Here’s What Happens at Encore Beach Club, Part 3: Anna’s Side

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It is nothing new to me that whenever Molly and I go out together, she ends up shamelessly flirting or lost in deep conversation with the closest “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” title holder:

My Boyfriend

I, on the other hand, don’t even try to talk over Molly, and instead take to snapping embarrassing candid photos of her and texting them to her friends.

This particular instance, we had come across a group of recently graduated frat boys from Purdue. We normally wouldn’t flock to a group of 22-year-old wearing Vineyard Vines swim trunks, size small, but amongst the greasy-haired, diamond earring clad, overly-tanned, rose thorn tatted juiceheads packed into the pool, they were welcome company.

Here’s a gif of Molly dancing with her new boyfriend:

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For the first hour or so we watched in fascinated disgust as numerous wasted college dropouts twerked their tanned and tatted bodies all over the in-pool stripper pole. I am convinced this must be where Joe Francis comes to seek new talent.

After I had gotten my fair share of metallic beaver shots and seen enough vagazzle designs to fill a Pinterest board (see below), I decided I needed a break.

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I left Molly and went to the bar. Well, not to the actual bar, but to the drinking fountain next to the bar, since all I wanted was water but the Encore Beach Club does not believe in free water, despite being located in the middle of a desert.

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So, my options were:

A) Hijack an ice bucket from a cabana,
B) Stand really close to one of the misters, mouth open, or,
C) Fill up my empty vodka soda cup at the drinking fountain.

C it was.

While in line for the drinking fountain (I guess lots of other people had discovered this “hack”) I began to hear cheers coming from the bar. Some suave dark-haired Italian guy was buying drinks for all the girls around him and waved me over.

“Tell me what you’re drinking!” He said in his think Italian accent.

I told him I wasn’t drinking but he wanted to keep chatting. I decided what the heck, I’m in Vegas, let’s see if this random guy could provide me any added entertainment.

I asked him what he did for work.

“I make-a-da-shoes! You know Aldo? That is my father’s company, but I make-a-my own designs!”

Mr. Aldo!!!

Mr. Aldo!!!

So while I am apparently talking to the heir to the Aldo shoe fortune, Molly is still, to my knowledge, in the pool with the frat bros, about to be named honorary sweetheart of Pi Kappa Smirnoff.

I eventually escaped the conversational grips of Aldo Jr. and headed towards the DJ booth. Zedd was playing and I pushed my way to the front of the crowd to see the mastermind behind all the club jams I white-girl dance to back home.

When I got to the front row I had no time to get situated. The song suddenly took a dramatic turn. Huge jets of air blasted into my face and the song went “PSH PSH PSH!”

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I had unknowingly signed up for the most dramatic glaucoma test of all time.

Once I had recovered from being nearly blinded by air blasts and confetti, and Zedd had exhausted the full array of DJ performance moves (jumping up and down, the fist pump, the serious face, and the head bob) I had finally had enough and wanted to leave.

I walked around the pool at least four times. Molly was nowhere in sight. I checked the bathroom, bar areas and every bikni blackjack table.


Let me remind you that she was the one wearing “The Wristband” without which I could not get to our bag, which contained all my clothes, my shoes, my phone, towel, EVERYTHING.

So there I was, alone, wet, barefoot, and in the most hyper-sexual Kardashian-esque white bikini you can imagine:

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I was tired, annoyed, and my claustrophobia was starting to set in. I needed to escape.

I saw two big doors with an exit sign above them and bolted. It wasn’t the main entrance but I figured I would figure out where I was eventually.

I was not prepared for the journey ahead.

I walked, barefoot and basically naked, down a staircase and then through a long, cement hallway.

This lead me to an elevator with one button, marked “To Resort.”

“Oh, perfect,” I thought. “This probably leads to the back of the spa or something.”

The doors opened into a short hallway.

I got out, opened the door and was shocked.

I was in the middle of a bush.

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I turned around to try to get back on the elevator but alas, I couldn’t get back on! I needed a key card to call the elevator!

It was at that moment I realized I was going to have to walk through the bushes back to the hotel. My only other option was to walk brazenly in the middle of the Las Vegas Strip, but I was not about to get HIV from a crack pipe on the sidewalk.

I bushwhacked my way through the Encore Forest channeling my inner “Naked and Afraid” contestant, and finally saw a glimmer of light through the dense 15-foot shrubbery and popped out into the main hotel entrance. Pic of me trying to survive:

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There were Dolce and Gabbana-clad women getting out of limos, families with children eagerly arriving for their Cirque du Soleil show…and me.

I quickly tip-toed my soaking wet barefoot self to the doors, but was stopped by a hotel bellman.

“Ma’am, do you need assistance?”

I quickly blurted out my story and told him I swore I wasn’t high on drugs, I just had gotten locked out of the EBC and had just walked through half of the landscaping.

He and his fellow employees didn’t even smirk. Some hand signals were made and I was led behind a podium as though I was FBI’s most wanted.

The bellman opened a drawer and pulled out a black plastic package. He ripped open what I discovered was some sort of emergency “Drunk Girl Rescue Kit.” They gave me a robe and a pair of hideous brown hotel slippers…in men’s size 13.

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My new team of bodyguards then helped me to the elevators and I was finally home free.


Anna walked in wearing a size XXL Wynn Robe and slippers that looked more like spatulas just as I was settling in for my post-drinking nap.

“WTF happened to you?!” I said, shooting up in bed.

“Well, I basically just walked down the Las Vegas Strip NAKED,” she said. “I literally had to bushwhack my way through the shrubbery to get back in.”

“WTF” was all I could say as she recounted the tale.

“I’m starving,” she said, tearing into the mini-bar. Ahh, nothing like a $28 box of cajun snack mix to cap off the day.

“GIVE ME SOME OF THAT,” I screamed.

And so ended the Encore Beach Club experience. All that being said, 10/10, Five Stars, WOULD DO AGAIN.

PS – Are you following @TheEighty8 on Instagram yet? WELL, YOU SHOULD BE!

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Molly Fedick is a freelance writer and founder of The Eighty8. She writes a dating and relationships column and has been featured in the Huffington Post, Elite Daily, Glamour,, the official White House blog, and CosmoGirl!, among others. Molly is a graduate of Boston University and Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism, and in her spare time enjoys adding more black and white to her already entirely black and white wardrobe.