“You’d think they’d have more than one person checking people in,” she said flourishing a hand in the air making a circling motion for emphasis.
I looked at her, digesting the fact she’d talked to me.
She was dressed in pastel-green high heels, tight black jeans, with a thin shawl over her shoulders and arms under which it appeared all she wore was a black bra above a flat porcelain-like stomach crafted on Mount Olympus.
She was model thin but where her bra was concerned it looked like she had been poured in and forgot to say “When”. She looked like something out of a Robin Thicke music video.
Having arrived at the Flamingo Hotel in Last Vegas and made my way to registration I found myself stood right behind her, joining the rest of the men in the cue biting their bottom lips in agony.
I reasoned that with everyone else in an acute state of sexual tension, the last thing she needed was me dribbling over her shoulder.
So I resorted to the usual libido-destroying tactics, thinking about Margaret Thatcher on a cold day, funerals attended, friends blown up; the usual sort of thing.
During this process of distraction I brought my eyes down from looking at a nearby wall-mounted TV showing sports and met her large dark-brown eyes looking at me with an intensity that seemed somewhere between, What the hell are you looking at, buster? and, Fertilise me now you lanky love god!
I quickly looked down at my flip-flops.
It wasn’t long after that she made her opening comment.
“I think everyone else is having the same thought as you,” I replied, after which we got chatting as the cue edged forward.
All the while I delved into my log of previous experiences for lessons learned—I couldn’t find any: women this beautiful did not usually talk to me.
I thought best not to overdo it, so I tried to play it cool and avoid asking her 20 questions which would have been the usual recourse.
Eventually she was called up to the counter. I soon followed to another hotel employee who started checking-in nearby.
I told myself not to look over at her as she checked-in. My reasoning went something along the lines that I might bump into her later, at which point I could let the inner puppy out.
That was a really stupid supposition, especially for somewhere as hectic and busy as Vegas. I should have dashed over as she walked away and at least asked for her name, for her shoe size–anything.
As it was, I didn’t see her again. Moral of the story: Don’t play it cool. Field Marshal William Slim might have had a point when he advised that often the key to success, as dangerous and counter intuitive as it might seem, is just to be yourself, and don’t put on an act.
Especially if some heavenly creature looks you in the eyes, and then strikes up a conversation.
That’s another one chalked up on a scandalously long list of wasted opportunities…
Utter fuckwit, springs to mind by way of conclusion.