Vegas in Kellie

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Kellie visits Las Vegas after a breakup and gets used.
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cowboy109
cowboy109
314 Followers

The hard metal wheel with the red plastic covering spun in circles. The shopping cart was unbalanced on three wheels. A light turn would push the wheel down. It would immediately lock up and spin in circles. I hated that. Normally, I would have made Jeff push the rebelling shopping cart. He had been a strong guy. The only thing left to do for me was to push on over the worn out white linoleum floor with the black spots. The scarce lighting of the cheap super market reflected on the ground.

Tomato sauce, easy pasta dinner here we go, was the first stop. There were easily 20 different brands. Lots of other people were slouches during weekday evenings as well. All, except for two, disqualified themselves because of food additives, too many calories, or too much sugar. Jeff's favorite was Aunt Milano's Power Mower Sauce. My favorite was Sicilian Destiny. Obviously, there was no point in buying Aunt Milano anymore. Now that I could have Sicilian Destiny every day of the week, the thought of getting my way so easily without a battle churned my stomach. I couldn't eat my favorite that was denied to me for four happy months.

I pushed the empty shopping cart on. The display of food, aisle after aisle, made my stomach churn even more. A certain shakiness came over my body from low blood sugar. All the more easy was it for emotions to well up on me. I felt awkward, pretending to have caught something in my eye to sneak out liquid from my eyes onto my fingertips, before enough liquid could collect for a drop to form and run down my cheek. That would have been too embarrassing.

My eyes must have been red for sure. I struggled with the corner of my lips wanting to quiver. I had to get bottled water for sure. That craving of buying cigarettes, usually only once a year on a really bad day, had become day number two. That fucking asshole Jeff had slept with a blond bimbo. I threw a jar of Haagen-Dazs into the cart. Only the absolute sweetness would compel me to eat despite all of the nausea.

The checkout was the place, where I could not hide in the empty grocery store. I had to face the "Hello, how are you?" from the cashier. The cashier, neatly dressed in a cheap collard suit with all the buttons buttoned up and a cheap store colored tie, didn't even look up. I was biting on my lip to generate a stimulation that was stronger than the jerk on my tear. Every sharp stab of the corner teeth pulled me away from the quivering that wanted to roll over me each time I inhaled.

Guys would have normally stared at me. However, today I was wearing gray sweatpants and sneakers. I had even forgotten to put on low ankle socks first. I usually find bare feet in shoes so disgusting, because all the bacteria grow that way, and they smell funky quickly. My round, cosmetically enhanced breast were hidden beneath a fluffy, big shoulder strap t-shirt. I had gotten the good stuff, silicon beneath the chest muscle and inflated through the nipples to avoid leaving scars. I had diligently, daily massaged my boobs to avoid any cohesion from forming. Now, they were fluidly moving around with motion of my arms and torso.

I don't want to brag. However, my skin is really clear. I take great care of it with creams, exfoliation, and most importantly eating well. My hair is long, silky, and following. God thanks, we have modern shampoos, conditioners, and hair products to make hair everyday hair look better than special effects doctored hair commercials from twenty years ago. I take great pride in how my hair flows, when I lift it or flick my head. It's that jerk Jeff's loss. I should count myself lucky to have found out about his cheating way sooner than later.

My little silver Civic winked at me upbeat with his orange indicators and a chirp. I always loved the little welcome. I had to smile a little. I called that little guy Roger. He's taken me to so many places, into the mountains, into the desert, and onto far road trips. I snuggled myself into the bucket seats. Sure, it was only a Civic. That's all my Veterans Administration salary will pay for reviewing applications all day. However, Roger was mine. I threw the plastic bag with the groceries on the passenger seat.

From habit, my finger flicked above the center dashboard. This time, it hit empty air. There was only the oval glue outline left over from the bobble-head doll of an upbeat dog with its tail wagging. I had ripped it out in anger and thrown it out of the window somewhere on the freeway. Jeff had given it to me on our third date. He had admitted in tears to me that he was allergic to dogs. Because I had fantasized on and on about having a cute, smooth haired little doggie on our second date, he had feared that it wouldn't work out between us. He had bought me this bobble-head dog to make up. His voice was quivering, when he was saying what was up. Of course, I had to hug him and call him silly. He burried his face so deeply into my shoulder like a little boy that I was so touched that I made him my boyfriend.

