Vegas Man #1 was called Terrence. His name was probably written some naff way with unnecessary punctuation like #T’eyranse. You know, like Will.i.am. He came up to me and Mr Man Bun while we perched by the Luxor casino bar and told me I was gorgeous and had great hair. This was a compliment to both of us as Mr Man Bun does my hair. Having travelled solo a lot recently, I’ve realised I do love meeting new people so despite the fact he was dressed top to toe in white like I imagine a Vegas pimp or a P.Diddy tribute act would be, I thanked #T’eyranse for his kind comments and introduced the names behind the great hairdo.
After the initial basics of ‘where are you from, how long have you been here?’ la la la, I asked for his opinions on American politics and for clarification on how the system works for nominating candidates. I pre-qualify my British Tinder girls with questions on their political persuasions so why not the man doing a shitty job of chatting me – a lesbian – up in Vegas? I started with questions about Hillary Clinton. Clearly he knew nothing apart from that she was married to Bill Clinton. Worryingly, he didn’t appear to know the difference between Congress and the Senate or what a federal system is, yet he tried to blag it. If there’s one thing I have low tolerance levels for, it’s people who don’t know what they’re talking about, but pretend they do. That was #T’eyranse down to a tee.
#T’eyranse also insisted on categorising all people living in America as ‘whites, blacks, or Mexicans’ and implied that everyone was out to make his life unjust because he was a black man. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the US is the most multicultural country in the world, right? I pointed out there were more racial groups. I asked him what he thought of Condoleeza Rice as a black role model because I thought maybe that would be a more comfortable political ground. No recognition. Mr Man Bun asked him if he’d ever been to prison.
Bless him, though, #T’eyranse was not a convict and was actually clearly a hard worker and genuinely nice bloke with a good sense of humour. He had his own advertising business, working with small business owners, and seemed very knowledgeable about that. He spoke proudly of his one-year-old son, Tyger. Yes. That’s the spelling. Not Eye of the Tiger, or Chinese year of the tiger, but T-Y-G-E-R. Poor child. #T’eyranse said he wanted a powerful name for his little boy. I agreed that Tyger sounded like he would be an excellent dyslexic WWF wrestler, but pointed out that he would probably not be an astrophysicist with that name.
By this point I was drunk and when I’m drunk, I become even more arrogant and make bitchy comments like the above. #T’eyranse’s white outfit remained completely spillage free so the poor sweetheart can’t even use drunkenness as an excuse as to why I was able to run circles around him. Time magically flew by and suddenly it was 4am. Wanting to retire to my own bed, I put him out of his misery and I declared my lesbian widow status. He was so shocked at the lesbian part that he didn’t even hear the widow bit. He didn’t believe me at first (but you have nice hair!). Mr Man Bun showed him my wedding photos. He started telling me, ‘you’ve probably just not had sex with the right man yet.’ Gosh, I’ve not heard that one before. This really, really fucking pisses me off so I decided to make him squirm by (re)dropping widowbomb: ‘My wife is DEAD. She killed herself.’ He apologised and said he felt awful. Sobering moment for sure. I derived some sort of bizarre pleasure from his awkwardness. It was like I’d won when he walked away with his tail between his legs.
Technically, I didn’t lie. I just had a ridiculously long conversation without disclosing the truth of my relationship status and sexual orientation. He didn’t buy me a drink so I can’t say I got much from him apart from hearing a new perspective on electoral fraud – the Mexicans are the dodgy ones, apparently. Buh-bye #T’eyranse. It was so nice to meet you.
Up next time on the blog – Vegas Man #2, also known as Super Jew and Vegas Man #3, the crooner.