Confessions Of A Vegas Swinger

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…