Confessions Of A Vegas Swinger

/ Diane Henders

I’m going to make an embarrassing confession, and I hope you won’t lose respect for me when I reveal my dark secret.  It’s something nobody would suspect of me.  In fact, it’s so secret, even I didn’t know about it.

Yes, despite fifteen years of happy marriage, apparently I’m a swinger.

Maybe I was so ashamed that denial blotted the memory from my mind.  Or maybe now that I’m pushing the big five-oh, my short-term memory is shot to shit.  No matter the reason, I was confronted with the damning evidence yesterday, so I can’t deny it anymore.

I was cleaning out my wallet when a slip of paper fluttered out.  It wasn’t the usual sort of paper I stash in my wallet; not a credit card receipt or a business card or a grocery list.  No, it was a small slip of paper, blank except for unfamiliar handwriting in blue ballpoint pen:  “Troy”, and a phone number.

I stared at it in blank incomprehension.  In fifty years, no guy has ever slipped me his phone number, and it seems highly unlikely that’s going to change at this stage of my life.

But it definitely wasn’t my handwriting, nor Hubby’s.  And I don’t know anybody named Troy.

The mystery deepened when I looked more closely at the phone number.  Area code 702.  That ain’t from around here.

So I looked it up.  Nevada.  Specifically, Las Vegas.

Well then.

I was in Vegas last fall.  And I guess ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ must apply to memories, ‘cause apparently I left that memory there.  Maybe I had more fun than I thought…

I racked my brain for who the hell Troy might be, and why he would give me his phone number.  Well, aside from the obvious reason, which was improbable at best.  For one thing, I’m sure Hubby would have noticed if I didn’t show up at our hotel room one night.

We did go to a happenin’ club one evening, but we hung out with our friends and left early ‘cause let’s face it, we’re old fogies now.  And it was so friggin’ busy I didn’t even get a drink, so that ruled out the possibility of an alcohol-fuelled liaison up against the bathroom wall.

The cocktail waitress took a shine to me on our last day at the casino and plied me with free highballs, but I was pretty sure her name wasn’t Troy.  Though it might have been.  Three vodkas in quick succession left me slightly uncertain about my own name, so who knew?  But it seemed unlikely.

Then at last, I remembered.  Troy!  Late thirties, maybe early forties, with the most devastating Irish accent.  I’m a total sucker for Irish accents.  And, yes, he did give me his phone number.

At this point I’d love to relate a spicy story involving Troy and his lovely accent, but the sad truth is this:  he was the taxi driver who drove us from the airport to our hotel.  And unlike our last cab driver in Vegas he actually possessed rudimentary driving skills and we didn’t require medical intervention to restart our hearts after riding with him, so we asked if he could pick us up the next day.

And he jotted his name and phone number on a slip of paper because the cab drivers aren’t supposed to circumvent their dispatch system.

So much for swinging in Vegas.  It was fun while it lasted…

38 thoughts on “Confessions Of A Vegas Swinger”

  1. Pingback: Googling Bear Naked | Diane Henders

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  3. That memory loss is nothing but an inconvenience, Diane. Not only the whole forgetting part, but sometimes the remembering that is associated with it. I think I’m lucky in the fact that I forget more than I remember (I think…)

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  4. Great story! I certainly would not have predicted the ending! Wish you could have been around 30 years ago to investigate the mysterious men’s t-shirt my live-in boyfriend discovered in his closet, causing him to accuse me of cheating. Apparently, my suggestion that it somehow got mixed in with our laundry in the apartment’s communal laundry room was not adequate.

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  6. Well, there are strange events in all our lives. Glad you sorted out who Troy was. Innocuous at best.

    I got here via the Blog Fodder, who I’ve known in real life for years. You need to watch out for him.

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  8. So Irish Troy *slipped you something,* and then you wanted him to *swing* by and *pick you up* for another *circumvention ride.* And you’re a “total sucker for Irish accents.” Ahem.

    I’m blushing.

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  9. Yeah, yeah, sure, a cab driver named Troy from Las Vegas.
    And he jotted his name and phone number on a slip of paper because the cab drivers aren’t supposed to circumvent their dispatch system.
    And your husband believes this.
    And I have shares of a bridge in Brooklyn to sell him.

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  10. That is a story to pass down the line. Reminds me of a story. Guy says when did you start wearing pantyhose? Other guy says since my wife found a pair in my suitcase after a business trip. Friend of mine who is an incurable practical joker has been know to put ONE earring in a travel companion’s suitcase.

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  12. An Irish cab driver? Huh. I’d say you need a better fantasy life (I mean, seriously, I could have convinced myself I “remembered” something much more exciting than that *grin*), but having read your books I know that’s not true. I fear you are just too painfully honest with yourself in real life. 😉

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    • Hmm, now you’ve got me thinking. Maybe a wee bit of Irish flash fiction would be suitable for St. Patrick’s Day?

      And now my imagination is going all sorts of inappropriate places with the word “flash”…

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  15. Now you need to call Troy and tell him he slipped you his number in Vegas. Make sure your voice is all sultry. Then HE’LL be the one quickly wracking his brain for the connection…

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  17. I love Wednesdays. Specifically due to your blog posts. It starts my day with a smile and genuine laughs. Your Vegas story is just priceless. I’m the world’s worst at writing things on slips of paper with the thought that I’ll remember what it was for. Of course that never happens. The bottom of my purse is loaded with a novel’s worth of telephone numbers, names, numbers that obviously are codes for something or other. I hate to throw them out because one of them might be important…..if I ever remember what it’s for.

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    • Thanks, that makes my day – I’m glad you got a laugh! And I’m glad I’m not the only one plagued by obscure jots and scribbles that look too important to throw out. That one really threw me for a loop, though – usually the scribbles are in my own handwriting…

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