The confluence of money, alcohol, and sex

I'm at a huge casino in the middle of nowhere. We drove for what seemed like hours (it wasn't) into the woods -- the dark forests encroaching on the roads as we went deeper into the mist.

I'm awestruck. It's as large -- or bigger, likely -- than a Vegas strip casino; and, it's packed with people.

I'm watching the blackjack tables and am struck by the confluence of money, alcohol, and sex. Should I be surprised? Likely not; this is the American way, after all. And who better to lavish it, to create it, to feed off it, than the first Americans. Yes, this is a Native American casino...

I'm struck most, perhaps, by the women here. Not Vegas showgirl quality, but wholesome, cute, girl-next-door quality. Over at one table a young woman stands behind her man. She can't be a day over twenty-one or twenty-two. He's older. He is intent on the game, watching the cards cross the table. She stands behind him in tight jeans and an even tighter off-the-shoulders blouse. Plenty of skin, including the requisite swath between jeans and blouse. Later, when she bends over, I see the tattoo in the small of her back: some Chinese cast of characters.

She wanders off, leaving her beau at the table. I'll bet if he paid attention, he could still feel her hands on his shoulders, her heat against his back. But he doesn't pay attention, a drink at his elbow, his head resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes watching the cards played out on the green felt.

Were I him, I'd leave the table and drag her -- complete with her little paunch of a belly -- upstairs to one of the hotel rooms. I'd throw her to the bed, wrestle her jeans off (discarding them in a heap on the floor), spread her legs wide, and dive in to her muff, licking the pinkness, a wetness pervading all.

As I just conclude this little day dream, she reappears, red wine in a large glass in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She approaches; I'm standing leaning with my notepad on a marble ledge, my back to a pebbled ash tray. I say "hi," and she smiles at me.

I melt.

But you likely would have guessed that. Somehow we end up in conversation. In polite company we're told to never talk about, what, religion, sex, and politics. We missed only religion.

Her name, or so she claims, is Anastasia. She says it's her "stage name." In my wishful thinking I think perhaps she's a dancer. Later in the conversation I decide if any of what she's said is truth, likely not.

A staunch lover of all that is conservative -- including our beloved President -- Anastasia regails me with reasons the Iraqi War is just and right. I also learn she's the mother of a nearly one-year-old girl, the father isn't all that involved in her life or the life of his daughter, her own father is a conservative real estate broker, and she's reading progressive Senator Clinton's book, Living History. While she nearly leaves me abruptly after asking who I plan on voting for in the upcoming November elections, she continues to talk with me; we agree that America's greatness lies in her diversity.

Her dark eyes sparkle as she talks, animated, the glass in her hand swinging around. (Later, I'll see her leaving the casino, wine glass still in hand; her shirt is stained from wine, a red stain splashed across each heavy breast and another splash of red on her stomach. I wonder, silently, if she'd let me suck the wine from her shirt.) Several times she touches me, once on my arm, another -- as she's leaving me -- time on the small of my back. Hours later, I can imagine the warmth of her touch.

Another night in America where money, alcohol, and sex all slide together in a mixing bowl of immense proportions.