The Story Of Mad Max In Las Vegas

Siblings of Mark Wahlberg9 years ago

I had been 21 for about six minutes. Flanked by a motley crew of gambling addicts, perverts, and unapologetic one-percenters, I found myself in the city of sin, finally old enough to partake. We decided to start in the hotel, bought a table at Marquee and watched our familial funds disappear faster than me after a one-nighter.

Personally, I was content to stay there for the night. We had bottles, the women were unbelievable, and our suite was just an elevator away. My roommate Max had other ideas.

“Dude, I’m about to Gordon Gecko these bitches,” he said.

“Max, what the fuck does that mean?”

He tells me to just wait and see. Next thing I know, he’s got a middle aged woman on his lap licking his neck like a labradoodle as he takes PDA to a foam party level of debauched.

Now, to preface this, Max is an extremely unique individual. In college, he essentially played a Frank Reynolds type role in our group, thriving on the scraps of the rest of us. He once double-teamed a mother-daughter with his father in Cabo, neglected to change his comforter after a bloody nose, prompting an American Psycho style half nude woman to go running from our apartment, didn’t realize he had a gay 3-way (“Dude we both fucked her at the same time…it was an orgy!”) and has plucked more assholes than a proctologist. The kid is weird. He now works on Wall Street. Go figure.

Anyway, I’m basically halfway inside an Arizona State coed on a weekend Greek trip, ready to change my residency to Nevada when I overhear Max’s conversation.

Wait, you have three kids? How fucking old are you?” he asks. “Like how did you have them, out of your pussy?”

“Excuse me?”

“Jesus, that thing must be a fucking mess. Sorry honey, I’m not looking for a Teflon twat. Looking to fuck it, not play operation with it.”

“WHAT?!”

“You know, like, hey I can put it in without touching the walls, and if I do…BZZZZ.”

“What??”

“BZZZ.”

She, naturally, throws her drink in his face, prompting him to do the same back to her. Long story short, my birthday goes from tables, ASU girls, and Marquee to forcibly being put on the curb pretty quickly.

“I’m sorry guys,” apologized Max. “Fuck it let’s go bang out some whores. I’ll Yelp some services.”

As great as Max’s make up plan sounded, fortunately, a limo pulled up in front of us (and if you’ve been to Vegas you know this happens), the driver hopped out and asked, “You guys like tits and ass?”

We looked around, shook our heads, and got in.

Little did we know, we were being shuttled off the strip, which is basically the equivalent of going into town in Cancun. I figured we had an equal chance of being beheaded as we did fucking non sex-trafficked American girls, but I guess when in Vegas you come to gamble.

We drove for what seemed like hours through the shantytown that is Nevada, before the bright lights of the Treasure Chest (name changed for safety) greeted us kindlier than a morning blowjob. We walked in to the real Mecca. Fully nude, hard 9s and full contact, which amazingly means do basically whatever you want with them.

Now, to be honest, I don’t really like strip clubs. Not from a liberal feminist perspective, but in a “wow this place smells like asshole and that guy just licked this woman’s nipple” kind of way. But my friends bought me a couple birthday dances, we slid further toward full blackout, and the night went on like a Tuesday for Johnny Manziel. Max, however, had gone missing.

It was almost 3am, and we decide to get the bill. It was, of course, staggeringly more than any of us had imagined possible. I threw my card down, but it was declined. I was fucking traveling, so of course at 3am AMEX is a little wary of a Nevada strip club. I left for a minute to call American Express, but realized I was just an “authorized user” on the account. My mother had to authorize any suspicious transactions. As much as I would have loved to call my mother at 6am in New York and wake her up with a $1,400 charge from an establishment known as the “Treasure Chest” (“Hey mom, it’s an arcade for kids at the Treasure Island Hotel and we broke A LOT of shit!”), I decided against it.

We had to run, make it to the first cab we could see and head toward civilization. Max was on his own, having been in the champagne room for two hours. He was either balls deep in an Eastern European dancer or dead, but either way we just couldn’t wait. We got to the hotel just as the ASU group was leaving Marquee, so we tagged along to an after party on a lower floor and survived a definite beating by the less than hospitable frat guys the girls came with, our letters serving as a stay of execution.

We picked up where we left off with a few of the girls and invited them back to our suite, at this point completely forgetting about Max as shots turned into strip poker, which led each of us to pair off. I took whatever her name was into my room, but a faint light was sort of illuminating the corner side of the bed. Our room looked like a satellite image of North Korea. The Sun Devil was disrobing when I flipped the light on, and that’s where I found him.

There in the corner, presumably having fallen off the bed, Mad Max was passed out in nothing but his boxers. We approached him to see if he is alive.

“Oh my God is he..”

“Hey, at least he was trying!”

There he was, completely unconscious, right hand in his pants, an Asian gang bang playing silently on his iPhone.

“Well, at least he’s alive.”

That night, I went to sleep for the first time as a 21-year-old. ASU girl had gone back to her own room basically immediately after we discovered Max, and I had saved the GDP of a small African nation by running out on my strip club bill. It was a great fucking day, or so I thought.

And then I woke up. 21 missed calls, 11 text messages, and 4 emails. Apparently AMEX, The Treasure Chest, and most of all, my parents, didn’t think things were so wonderful the morning after..

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