About me: Tall (well, five-foot-ten; six-foot-two in the program), dark (okay, artificially tanned with a predisposition towards Tim Burton movies and songs about rain) and ruggedly handsome (maybe harshly cute? reliably non-ugly?), young (okay, youngish) gentleman, new to Las Vegas, seeks single female for an available girlfriend position.
(Note: This is distinguished from the "girlfriend experience," which I first thought was going to be an interesting casino attraction and turned to be something much, much different.)
A little about me: Despite my somewhat pedestrian appearance, I'm somewhat of a rarity. First off, I'm in my 30s (i.e., past the age when I would consider a fitted tank-top something other than underwear, but not yet to the age where I would own a Corvette). I'm not sure where all the other thirtysomethings are hiding in Vegas, but I'm beginning to fear being snatched off the street and bused to a secret building at Nellis where I will be instantly aged 20 years and suddenly abandon grooming any hair that's not on my head.
Other wildly unique characteristics of mine: having a job that doesn't require a name tag but does require that I have no visible tattoos or piercings and no more than one hair color (notwithstanding those cute little "side grays" that seem to be making me more J. Jonah Jameson than Peter Parker lately); owning only two pairs of white socks (which I wear only to the gym); and not owning any skate shoes. There is only one grown man allowed to wear skate shoes, and I'm not Tony Hawk. I also don't wear my sunglasses inside, a ball cap anyplace but a baseball game or anything around my neck that I can't put in the laundry.
All that, and I shave. Regularly.
About you: Like any attractive woman who lives in Vegas, you are, of course, "over" the party scene, but you also have something to show for it. And by "something to show for it," I mean one or fewer of the following: stints in rehab, restraining orders, ex-husbands, children, or bad tattoos. A "bad tattoo" is one that can't be covered up by both of my hands and what you normally wear out, does not involve anyone's name (including yours), and does not appear, at any distance, to be a birthmark, scar or horrible disfiguration.
You are no longer on a first-name basis with the doormen at every club on the Strip, and there are no photos of you on SpyOnVegas.com. You don't list your occupation as "dancer" or "model" if you're being paid either in cash, tips, comped meals or controlled substances.
While you do go to the gym, you don't do it with makeup and hoop earrings on. You don't refer to any Vegas pool as "the beach." You do not say the phrase "I don't wait in line" out loud - especially during the day. Your largest monthly expense is "rent" or "mortgage" and not "entertainment," "clothing" or "car." You do not refer to winning contests at bars as "income." Your dog cannot be picked up with one hand, and your purse is not big enough to hide a body in. Your car does not have any of the following words on it: Princess, Roxy, or Jesus.
All that, and you shave. Regularly.
Is that asking too much? I suppose I'm looking for what we're all looking for: a partner in crime, a few laughs and someone else who knows that outside of public restrooms, intimate grooming and trips to the drug store, Las Vegas is best experienced when you're not alone.
Attorney Glenn Truitt has been in Las Vegas for 10 months and 86 dates (the last 61 or so with the same lovely lady.)