittedly a highlight.)

But back to the cocaine point. Don't even get me started on the night at Hakkasan. 

Did I do the hop-up-and-down solo thing? 

Yep.

But stranger than that is when I just started partying with, like, random dudes all night.

Some guy from Somalia or something invited me into his booth. 

And me, this guy, his friend, and some English dudes behind us just hopped around like fucking morons until the club emptied out and the sun rose. 

This last one is especially flattering. 

What gives? Though I guess it looks like I'm having fun here, I'm reasonably certain I came to Vegas in order to meet women and interact with friends I hadn't seen in a while. 

This is hardly taking place in the above pictures. And plus I don't even remember the asexual (or was it borderline gay?) fist pumping, because cocaine, quite simply, makes me black the fuck out. Yeah. Looking back now it's like those nights didn't even happen. 

And also it, cocaine, makes shit really suck during times like this. 

And because of pretty much everything you've just read and seen, during the long ride home, somewhere around Bakersfield, I decided that this here Vegas trip would be my last waltz with the drug. That from now on it would be good ol' fashion booze and nothing else.