Continued from Part 1.

You’ll notice that, unlike Part 1, there are no photos in Part 2. This is because:
a) we were too intoxicated to take many good photos, and
b) someone’s face is in almost all the good ones, and you know how I feel about our faces on the internet. Sorry.

Very early Wednesday morning we piled into our rental car, a 2005 Volvo V70 station wagon that, for whatever reason, I named Lyle Wagner, and began our journey southwest to Las Vegas.

Just over 5 hours later, we arrived in Sin City. David and Chris were quite unimpressed with the city itself; it is kind of an eyesore, outside of the gaudy-fabulous strip and “Vintage Vegas” downtown. But we were all happy with our hotel, the Mirage, even though we had to wait a few hours to check-in. In the meantime, we wandered through the Mirage’s amazing pool area, oogled all the hot boys, walked down to the Bellagio fountain, watched a show (to A Chorus Line’s “One”), and then walked back up the strip, through Caesar’s Forum Shops, where I did a tiny bit of shopping.

Though it had only been a couple hours since we’d arrived, Vegas was approaching 106° F and we all needed a break. So we finally got checked into our room - two queen beds, FYI - and relaxed a bit.

Chris and I are both big fans of the swimming pool, for a variety of reasons, so we all went down there and lounged, swam, splashed (and, yes, oogled again) for a couple hours. For dinner, we ate at the Stage Deli (”Just like NY!” Right.) in the hotel and decided to spend our first night downtown, in “Vintage Vegas,” aka: where the casinos and drinks are both cheap.

Since we knew we’d all be toasted, we grabbed a cab and met my friend Scott. He’d come down from Salt Lake on his own to gamble and had the evening free. Patrick and I knew from experience that to start the evening right, we’d need a yard o’ drink of some kind. We stopped at La Bayou on Fremont Street and, for $8 each, got a mixed drink that contained anywhere from 4-8 shots of hard liquor - sometimes including Everclear.

Needless to say, it was only half an hour or so before all of us were rip-roarin’, show-some-love drunk. I don’t remember much from the evening, but Scott was the most sober one and took several pictures of us stumbling through the streets of downtown Sin City.

A few things I do remember:

1. As we passed by, a middle-aged mid-western guy nudging his friend, laughing and saying, “Ah, drunk frat boys in Vegas - I hope they get some pussy!”
2. Deciding we should be “cute” in one of Scott’s pictures, so Patrick kissed David and I kissed Chris. Of course, I’m a good boy and kiss Chris on the cheek. Patrick, on the other hand, plants one on David’s mouth.
3. Someone - experience suggests I’m the most likely suspect - decides the four of us should just become gay polygamists. This intoxicated, no one can think of a reason not to, but there is some confusion when we drunkenly try to convert the phrase “sister-wife” to something more appropriate. Chris finally announces, much to our relief, that he’s figured it out - “We’re brother-husbands!”
   Strangers applaud, and the phrase sticks.

Chris and I had previously decided that tonight was the night we should check out the “male-only” facilities Vegas had to offer. We’d settled on Hawk’s Gym because it was cheaper than the Apollo Spa and, I’d heard from local friends, was more likely to be busy and attitude-free on a weeknight.

We somehow manage to hail a cab and get to the area of town where both Hawk’s and the Apollo are located. Because he is a good, clean boy, Salt Lake friend Scott continues on to his hotel. We four drunks find our lockers, strip down, towel-up, and look around, ready to judge and be judged.

First, the place itself: Empty? No, but not packed, either. Clean? Yep, pretty much. Facilities? Well, it has private rooms as advertised, but the sauna and showers are both out of order. The “meditation room” sounds active, but it’s “blackout night” and we aren’t willing to be groped by strangers.

Second, the clientele: Not bad, but not great. The guys were older, though mostly fit. There were two or three other 20-somethings, but they looked as out of place and disappointed as we were.

So we huddle up in a circle and decide what to do. I tell the other three, “Ok, we’re a unit of four, right? There will be no units of one or two joining the unit of four! Agreed?” (Remember, I’m DRUNK!) Everyone else, also drunk, agrees. So we’re committed. The unit of four IS a unit of one, not to be broken or amended. Or something like that.

