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Hello My Name is Rugged Fox

I am a 30-something bachelor living in Vancouver, BC, Canada. Pour yourself a glass of wine and join me on this tale of questionable fashion choices and epic dating fails.

Rugged Fox Goes to Vegas, Part Two

Saturday was absolutely gorgeous. There was not a cloud in the sky and the temperature was a comfortable nineteen degrees. With an hour to spare before meeting my friends at the Hard Rock, I sipped on Cab Sav in my king-size bed and tore through my suitcase to find clothes for the main event. Typically I like to attack weddings with about three to four different outfits. Because there are so many cameras around, it is important that I do not get tagged in the same style twice.

After strapping the suspenders on to my arrival dress, I finished my glass of red wine, danced to Robyn to get my heartbeat up, and walked over to meet Jacob and Anna at their hotel room.

Jacob and Anna are two of my friends from the restaurant who started seeing each other shortly after we all met. The two of them are a guaranteed good time, which is exactly the company I like to keep. The last night the three of us hung out together, we received our very own police escort out of a party in Yaletown.

When I arrived at Room 331, Anna was putting the final touches on her face while Jacob was mixing drinks at the dresser he had converted in to a mini bar. He was highly excited about this gallon of vodka he had purchased for five dollars at the convenience store.

"Fox, looking good buddy," he said passing me a drink. "You gotta try this shit, total premium stuff bro I swear it tastes nothing like gasoline."

I took a gigantic sip, and as tears rolled down my cheeks, thanked him for his hospitality. I still have yet to confirm with a qualified physician, but I am fairly sure my tonsils received second degree burns by the end of that drink. Once Anna was all set and I had finished making some minor adjustments to Jacob's suit, we hooked up with a couple more friends and got a cab to the wedding.

The entire event took place at a beautiful home the bride and groom had rented twenty minutes outside the city. The front door opened up to a sweeping staircase that twirled its way up to the second floor. At the end of the main hallway, the kitchen and living room opened up in to a spectacular backyard where the wedding party had assembled. To finish, a beautiful pool reflected the colour of the bright blue sky above and provided the perfect backdrop for the nuptials.

The guest list could have not been anymore fabulous. On the bride's side were some of the best looking servers Vancouver has ever seen (myself included). In the groom's corner were approximately eleven big, buff lacrosse players. It goes without saying I was in heaven. With ten minutes to spare before I achieved my life-long dream of being a flower girl, I reported to headquarters behind the garden shed. My smile quickly faded when I discovered that I had competition in the form of a ring boy.

It appeared that, out of nowhere, someone had produced the cutest three-year-old-boy alive to attend the wedding. On top of that, he was dressed as a miniature Elvis which made him even more infuriating.

"WHO HIRED YOU?" I yelled at him in my kindest voice possible.

As soon as he finished crying, he grabbed on to his mother and buried his face in her right leg. I knew there was no way I could follow-up this kid and leave Vegas with any shred of dignity. It was even more of a tragedy because I was about to make history as the first flower girl to walk down the aisle with a flower basket in one hand and a gin martini in the other. My chin sunken in to my chest, I resigned my title and walked away whispering profanities.

The ceremony was just as much of a success as my new navy blue blazer. Without question, Honey was by far the most beautiful bride in Vegas. If I could have video-taped her honeymoon, I would have. Her wedding dress was elegant, refined and revealed just enough shoulder to make me question my sexual orientation. As she walked down the aisle there was not a dry eye outside the house. She sang to her husband-to-be before passing the microphone to Elvis, who thrusted his pelvis and pronounced the two man and wife.

An hour later, the sun had dropped alongside the red wine in my glass and the party was in full swing. Outside, stars lit-up the sky while floating candles flickered in the pool. Lamb sizzled on the barbecue, lacrosse boys stabbed the side of beer cans and the iPod shuffled in to LMFAO. I changed in to my cocktail dress and took a seat by the pool. The temperature in the desert had cooled off to a refreshing seven degrees which was fine by me.

As time disappeared, I met almost everyone in the wedding party without ever leaving my seat. Every six ounces of wine a new face would sit down across from me. From $800 bottles of Grey Goose on the rooftop at Caesar s Palace to drunken threesomes with conservative girls from Omaha, Nebraska; it occurred to me that everyone had a story to tell. The magic of Las Vegas is that win or lose, no one flies home without an experience they will never forget.

The following day, hungover and starving, Jacob, Anna and I met with a friend for the all-you-can-eat buffet at Treasure Island. Sitting across from each other, our stomachs trembled at the sight of buffet shrimp while our tongues went in to a mild state of shock at the taste of unsweetened iced tea. Exhausted, the four of us spoke in sentence fragments, laughed at nothing, and got distracted by everything. Even though my memory of this event is foggy, one bit remains clear.

"Would you come here again Fox?" asked Anna, taking a bite of Jacob's omelette.

"In a heartbeat," I said.

chicken soup for the gay soul

Rugged Fox Goes to Vegas, Part One

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