Victoria @ Bellagio
Had it really been a year since I last been to The ‘Gio?…Same back-alley parking, same neon "Open" sign, same dread that I must push on through…
…I get my eyes accustomed to the foyer. A water stand, some chocolate boxes, and…
“Take your shoes off” said a new-faced girl, not unkindly, who may have been asked to be receptionist when not busy….Hope she’s not always this not busy…
“I’m here for Victoria”…I said from my end. A few Chinese words down the hallway later, and then there she was - this young Chinese girl-woman, slim legs in adorable knee high socks, climbing up to wide hips, pleated mini skirt and matching knit sweater tight as a barfly’s grip, tastefully legal, but promising trouble. She’s not at all like her spa-posted meme, but she’s attractive in her own way as they say…
Victoria shows me the room…I wanted a shower and I pointed across the hall. She offered the big table shower room down back, but I wasn’t in for that. She left the room to let me undress…I slipped on the bathrobe and slinked across to shower my way to respectability. Stepped out dripping, reached for a towel—nothing. Not a damn rag in sight. Stood there wet, cursing under my breath, and finally yanked back on that thin green bathrobe. Felt like a soggy dishrag. Shuffled back across the hall like a drowned bum in a cheap hospital gown.
Room’s dim, and on the massage bed’s a small towel, folded neat, mocking me. Guess I was supposed to clairvoyant that shit and grab it before the shower. Too late now—robe’s soaked, I’m half-pissed.
Victoria knocked and re-entered. She went out to get me another towel…good girl.
Her English is impressive-no stumbling, her charming accent not thick enough to trip over—and she’s chatting me up while I flatten onto the table.
Hands stroke my back, soft, reaching in like she’s quietly looking for car keys. Then she asks if she can climbs up, barefoot, and starts back-walking —little steps, pressing out the knots like she’s pressing out a cigarette. It’s a little shaky but good, I’ll give her that. She’s under a hundred pounds I’d wager. Muscles give up their fight, aches bleed out slow, and I’m almost human again.
We keep talking - cooking, Asian culture, gym culture, accounting— it’s all clean, decent, and I’m dying like a celibate monk. I grunt, toss a line or two, and she laughs, low and lazy. Could’ve been a barstool yap if I wasn’t sprawled out under her feet. But we’re having the kind of chat you do with the new office co-op, professional and not flirtatious…and now I’m losing my mind.
Hour’s up, she hops off, and then we’re…done?! Victoria goes out to get hot towels, wipes me down proper, and that’s it. No wink, no whisper, no “anything else” vibe. Just a thanks and a see-you-later, like I’d come for a damn oil change. The air had that hum, you know? That maybe hum. But nah—today, for me, she’s a solid professional, ice-cold in that miniskirt. I’m out sixty bucks, back feeling looser, but the shower towel screw-up and her no-extras routine leave a sour taste. Outside the room where she said she would wait, I gave her a twenty tip for single service rendered. No hard feelings. Literally.
She’s got the ingenue vibe, the voice, the legs to stop traffic, there’s reasons why she’s busy…but would I repeat? With no towels in the beginning, and only hot towels in the end…today the Gio’kes on me.