There’s no point getting a private room since we could just go back to our hotel for that kind of action. Chris wants to stick it out because he thinks more young guys will show up as it gets later. I want to see what Apollo has to offer, but that’ll cost us. I’m also pissed that half of Hawk’s facilities are closed and no one told us before we paid and entered.

Patrick, David, & Chris sit in the boring video lounge while I, in an alcohol-fueled surge of hyper-confidence, go try to get our money back.

Yes, you read that right. I’m drunk and I’m going to argue for a refund at a SEX CLUB because the action sucks. Funny, huh?

Five minutes later I return with the news that they’re refunding one-third of our entrance charge. Not great, but a small victory. I don’t remember exactly what took place in the exchange, but I know I quoted some garbled mess that included a Las Vegas city statute about facility disclosure, false advertising, and state rules governing a sexually-oriented business. None of it was true, of course, but they didn’t know that. Go drunk, manipulative me!

As we change back into our street clothes, one of the few other young guys asks if we’re leaving. “If you guys are going,” he says, looking at his friend, “we’re going, too. Are you gonna go check out the Apollo?”
“Probably,” I say, giving the rest of my unit a look that clearly says, “FOUR! NOT SIX! FOUR!”

So … the unit of four-plus-two walks down the street to the Apollo.

Rumors in the lobby indicate there are about a dozen guys inside. Looks like it’s a blowout night for us and sex clubs. And not in the good way. One half of the Plus Two Unit asks where we’re from.
“Oh, Salt Lake?” he says. “Me too!” Great. Really great. We not-so-gracefully excuse ourselves back to the Mirage - without the Plus-Two.

There are no cabs around, but we eyeball it to the lights of the Strip. “Only looks like a couple blocks,” someone says. And, intoxication speaking, the rest of us agree. Just as we start out, the Plus-Two Unit pulls up in a car.
“Hey, you guys want a ride?”
We consider.

Patrick wants to say yes. He hates walking.
David is adamantly a no: “I’m not going anywhere near those two little queens,” he says. “They want a piece of this unit of four!”
It’s only funny because David says it like he’s going to get raped if he gets in the car. Both members of plus-two are skinny, scrawny gay boys, maybe 90 lbs. each. David is ex-cop, and he works out. A lot. (He frisked me once, for fun, and it’s quite an experience!)

For some reason, Chris and I agree with David, so, much to Patrick’s annoyance, we walk.

And walk, and walk, and walk.

Three miles and I don’t know how many minutes later, we arrive at our hotel, exhausted. Along the way, two members of the unit of four have to stop and pee by the side of the road. And by road, I mean Las Vegas Strip. And by Las Vegas Strip, I mean the busy-all-night-long-with-pedestrians-and-cars Las Vegas Strip.

When we finally arrive “home,” our feet hurt, we’re tired, and we’re beginning to feel hungover. It’s nearly 4am. We crawl into bed and into oblivion.

The next morning, we painfully get up, shower, and head over to check out the brand-new mega resort the Wynn. David, or “Daddy” as we now say, is the oldest at 31, and therefore hurts the worst. He’s instantly cheered up, however, by ibuprofen and the Wynn’s Ferrari store. He and Scott, who has met up with us again that morning, butch it up and pay the admission fee to see the car collection while Chris, Patrick, and I find a cafe for a mid-day cocktail to nurse our pain.

The Wynn, by the way, is stunning. Inside, outside, everything is beautiful, especially the mountain they built in front of it. Scott and David finish their tour, both awe-struck at the vehicular beauty. They also share a bonding moment when David notices a pressure dent in a new Maserati. “No!” Scott exclaims. “It’s brand-new!” They examine the car and, thanks to their high-pitched, queeny gasps of shock, leave any butch delusions behind.

While the Wynn may LOOK stunning, the food and wait-service at the cafe, on the other hand, leave a bit to be desired. Even if it was reasonably priced for its locale.

Our relatively unhappy tummies require the brother-husbands of four return to the Mirage, while Scott goes shopping. The five of us have dinner reservations in the Venetian later that evening. David, Patrick, and I go back to the pool, determined to get drunk at the poolside bar. Chris, feeling more ill than the rest of the brother-husbands, stays in the room, lying down.

Lofty alcohol ambitions aside, the unit-of-four-temporarily-minus-one relaxes, alone, in a secluded hot tub. At one point, a decently-attractive mid-30s guy on a lounge across the way positions himself in such a manner that we can all see that his suit does not have a lining. This, I think, rejuvenates our quest to “get it on.” I, of course, am the only one to reach that lofty goal of “DRUNK!”

