I was expecting big things from a girl I met at a rodeo, of all places. Evidently it was a big deal with the professional cowboys and bronc-busters, and I am sure I looked ridiculous with my Stetson hat and jeans and tennis shoes. Not exactly standard rodeo garb, but let me tell you the cowgirls were OK with it.
I started drinking at six o’clock in the morning, just like a real cowboy.
I was drunk by eight, just like a real cowboy.
I made sure my big buckle was centered at my waist, just like a real cowboy.
One of the two cowgirls I met stayed with me.
We emptied a fifth of whiskey and I took her home.
When I woke up in the early afternoon, she was nowhere in sight.
This tasty little morsel had drank all my whiskey, smoked all my weed, snorted all my cocaine, and left me forever.
Just like a real cowboy.
Here is the first short story I promised titled Beauty.
It was another Friday night in Las Vegas, and I was looking to fall in love.
My third girlfriend in as many months had given me my pink slip and I was tiring of the Strip prostitutes with whom I had become far too familiar. I decided to try my luck at the poker room of the Strip casinos. They had just hired a poker icon, a multiple winner of Binion’s Horseshoe Casino World Poker Championship, to serve as Poker Room Manager. I sat down at the seven-card stud table and promptly went on a hot streak, amassing several large stacks of green twenty-five dollar chips. I was up about sixteen-hundred when I abruptly sat down from the table and wandered over to the five-card draw table where my good luck continued.
I was a typical gambler. I would go out and win a lot of money, only to lose it back that same evening. However, as long as the hot streak lasted, I was the King. I would buy bottles of Dom for every player at my table when I was hot and once tipped a busty cocktail waitress a black chip (one hundred dollars) for bending over in front of me. She had just dropped off my champagne and I “accidentally” threw the chip on the floor at the girl’s feet. When she looked to me, I told her the chip was hers if she would give me a peek at the goods. She looked at me like I was some sort of bug that had smashed into her windshield. Then, she obviously thought about it, spun around, and bent down to pick up the token. She stayed there for about five full seconds, turned her head to me and asked.
“You good, George?” She was sarcastically flattering me with the moniker given to big tippers in the glitzy city in the desert.
“All yours, girl.”
She picked up her tip, tucked it into her bra, and gave me the smashed-bug-look again before resuming her rounds through the casino.
I lost back a lot of money, but ended the night almost eight hundred to the good. I went upstairs to the bar overlooking the live circus acts and ordered a triple V.O. and a Heineken chaser.
Then I saw her.
At the other end of the bar, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen was talking and laughing loudly. She was obviously over her limit and I was mesmerized as she climbed off her bar stool and jumped up on top of the bar. She stood there in her low-cut blouse, exposing a perfect pair of breasts.
“Would you care for some company?” I asked as I walked on over.
“Sure, good-lookin’ park it.”
She had amazing violet eyes, reminding me of Liz Taylor’s. Her eyelashes were long and curled, and her hair was auburn, matching her glittering lipstick. Her skirt was super-short and I have yet to see another pair of legs as finely shaped as hers. She had perfectly mani-pedi French nails, the color an exact match to the hair and lipstick. She also had a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle. Her skin was like Devonshire cream, all buttery and soft. It was apparent that she was very well cared for. Her smile exposed beautiful white teeth usually reserved for the rich or entertainers.
She climbed back down from the bar and we talked for almost an hour. She was at once beautiful, sexy, smart, and the type of woman who is only alone when she wants to be.
All of this and only thirty-three inches tall.