The first time I'd ever heard of the Red Rooster was nearly ten years ago when I booked my first trip to Hedonism II. Lifestyles Tour & Travel in Anaheim California, where I made my reservations, was founded by the "King Of Swing" Bob McGinley, who puts on huge swinger conventions and tours to various resorts in the Carribean and elsewhere. Upon receiving my travel documents, the reservations agent scribbled a number and some directions to a house in the eastern section of Las Vegas where fun frolic and bare asses rumored to abound nightly.
Months later I found myself in Las Vegas with two idiot buddies who still held out the naive hope that they could seduce a stripper at the Palomino. As gullible a sap that has ever come out of the cloistered confines of Orange County, I'd nevertheless had come to the irrefutable conclusion that most dancers have an attitude that I have been wronged by the male gender and this is my vehicle for retribution. Down to my last hundred bucks, tired of heaving dollar bills into the G-string of strippers with vacuous smiles and 56ZZZ plastic breasts, I told my two drooling friends that it was time to leave. It fell on deaf ears- Rick and Tim were falling hard for a dancer that (she claims) was a 4.0 student at U. of Nevada, raising a kid and in the running for a Rhodes scholorship to Oxford. Damn I hate that, a babe smarter than I and probably stuffing the equivalent income in her spandex of most Fortune 500 CFOs.
Eleven p.m. Heading eastward on Tropicana Ave. past McCarran airport, past the big mexican restaurant where I enjoyed chugging gallons o' Margaritas and out to no-mans land I drove...and drove...past the lights of the city almost to Hoover Dam! (But I regress.) I eventually did arrive, checked-in, and paid my fee as casually as possible while attemting to give off the aura of a worldly swinger. Had I not after all been to a Jamaican resort and a famous nude beach in San Diego? Still I was not prepared for the casual sex I found at the Red Rooster.
The Red Rooster will never be mistaken for one of Sadam Hussein's palaces. It's a modest home on Greyhound Lane in the eastern outskirts of Las Vegas. The interior is best described as eclectic, in other words bordello adjacent with unique furnishings not frequently seen your town furniture showrooms, like a glory hole box-like structure that appears to have been made to 8th grade woodshop standards. Appointments aside, the place is clearly not for one wet behind the ears to the swinging lifestyle. Back then, in my early to mid-twenties, I was probably a couple of decades younger than those present that evening. While many couples retired to another portion of the home, I was left roaming the premises with many other single guys, all I assumed tourists from Las Vegas with the same scribbled Red Rooster directions and phone number stuffed in their pockets. Soon I found myself standing at the bar nursing a can of beer and trying hard not to look like a 6' 5" been-pole geek from SoCal. Red Rooster like Hedo in Jamaica is best when you BYOB (Bring your Own Babe.)
A mid-fortysomething with heavy make-up and big saggy wobbling waboos saddled up and started to make conversation. Just as I began to reply that I had never been to Moline Illinois I felt a sqeeze to my lower region, then another and another. If this is how women greet men in Illinois i'll never again speak ill of America's heartland. Despite the fact she looked nothing at all like Miss July in Playboy I was having fun. So was "he." At about the fifth squeeze the fortysomething's appearance changed like a woman who just found the Hope diamond in a pair of size 34" X 36" pants. She grabbed me and dragged my butt off to another section of the house.
By the time I got back to hotel both my buddies were in their rooms asleep, broke, dissapointed and horny. I wasn't.