Now it was me who was bawling. My eyes were watery. I could not drive even if I wanted to. The windows quickly fogged up. At least nobody could see me. The only thing warming me up in this lonely world was the seat belt, which held onto me snuggly. When I realized that the only thing in this world that loved me and cared about me was my seat belt, another wave of sobs rolled over me.

In the fog of emotion at some point, I had a clear thought. I needed to get away. I needed a change of scenery. Coming home to an empty apartment day after day with nothing to do would keep me endlessly in this loathing state. I pulled out my little iPhone and opened the last minute deals by Southwest. Las Vegas came up. A party city with lots of singles was way better than a romantic Hawaii with couples hand in hand wearing matching t-shirts. Perhaps, I would teach that jerk Jeff how much he lost by driving the men in sharp suits and shiny shoes crazy.

My fingers typed through the checkout procedure. The focus on the rational activity of entering my address and so on cleared my head. I rolled down the fogged up windows and turned the windshield wiper on. Oh boy, had I caused a lot of steam on the window. I had to chuckle a little bit. I better get home, before the next emotional downpour arrives and the ice cream melts.

When Friday arrived, I made my way to the airport. There are two horrible things about travelling alone. Number one, without a female crew, I felt vulnerable. I had to watch out on my own for creepy guys and little kids running with red lollipops to mess up my clothes. Number two, there is nobody to talk to. There are only endless awkward minutes of starring around, looking at people, hoping that people don't stare at me, avoiding eye contact with people that equally awkwardly scan the line ahead at the check-in counter and security line.

I had been dressed efficiently for the security check: Flip flops with pedicured, delicate feet and radiantly blue toe nails. I had a little dress on to get into the mood for a flirty Vegas. A little stringy thong was underneath the dress and a black push up bra for a nice juicy cleavage. I was going to rule as a queen in the city of sin, I silently laughed to myself. To be a little racy, I had put a necklace on with a Playboy pendant. Do it right or don't do it at all is my motto.

At the typical Southwest lineup at the gate, I saw a cute guy five numbers behind me. He had a broad jaw, blond crew cut, and clearly worked out. His chest had two meaty flabs. His biceps were so big that I couldn't have held onto them with my small girly hands. A black tribal tattoo ran down his forearm. He was wearing white pants and a tight white t-shirt. I know my girlfriends would have said that he looked like a gigolo. Though, I wasn't looking for a boyfriend. I was looking for attention. And he had this farm boy from Idaho look about him that made me dream about him taking me home to the farm to meet his parents in the farm house in the midst of a waving wheat field.

Smartly, I stepped five numbers farther back then I needed to with my boarding priority being B13. That way, I stood next to him. My heart was pounding. I feared equally that he had seen me move back, because that would be to embarrassing, and that he didn't notice me at all. He kept typing away on his cell phone.

Our boarding range started moving. We walked past the boarding pass check into the boarding aisle. He was still behind me and fully focused on his phone. I stealthily adjusted my hair and when my hand moved down, I lowered the dress farther down my boobs.

Nothing! He still didn't notice.

"Hey, do you have some gum?" I asked him in a desperate approach.

The blue eyes looked up from the phone and at me. My heart froze for a moment. They were so deep. There was so much presence in his eyes. I think that I stopped breathing for a moment. He had these tight manly lips that didn't betray the slightest smirk. I couldn't help imagining his lips slowly crawling over my belly delivering a million soft kisses to my delicate skin working its way around my navel.

"No," he said and looked back down at his phone.

My heart dropped. I felt super awkward having to stand next to him after he had rejected me. It was like getting an F in math and having to walk around with it written on my forehead – F is for failure.

When I boarded the plane, it dawned on me what had happened. Sure, there were many tourists and grandmas travelling as well. However, in between were other young, attractive women like me. The shoes were amazing. They were these works of arts formed by complicated or intensely impactful straps. They tended to have high platforms beneath it. There were shiny leather boots. There were artisan cowboy boots.

