When I left off last, I was dead on the bed in hotel room 928 trying to reconcile my desire for other BHs to have fun at the After Party with my own seething jealousy for having missed out. And then I fell asleep.
Saturday was my day. It was the first full day I’d get to spend in Block Vegas and the night of my 3rd row seat for the show. We got up nice and early since the three of us were still on East Coast time and decided to venture out for some breakfast and a little sightseeing on the strip. The outside adventure lasted all of forty minutes and had us whining for the sweet release of manufactured air within seconds. Did you know that there are no breakfast places on the strip? Neither did we. We ended up looping around and heading back to Planet Hollywood in search of a sign we’d seen earlier boasting a “$3.99 breakfast special”. But not before having all of the moisture evicted from our bodies, eyeballs included. We were a mess by the time we fell gasping through the glass doors of the Miracle Mile Shops. The only thing that could save us was some after-breakfast poolside lounging.
There were only about 12 lounge chairs around either “Pleasure Pool” and even through the early afternoon bass thumping from one of two DJ booths, I could hear a din of confused BHs, wandering hopelessly through the concrete wasteland in search of somewhere to rest our weary bums. Or, “big asses” if Jon has anything to do with it. Which of course he does. And of course we have. Collectively. We weren’t about to spend our hard-earned cash on a cabana or a day-bed, so we trudged back onto the concrete slab between the pools for a quick bake. And then a quick dip. Followed by an even quicker bake, and yet another longer dip. And then back to baking, accompanied by a round of pool-adjacent drinks (the cost of which nearly knocked me over onto my big ass) and another dip in the bathwater-warm pool. Then I had to call it a day. My lily-white skin frowns at glaring sunlight and my belly button frowns in general. So I peaced out and watched some Food Network (napped) in the room.
Since we had a Groupon, we were pretty much obligated to trek down to Fat Bar to redeem our obnoxiously large 50 oz. frozen drinks. In case you’re considering joining the “souvenir cup club” in Vegas, don’t. Save your stomach. No human should ever consume that much sugared beverage. Wilford Brimley and I have one very big thing in common now, I’m guessing. And it might rhyme with shmyabetes.
After an impressively short “getting ready” period we were hot-to-trot and heading back downstairs for my second show of the weekend. I said goodbye to my roomies and excitedly scurried to my floor seat. I was in awe of how close even the third row was to the stage. I was in for a crotch-filled view and I was not mad about it. Bring on the “ten times”! I ended up sitting by yet another solo BH named Brandy. Or Branson, as I chose to call her. We had an empty seat between us but they were awfully close together so I was silently hoping nobody ended up coming in hot with another big booty. Luckily, we were graced with the presence of a tiny little West Virginian who took up almost no space between us. WV had gotten her makeup professionally done for the occasion and she looked adorable. We were all just very excited to be in such close proximity to the performance. And the “ten times”. Obviously. Having survived four or eleven confetti-bombs, I was delighted to be right in front of the action when Joe sang the wrong verse in “Summertime”, yet again. And when Donnie followed suit, yet again. But the hilarity really took off during the splicing of “Hot in Herre” when the crowd requested that Joe take off his clothes. And he answered by saying that he doesn’t believe in man-scaping. Which actually endeared him even more to me since I find hairless men pretty off-putting. Even if he was joking. (The absence of hair on Donnie’s delicious bod is a big conflict for me). The giggling guys went on to discuss how it would be all over Youtube that Joe Mac knocked out the first five rows with his bush. Donnie commented that at least we’d be happy and well-flossed. And after more giggles, they moved on to “Tonight” and ran into the crowd yet again.
Usually when you’re that close at an NKOTB show you can get a sense that one of them looked right at you or even sent an electric wave your way. I bore witness to a few girls next to me and their special moments but alas, mine never came. I was left with my up-close pictures and the video I took of Joe’s dramatic pelvic thrusts. What. A. Performance. The only thing I missed was the overt shirtlessness and general “Magic Mike-ness” of the Package Tour. Where was our “risque” show, gentlemen? I flew all the way to Vegas and sweat my tatas off just to sate my curiosity about what the guys could possibly mean about a “more risque show”. If anything, it was family friendly save for a few F-bombs. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it. Because of course I did. But my inner perversions and the ever-mulling beginnings of fan-fiction in my head will remain just that. In my head. And now on the internet. So there’s that.
There had been rumors swirling that Donnie was letting those who had Friday night After-Party passes into that night’s party. I of course didn’t have a pass, but Alyson had one that she didn’t need so devised a plan for me to join them at the final After-Party of the weekend. I was hoping to finally get my NK moment. The moment every BH lusts for at an event. Facetime. I was corralled into a room reserved for “Friday night girls” and sat down in my sequined skirt. Even though it was too short for sitting on the floor. I couldn’t see a thing, since my contacts had turned to sandpaper in the desert air. But for a moment I was determined to get into my first ever After Party. And then I wasn’t. Something about the listless women and the uncertainty of our fate just drained me. I was in pain and bored, so I made an executive decision and rolled over awkwardly to get up without flashing the room. And I sealed my fate by walking back to the room and falling asleep immediately. Completely ditching poor Branson in the process. Who I had promised to hang out with after the show.
Of course Saturday’s After Party was the one to attend. And of course I died a little inside after hearing about my roomies and their experience. Again. But it was my fault and I’ll eat it. Probably forever.