At dinner that evening, Chris & David order a drink for the table. It’s a drink served in a fishbowl. Given my already-incapacitated state, I am not allowed much. But thanks to said drink, the others soon join me. We finish dinner, gamble (where I lose $30, David wins something like $50 net, and Patrick wins enough to make up for my loss), and then go up to Scott’s room at the Aladdin for some homemade cocktails.

Scott makes a stiff drink and, before I know it, Patrick, Chris, and I are on Scott’s bed. It’s innocent, but fun. It also inspires us, so we tell Scott goodbye, return to our own room, and have one hell of a night.

And that is where I will leave things, other than to say:
1) Damn, were we all in sync!
and
2) Don’t worry, we crossed no previously-erected (hee - I said “erected!”) boundaries. I don’t think.

The next morning we had brunch at the amazing buffet in the Paris and started our drive home. David and I had conspired to have a birthday dinner that night for Chris, whose 30th birthday was one week later, so, to make our reservation with all our friends, we had our travel time down to the minute. Unfortunately, we hit needless, stupid construction just outside Beaver (remember?) and were stuck there FOR AN HOUR. In an effort to make up time and still make the party, I started speeding along I-15, past tiny little rural Utah towns. I know I hit 110mph at one point, but I was fortunately much closer to 95 or 100 (in a 75) when the nice Utah Highway Patrolman pulled me over.

Initially, he said we’d have to wait “for a bus” to take me into town to post bail at the courthouse since, technically, at that speed I’d have to be arrested. (Whoopsie!) For whatever reason though, he came back after checking out my license and rental car registration and said, “Well, it don’t look like yer pit-cher’s up on any post office walls, so let me get you this here form to post bail by mail.” In short, no arrest, just a speeding fine. And it wasn’t even very much. Talk about relief!

Obviously, with that added delay, we did not make Chris’ birthday dinner, which really disappointed me. When we finally did get home, the boys packed their things up in preparation for their flight the next morning. Then the four of us got drinks and sat and talked for a coupe hours. Talked about them, talked about me and Patrick, talked about all of us together, about Salt Lake, the trip, and anything else that came to mind. It was really, really great and I think brought us even closer together. With this night and the previous one, David & Chris were definitely now family to me and Patrick.

After we couldn’t put it off any longer than we already had, each couple crawled into our respective beds - in separate rooms. As we were falling asleep, Partick asked me, “What are you thinking?”
“That we should just go crawl into their [more comfortable] bed.”
“Is this bed that bad? Or do you miss them already?”
“I miss them already. And by crawling in, I don’t mean sexually, either. I just mean in an innocently intimate, close, cuddly sort of way.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. We should do it.”
“What if it freaks them out?” I worried.
“Do you think it would?”
“I doubt it, but I don’t know for sure. Maybe we should play it safe.”
I don’t think any more was said, as we both fell asleep, still in limbo about what to do.

The next morning, after a sad breakfast, we drove the NC boys to the airport. David and Patrick unloaded the royal luggage and we hugged goodbye, all fighting back tears. “We’re gonna miss you guys so much!” I said to Chris.
“I know - we’re going to miss you too!”
We were silent for a second.
“I told David last night,” Chris continuted, “that we should come get into bed with ya’ll and cuddle up.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but not in a sexual way. In a close way.”

With that, they walked into the terminal and Patrick and I drove off, back toward the city. I felt so “together” and happy with Patrick, but at the same time I also felt a strange sense of empty, something I hadn’t felt before and can’t really explain.

As we drove home, Patrick and I held hands. Still a little teary-eyed, he said, “It’s like part of US is gone, isn’t it?”

I had to agree; he’d gotten it exactly right. After only a week together as brother-husbands of four, Patrick’s and my relationship, while still complete and really great, was now missing that little something extra, and I think David & Chris will agree. It’s a little something unique that gives us all a spark that we only get when we’re together.

The four of us are really pretty different from each other, but earlier in the trip when we walked into a store in Salt Lake, the clerk said from across the room, “Wow - you guys walked in here in a perfect line, exactly like one another. You must be friends for life!”

Yeah, you could say that.