What happens in Vegas…

I had no idea at the time how big a deal it would be. No way of knowing how important it was, in the grand scheme of things. How a tiny slice of time would prove to be monumental, both in terms of helping me {1} move on from a relationship that was finished (but not — it’s hard to truly be ‘finished’ when you’re still sharing a house), and {2} determine how I would (or, more accurately, would NOT) conduct myself in terms of sex and communication in my relationships to come.

They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

But what happened to me in Vegas has followed me (and led me) for many years after it was over.

I was there for a conference.

But it’s not the conference I remember.

Oh, I remember stuffy little meeting rooms and the two-by-two bungalow-style layout of the hotel. I remember (vaguely) that the topics being covered felt more like an indoctrination than an education, and that my fellow staff members were either ready to drink the Kool-Aid or ready to set fire to the whole deal (there was really no in-between). I remember that the room I shared with my partner in crime (though neither of us knew the other would be such a partner at the beginning of the trip) was near the pool and jacuzzi. That the shower had low water pressure. That the breakfast buffet was pitiful.

But when I think of that trip to Las Vegas, it is not any of those things that stand out.

Because when I was there — after the meetings were over and the requisite hand-shaking had taken place, after the polite “see you tomorrows” (to the big wigs) and “thank God that’s over” (to the peons like me) — it was what happened that night that stuck in my memory.

I was not looking for sex that night.

I was not looking for anything, really, except to explore the city with my friend and indulge in some hard-earned fun and relaxation.

When we (my bungalow roomie and I) set out to explore the city, I never would have guessed that

• a quick stop at a bar would lead to
• a drunken advance from an inebriated divorced dad, or that
• said advance would be interrupted by two of the guy’s friends, or that – once the two of them had gotten their drunk buddy back to his room –
• those same friends would befriend us.

If you had said to me even two days prior to my arrival in Las Vegas that I – that we; my conference roommate was involved too – would spend all night with those guys…

…dancing…

…first to music the DJ’s played…

…and later to a very different kind of ‘music’ we made…

…I’d have scoffed.

“Me?!” I would have sputtered.

“Clearly you don’t know me at ALL.”

As it turned out, it was me who didn’t know me. I had some things to learn about myself.

The first thing I learned was that I’d been holding on, in ways I didn’t realize, to the relationship that was over. I learned that I needed to let go – physically, tangibly, sexually – of the relationship I’d been in for eight years. That to truly do that, I needed to experience physical, tangible, sexual intimacy with another person. A different person.

The way I’m wired though… Under normal circumstances it may have taken years for me to accomplish that. Because what I really needed – to let go of the past without feeling trapped into ‘now’ – was a person to do that with. A person I had no immediate ties to and no sense of responsibility toward.

That person presented himself to me in Vegas.

And – unbeknownst to him – he served a unique purpose.

And leave the past behind, I did.

But also… While I shed layers of toughened Good Relationship Gone Bad skin that night while skin-to-skin with him, I also recognized — afterward, when the boil-over had turned to low-simmer, when the night cool fanned dry the sweat that had dripped slick between our bodies, when the post-coital relaxation turned to bone-deep tired and I’d not allowed him to stay the rest of the night (three hours til dawn, a taxi arrived and took him on his way) — that what I’d done wasn’t fair.

It was what *I* needed.

But it wasn’t at all fair.

To his wife.

He was married.

And I knew that, going in.

I also knew, going out, that the only time I’d get involved – on any level – with a married man again was if and when I was the one married to the man with whom I was involved.

There’s a lot I could unpack here about that.

About going to bed with a married man unbeknownst to his spouse, about how in doing so I’d actively participated in harming another woman’s trust. About how I’d watched my mother’s disastrous choices in choosing men who did exactly that to her, about how I decided then and there that there was no way I’d ever follow in my parents’ footsteps. And about how that meant that the cheating I’d enabled that night — selfishly, without a care for anyone or anything but what *I* needed and wanted in the moment, with far too much joy considering the potential pain and upheaval that could result — was something I vowed never to participate in again.

I could give you all the history. The why’s. The lifetime of excuses I’d heard, the personal past full of witnessing adult relationship lies.

But that’s not necessary, really.

What’s important to acknowledge is that – imperfect as I am – I took stock of the choice(s) I’d made, learned from them, and moved forward in a different direction.

In the grand scheme of my life, in the hours I’ve spent living…

What happened in Vegas…

It was a small event, really, in that it was a tiny sliver of time.

But it is sometimes the smallest things that teach us the biggest lessons.

for the Reminiscences prompt: BIG

To learn more about the project or to participate yourself, please click the badge or the prompt link above.