And the dresses were something entirely else. They were so short that purses on their laps needed to cover their underwear from peeking out. There were asymmetric dresses with cutouts at the belly in all kinds of ways. There were fabrics so sheer that the underwear color showed through. I saw quite a few nipples poking into the dress. Simply what I had thought was sexy in my small town two years ago was utterly outdone by modern Vegas style. No wonder, the cute guy didn't think anything of me. He must have thought that I was a six.

That tattoos that these girls were having were amazing. I had gotten a Virgo sign on my ankle a few years ago. These girls had works of arts on their body. Delicate detailed drawn faces, patterns that were master pieces, and richly symbolic design. I couldn't help myself studying a girl's demon face coming out of a tree that was surrounded by a looming full moon, while a balding old man was struggling to push his roll-on into the overhead bin.

Arriving in Las Vegas was overwhelming. There was the constant ring-ding of the slot machines right in the terminal. The baggage conveyors were in a giant tall hall with big billboard advertising for magic shows, strip clubs, and famous DJs. The taxi line was an hour long, a crowded pen of out-of-towners streaming into the city for the weekend. I stayed at the Rio, a cheap hotel off the strip that gets you a suite for $50 a night. My mind was so tired that it stopped recording my path to my head drifting into the pillow.

The next morning started with merciless desert sunlight streaming into the room and lighting it up to glaring brightness, despite that only a one foot gap in the curtain let the sun in. Saving money, I had a food bar and an apple from my carry-on as breakfast, while I walked through the suite checking it out and hanging my clothes in the closet.

My first stop was of course the pool. I put on my bikini and bottoms then threw a dress over it. The knot in the side straps of my bottoms made the dress bump out. The colorful bikini was a little higher on my breasts than the cleavage of the dress. Definitely everyone knew that I was going to the pool. I kind of like the playful silhouette that a bikini underneath introduces to a dress. I slipped into my flip flops and cheekily slipped the room key card into my top. Hey, if you are in Vegas, act like the big girls, c'mon!

I walked down the long empty hallway with carpet from the eighties and no paint touch up ever since. The elevator had a couple buttons punched out by a late night drunk. One button was eternally stuck. That's what $50 gets you. Once outside the elevator, I found myself in a streaming mass of people, the tourists in horrible clothing, the cocktail waitresses walking around in stripper dress up, the young party girls, and the starring guys dressed from slob to over the top handlebar mustaches with top hats.

I found my way to the pool entrance, queasily feeling liberated without anything in my hands and queasily fearful without the safety that holding the purse brought. The pool boy gallantly opened the door for me. I already felt more like a lady. The outside sun was overpowering like shining a green laser into a pilot's eye. Luckily, I had my shades on. Yet, they didn't seem to help much. With squinted eyes I proceeded. The club house at the entrance checked my keycard and handed me two towels. I carefully eyed the guy, when I inserted the room card back into my bikini top. He didn't even blink.

The lounge chairs around the pool were already crowded. This was definitely a family pool. There were kids playing games in the water. There was a group of 50 year old men with two buckets of beer bottles. There was a fat grand ma. There was a mother with her teenage daughter. The only free lounge chair was opposite to two guys that looked like refrigerator sales guys.

As soon as I sat down, the fatter and hairier of the two hollered at me, "Hey, wanna have some fun? We've got fun copyrighted." I seized him up. He had a creepy smile. He was bald. There were two fat folds on his belly. He had a black swim trunk that went to his mid-thigh. The lower half of the mid-thigh had dark, curly, disgusting hair. He had solid black plastic sun glasses that were supposed to make him look like a biker, yet looked like from the gift shop in the hotel.

His friend had clean shaven face and carefully trimmed, slightly graying hair. He was also in better shape. He had a swiftness about his features and gaze, as if he would ride a lot of bicycle recreationally. Actually, his Oakley glasses with the strap behind his head were definitely for some kind of outdoor sport. There was a tattoo of Captain Morgan on his chest. The black ink had faded to suggest that he was a rocker before he had accepted a regular 9-5 life style.

"Sorry guys, I have a boyfriend," I said automatically. The moment I had finished, I realized with shock that Jeff was a jerk.

"Where is your boyfriend," said the fat chubby guy with annoying persistence.

"He is playing golf," I lied.

"We can give you company, while he is gone." I definitely hated that fat toad of a man.

