Girls gone wild in Vegas

First published in the Sun Herald, a three-part article co-written with Kristie Kellahan and Julie Miller. Click below for the full story:
Day 1 – Wild Vegas
By Louise Goldsbury
Three women with three nights in Vegas can only lead to triple trouble, so in a bid for survival, my friends and I agree to commit no sins in Sin City. No gambling, no men and no Celine Dion.

To start off in style, we book a stretch limo to pick us up from the airport and drive the whole 10 minutes to the Tropicana hotel. After a quick check-in and costume change, we cross the street to the most decadent daytime venue on “The Strip”: Wet Republic.

A playground for the plastic and fantastic wearing elastic, this is a pool party taken to the extreme. Our jaws drop as we walk into a scene of half-naked, broad-daylight revelry.

The centrepiece is a catwalk of wannabe models competing in the Hot 100 bikini contest, their tiny tops seemingly held in place by sticky layers of spray tan. The rest of the clientele look as if they should be up on stage with them, leaving me and my gal pals feeling old and overdressed.

Finding our reserved daybed, we shed our clothing along with our inhibitions and order cocktails – by the jug. For the next couple of hours we relish the spectacle of twentysomethings dancing in pools, spas and cabanas. But there is one wild thing we do that the beautiful girls don’t dare – we get our hair wet.

Not yet satisfied by the display of flesh, we move on to the Thunder From Down Under male revue. Our cultural cringe turns to national pride when AC/DC’s Thunderstuck rocks the room, triggering screams from tables of hen parties. These bronzed Aussies do look much better than most male strippers, they can dance, and they do it with humour. We’re laughing more than lusting, but that’s the kind of night we wanted.

Next stop is the Hyde Bellagio, where we are keen to try “frozen nitrogen” cocktails. With the famous fountains as a backdrop, this terrace bar is one of the hottest spots in town.

The writers in Vegas mode.

A mixologist in a skin-tight, buttock-skimming gold dress wheels over a cart and prepares our drinks at the table. She whisks together fresh fruit, juice and liquors and then adds the magic ingredient of liquid nitrogen, which creates a thick fog that appears to turn her mixing bowl into a cauldron. It freezes the concoction into a sorbet-like drink, served with a spoon, making it easy to forget it’s alcoholic.

Our final destination is Pure, described on its website as the world’s most beautiful nightclub. Security is tighter than at the White House (it takes close to an hour to get through). However, all is forgotten when we’re rewarded with a table overlooking Las Vegas Boulevard and “bottle service” – a few hundred dollars for 750ml of vodka, a couple of mixers and a sexy waitress to pour it for you.

At some blurry point we hit the dance floor, a heaving mass of messiness. Unsurprisingly after 10 hours of partying, we fit right in. We may have danced till dawn or for only one song, but I do remember feeling grateful that we’d designated the next day to recover.

Read what happened next at Sun Herald | All Strip, no poker.

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