"Excuse me, do you work here?"

Vegas is one-stop shopping for whatever your little sicko psyche desires. Pancakes at 4:00 AM, or a mid-afternoon snack of a hog-tied spanking? While getting ready in your hotel room for a night on the town, do you want to watch "Waterboy" on Comedy Central, or "Boot Strap", an all-male cast portrayal of the army's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy? All these options and more are quite readily available. Yes, Astroglide is certainly on the room service menu, under "sides."

Still, I forget where I am when I go out in Vegas, and what's really out there. Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road looks like a jaded truck-stop waitress compared to me. "Ooh, looky at the lights! Looky at all the people! Looky at that OUTFIT!"

So perhaps it was inevitable that I was mistaken for a hooker. Believe me, it's easy to do. Prostitution is illegal in LV, so don't look for skanky ho outfits like you wore last Halloween. They dress like you. Or me. Cute jeans, cute skirt, tank top. So anyway, we were at a bar and I was completely fascinated watching these girls work. They're in teams, and they tend to focus on older men. They'll sit at the bar, simply catch someone's eye, smile and say hello. Shit, that's me on an off night. Then the line: "Do you want to party?"

So there I am, staring at these girls, and staring at the yukky old men, when an old geezer approaches. Then another. "What, no?!?" One man retorts at my horrified face. He ambles off, then leaves not two mintues later with a hottie blonde. "You're beautiful?" the other guy says hopefully. "Uh, you're classy?" His efforts aren't wasted, however, as one of the working ladies hurries over to take my place.

I realize now I probably looked like a contestant on the Heidi Fleiss version of "The Apprentice." And yeah, I was definitely intrigued. But I think I'll leave it to the professionals. After all, I'm the sucker who does it for free.