"Only a virgin can write of the place, of course, and for the first time in so many years that I had to use a calculator to determine they number 27, I am that chaste man, about to be joyfully de-flowered on the asphalt strip, in the carpeted game rooms, and all over the glitter, gold and glitz..."

If Willie is right, that one night of love can’t make up for six alone, on the eve of Sin City sojourn, I’m left to wonder if three nights in Vegas can make up for 362 on a mattress made in hell.

As of early Saturday morn, I have embarked on a year-long journey of discovery in that regard, as one credit card and $840 later, Prof. Mary and I are bound for Las Vegas to attend the April Fool’s Day wedding of her older brother in the bejeweled, bedazzling halls of the Bellagio.

Or so I can only imagine, as I’ve never been to Vegas and never really aspired to be there, but after mulling the matter a couple months, and having depleted 90 percent of my income tax return on the joyless, slate-gray have-to’s of paying down debt accumulated over the previous 12 months, I found myself inclined to take the plunge to sun, sand and bling.

It helped that I was really, really small that night, when I tend to spend freely of plastic and Web.

Waking up the next morning to hard-consider the matter in the bright light of cold sobriety, knowing full well the deed was already done, I gained comfort with the spontaneous transaction in the spring just then sproinging in my back.

Or sometimes my side.  Right near my ear too many times, which tends to startle.  And just about everywhere one lies on this accursed mattress.

It is a beast of a thing I got from my younger sister way too many years ago to be creeped out that she had owned it.  I alone own the mattress, for the stories it could tell, and in the wounds incurred upon its callous, coiled surface; a handful of raspberry burns when knee would not yield to metal menace, locked as the body was in throes of the flesh.

Mary’s a darlin’ for putting up with a man who would own such a bed, and she is nothing but The Woman in being OK with the Faustian trade that purchased my peace with the expense of this Vegas trip.  I’d reserved a chunk of the tax return for a new mattress, but hadn’t gotten around to getting it.  Thus the mattress will wait another February, so Dick and Mary can live the script for what is sure to be a blockbuster screenplay: Dick & Mary Do Vegas.

Or vice versa.

Only a virgin can write of the place, of course, and for the first time in so many years that I had to use a calculator to determine they number 27, I am that chaste man, about to be joyfully de-flowered on the asphalt strip, in the carpeted game rooms, and all over the glitter, gold and glitz.

One can only write of Las Vegas who has not seen it, who has not lived it, who has not yet tasted its dry desert air, for it is writ indelibly of Madison Avenue immortality, that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

If there’s a better mantra for any three-day party worth noting, modified for place, submit your version to this fine publication, because I wanna know it.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

It’s like a fraternal pledge that purchases licentious license for all who heed the call to America’s oasis of excess.  Thus, nary a word will pass my lips or emanate from my fingertips, of forbidden fruit hopefully tasted; naught but tales of throwing back fruity alcohol while lounging in, on and beside a pool best described by the PR professionals who were paid handsomely to produce handsome prose:

“Surrounded by a beautiful 15-acre tropical retreat, the stunning pools at The Flamingo interconnect through the lagoons and around a magnificent cascading waterfall and seasonal waterslide.  Enjoy sunbathing or a leisurely swim in crystal clear waters. Lifeguards are on duty each day, and a complete staff of pool attendants is available to provide complimentary towels and lounge chairs…  Surrounding the pool in this tropical garden are The Beach Club Cafe and Poolside BBQ, where you can enjoy lunch or sip a cool drink at one of our 3 tropical bars…”

Leaving aside the fact that AP Style requires numbers below 10 to be spelled, one can only be left enchanted at the wordsmith’s imagery, and enthralled at the prospect of splashing in the rarefied waters, bellying up to poolside bars, and meandering among the palms, to say nothing of doing so with the good Prof. Mary, and everyone else of the party spirit who’s in town for nothing more or less than to get smashed out of their minds in a neon jungle of blazing color, bodacious lights and unparalleled sights.

Especially when the snowdrift in my back yard is 8 inches below the top of the swing-set.

I’m hoping airport security lets me by with a case of five-hour energy drinks. I’ve only had one in my life, a half bottle, twice.  But this is Vegas, and I have something like 66 hours to experience it, to live it, to be it. I’m gonna mainline that stuff.

Sleep awaits beyond the veil; it has no place in the grand halls and king-sized beds of America’s pleasure palace.

I’m a Maryland man never been west of Barberton, Ohio, and brother, I can tell you, you need to be west of Barberton, Ohio, or north, south or east of it for that matter.

As the pool piece noted, it is the Flamingo to which I travel, pretty much by pure chance, but of happiest circumstance; like I hit the jackpot even before I hit the ground.  Look it up and see for yourself how schweeeet the place is.  Like a fine lady laced and tied in a string bikini, lounging in luxury and longing to please.

And if that ain’t America, by damn, my name isn’t Dick.

I feel like Trapper and Hawkeye on the front-end of a 48-hour pass to Tokyo.  Like a cowboy heading to Miss Kitty’s for the first time.  Like the little guy on his bed with a mag in his hand and a Bunny flying through his bedroom window.

“Thank you God!” for lining up the stars so that I can go to Las Vegas, Nevada.

And no, Mr. President, while I love ya like a sister and a brother, and support you strongly still in spite of your Dali Laima bow to Chinese tyrants, and bend-over cave to Wall Street barons, I go to the games with conscience clear.

Every working man and woman in America deserves to go to Las Vegas at least once, and for all I know this the only Vegas wad I’ll blow.  I mean to make it a money shot.

As in greenbacks well spent, having fun, not hurting anyone, and boosting a hard-hit  industry that supports tens of thousands of working stiffs.  Unlike the $4 a day you blow on smokes, which makes for $1,450 a year, or three-and-a-half times the amount that I’ll spend for room and airfare on our Dutch-treat excursion.

Next up, if the good Lord allows, that European Vegas of herbal enlightenment, a beacon of freedom and reason as bright as any neon light.  What happens in Amsterdam, stays in Amsterdam, because it’s usually forgotten.

Vegas isn’t forgotten.

It’s just not told.

It is more than mere good fortune that Dick & Mary Do Vegas.  It’s the gift of a mattress made in hell, among whose coils I sleep soundly, for one more year….