"Oh, he wouldn't like that. He is very jealous," I finally finished them off with my lies. I started liking the idea of making up a fantasy life. Nobody would be able to call me on it. I could make my boyfriend a CEO of a small corporation. What would I like my boyfriend to run? Maybe, some kind of pharmaceutical wonder drug that is about to be released. Yet, I can't talk about it – company secret. I could maybe make him a little dominating like the mogul from "Fifty Shades of Gray."

While I spun my day fantasy in my head, I had to deal with an awkward reality. The bottoms of my bikini were a bit old. The stretch in them had gone out a little. I had to occasionally carefully shift them back into place to avoid an indecent exposure. One of my lips could have fallen out without noticing, because the stretch was barely palpable. It was so weak.

Whenever my fingers discretely went down there, I carefully looked around to avoid a little kid staring at me or worse. That chubby sales guy dude had his eyes always on me. He was eagerly anticipating my fingers down there like a cat watching a mouse hole. And surely, he must have got a glimpse of one of my pussy lips or at least the untamed beaver whose little hairs were trying to crawl out. The worst thing about him seeing that was knowing how crude his thoughts were.

Whenever a hot girl or actually any young girl passed him, he'd holler: "Those tits are a nine!" When a flat chested Asian girl passed him, he hollered: "Two fours don't make an eight," referring to her boobs individually only getting a four on his scale. When a girl had a little nipple slip accident on the kiddie slide into the pool, he told his buddy loud enough for me to hear, "look at that skanky bitch. She deserves to be fucked in the ass." His more attractive friend tried to softly and gentleman like keep him in check from turning even cruder. He got points from me for that.

While the girls walked past, I checked out their bodies as well. I always thought of myself highly. I go running three times a week for a lean body. However, the top girls were not only skinnier. They also had a beautiful muscle tone. Their belly showed the clear outlines of a slender, feminine six pack. They were flexible yoga rats, when they bent their bodies around to rest. They had all kinds of jewelry, golden ankle bracelets, silvery belly bracelets with pink precious stones, and barbell piercings in the nape of the neck.

I felt ugly with my two year old, stretched out bikini. I always thought of myself as a stunner. I could not measure up with these girls. All I had were those middle aged two dudes, while the other girls had young studs bringing them fruity cocktails with umbrellas. I had always hated those umbrellas, blatently tacky things. However, not having one now stung.

My eyes shunned the mingling of guys and gals to fall upon a little adorable nine year old girl. She was sitting in the shallow end of the wade-in pool with her hair in pig tails wearing a colorful flower swim suit dress. Her eyes opened wide and her little fingers splashed down into the water in abandon, when she told her little friends, "We have to go to the roller coaster." Another girl in an all pink swim suit set twisted her body and opened her mouth wide in amazement, "Whoa, there is a roller coaster here, too."

Without waiting a beat, a third girl, a little chubby blond haired girl with her hair tangled into a mess on her back, yelled loudly "Marco" and closed her eyes. The other two girls shrieked and plowed through the water, throwing up waves and white water, as quickly as they could. "Polo," they echoed as they sped in opposite directions. The third girl blindly waved her arms and went after the first girl, calling out "Marco" again.

The days of being a kid, playing in the pool were so easy. I remembered how engrossing it was to play Marco Polo, the hide and seek style game. Back then, it was so easy to talk. There was no judgment. I can't believe how effortless it was to play doctor for the first time. Julie, my long lost childhood friend, simply pulled out the kiddie doctor case and told me to lift my skirt to put in a thermometer. Haha, imagine doing that with a girlfriend now. She'd think that I'm a loony.

Another girl shyly entered the pool. She paused after entering and looked at the other girls with a pale, worried face. On the next "Marco" call, she replied with "Polo." The other girls looked at her. The chasing girl opened her eyes for a moment. Then, she closed her eyes again and went after the new girl. The new girl instantly understood and rapidly pushed her way along the edge of the pool leaving a wake of water behind her. She was a skinny girl and "Marco." Quickly caught her and made her change directions.

Those kids made friends so quickly. It warmed my heart to see all the play and fun, putting myself back into my own childhood, and at the same time, it stirred a sorrowful wound of being shut out of that world, sitting here on this lounge chair alone in the bright flood light of the Vegas sun.

cowboy109
cowboy109
314 Followers