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billboards everywhere advertising the latest shows and cheapest buffets.
And, of course, there are slot machines at every concourse.
But I warn you, these are notorious for not paying off-so
wait until you get downtown before you start losing all your
hard-earned cash.
    "Em, look at that," Justin groaned, soon after we had
deplaned and were walking through the airport. He pointed
somewhere in the distance.

    I spotted a massive poster just above where our baggage
was coming out. "Oh, my God, you can see every pore
on Wayne Newton's face. Totally gross. Isn't he, like, a
hundred or something?" I responded, staring at Wayne's
overly bronzed visage. (Old entertainers never die, they just
wind up at the yuckiest casinos.)
    "No, dumbass, not that. That over there." He pointed
again in earnest.
    "Ah, oh yes, I see now. The other poster. Wow, a tendollar, all-you-can-eat buffet at the Stratosphere. Man,
look at those lobster tails. Damn, I'm hungry. Okay, we can
stop by there, but I'm not going on that roller coaster at the
top. Talk about your stupid ideas." (At the time all these
shenanigans took place, it got stuck, repeatedly. But hey, it's
been replaced by three even more harrowing and equally
ridiculous rides.)
    "God, are you blind? THERE!" He grabbed my face and
used his arm as an arrow to point at what he was raving
about.
    "The digital temperature reading?" It sat between the
two posters I'd been looking at.
    "Yes, my dear, nearsighted Em. The temperature reading
outside. Finally. Look what it says."
    "A hundred and one point three degrees?"
    "Yes, a hundred and one point three degrees! Don't queer
boys melt at anything over a hundred?" Justin cowered at
the thought. "Isn't that why we live in San Francisco in the
first place?"
    "Better not tell that to our brethren in Key West, Palm
Springs, and Atlanta. I think they might take offense," I
explained.
    "Freaks. Every last one of them. Freaks. Why would
anyone choose to live like that? All that sweating can't be
good for your complexion," he opined, shaking his head in
disbelief.

    "Hmm, well, get ready, because we're about to experience it firsthand." The thought was less than appealing
to me also, being used to the nearly year-round chilliness
of San Francisco. The last time my body temperature was
anywhere near a hundred degrees, I had a cold and a fever.
    "Well, luckily I came prepared. You wait right here.
I'll be back," he barked at me, and then hurriedly ran into
the nearest men's room. I dreaded whatever it was he had
planned.
    I dragged my newly regained baggage to a slot machine
and whipped out a roll of quarters I had brought with me in
case of an emergency. Since Justin had hauled all his stuff
with him into the restroom, I knew it would be a while
before he reemerged.
    Anyway, on with the tour. Las Vegas. No place quite like
it. It's utterly fabulous. And truly, it is the city that never
sleeps. But, and this is a big old but, unlike San Francisco,
you see very few queers. For sure, we pop up here and there,
but for the most part, Vegas is very straight, very white, and
very middle America. In other words: uptight, overweight,
undereducated, and drab. Which, naturally, provokes the
fiber-fruit in Justin. The straighter his surroundings, the
queenier my friend gets. Now, after a few drinks and in the
darkness of a bar, this can be somewhat amusing; but in the
full-strength Nevada sun, and in the middle of the afternoon, well, it could be a tad overwhelming. Thank goodness drinks are free or at least dirt cheap in the casinos, I
thought to myself.
    And, sure enough, a full ten minutes later, my dear friend
reappeared looking queer as the day is long. Gone were the
long slacks he was traveling in. A frightfully short pair of
Daisy Dukes had replaced them, replete with colored flower
iron-ons, like the ones you frequently find on the bottom
of bathtubs. The warm button-down was gone, and in its
place was a hot