Here’s What Really Happens at Encore Beach Club Las Vegas – Part 2

Encore Beach Club - The Eighty8
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If you missed Part 1, I suggest you read it before moving onto the vodka-fueled part of my experience at Encore Beach Club Las Vegas.

Anna and I left the bathroom fully oiled up and ready to PAR-TAY. Given the Encore is a five-star hotel, I was expecting MANY, MANY hot, successful Bobbies in the pool.

Something tells me these guys don't work for Goldman.

Something tells me these guys don’t work for Goldman.

Erm, no. Unless the new trend amongst Fortune 500 CEOs is barbed wire tattoos and Hurley bathing suits, the crowd was less than desirable.

I sucked in my breath and turned to my sister, Anna.

“Well,” I said, looking around at every neon/fake-tanned/tatted-up Electric Daisy Carnival loser in existence, “we have two choices. We either leave or fully commit. IE, get drunk now.”

We headed to the bar.

Just getting our sisterly selves to the bar.

Just getting our sisterly selves to the bar.

“Hi,” I said to the bartender, who, naturally, had a bikini and flower crown on. Duh. “We’ll have two vodka Red Bulls.”

“You know they’re $50, right?”

I almost choked.

“$50?! For two drinks?!”

“No, each. There’s a six-dollar upcharge on Red Bull.”

Oh, okay, that explains it. NAHT.

“They’re $75 at Wet Republic,” she said, mixing our $50 thimbles of alcohol.

“Wow,” I said over-enthusiastically. “I’m so glad I came to Encore for a deal!”

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I charged the drinks to the room (duh) and told Anna we’d have to find some guidos to purchase the remaining 46 cocktails we’d need to survive this mission.

Before we left the bar I asked for waters. It was about 4,000 degrees and the more ugly people I saw, the more alcohol I knew I’d need. AKA, I needed to stay hydrated. Safety first.

“Water is $12,” she said.

Again, I almost choked.

“We’re in a freaking desert!” I said. “Isn’t that illegal!!!”

Just trying to survive in the DESERT.

Just trying to survive in the DESERT.

“There’s a drinking fountain over there,” she said, pointing across the pool area towards the one corner obviously reserved for the proletariat of Las Vegas. I’ve never felt so homeless in my life.

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing Anna. We headed for the pool, which was quickly filling with Ed Hardy’s entire customer base.

“Is that a stripper pole?!” Anna exclaimed.

I looked up and was immediately eye-raped by a vagazzled, cellulite-y crotch-con-thigh combo.

AHAHAHAHAHAaaaa.

AHAHAHAHAHAaaaa.

Yes. Yes it was. I watched in fascination as this girl in a metallic gold bikini humped the stainless steel pole with serious attention paid to making sure every movement involved a wardrobe malfunction.

Didn’t she know she could make money doing that in this town?

Zedd wasn’t slated to come on for another hour, so we had some time to kill. I chose to spend it hunting for male prey.

“Ooh,” I said, spotting literally the only people in the pool who looked like they’d gone somewhere other than ASU for college. A group of 10 or so boys sat quietly on the pool stairs in their respectable Ray-Bans and Vineyard Vines bathing suits.

Trolling for prey. Anna knows it's a lost cause.

Trolling for prey. Anna knows it’s a lost cause.

MY PEOPLE.

I dragged Anna over to them, because I am all about getting shit done. No time to be coy.

Two minutes into our conversation they told us they’d just graduated from Purdue.

AKA, they were younger than my younger sister. 22 years old.

This bothered me for about 12 seconds. Then I remembered beggars can’t be choosers and decided to work with what I had. I paddled over to Baby Bobbies.

Me.

Me.

“Want a drink?” Little Bobby asked.

OMG. He was so cute and polite. I allowed him to buy me a vodka Red Bull with his mommy’s credit card, leaving Anna to entertain the rest of the cohort.

By the time we got back it was almost time for Zedd. Lil Bobby had convinced me to do a shot with him so I was feeling good. Redhead Bobby had bought Anna another drink.

Zedd apparently finished his 5th grade homeschool work and walked to the stage (see below). The crowd went crazy. Lil Bobby handed me another drink.

Zedd coming to play his show.

Zedd coming to play his show.

This is where things get hazy. At some point a force of EDM nature took over my body, making me thing slapping the water like an absolute FREAK was a good idea.

Then came the confetti and blasts of air.

Imagine a circus cannonball, filled not with a person, but with water, air and streamers. I literally think I would have been shot out of the pool if I hadn’t grabbed Anna’s boob for support.

Encore Beach Club, sponsored by the Civil War

Encore Beach Club, sponsored by the Civil War

“Do you want to go to bathroom?!” I screamed over Zedd’s highly disturbing “beats.”

“YES!” She screamed back. We scrambled out of the pool, not caring we had no towels or sense of our own identity. We’d crossed over into the EBC Abyss.

On the way into the bathroom we passed a girl vomiting in the outdoor shower.

“She’s can’t handle it!” Shouted her friend. British. “America is too much!”

We nodded sympathetically. Some people just can’t hack it here.

“I’m going to get another drink,” Anna said. I nodded and careened back into the pool like a drunk roadrunner.

Things from here got really hazy. I remember Lil Bobby buying me another drink.

Then I looked up and saw a real-live nipple on Le Stripper Pole, and at this point I’m like,

Whatever

People were sucking face left and right. I slammed the water a few more times because in this environment it felt like a normal thing to do.

Then I realized I hadn’t seen Anna in awhile.

“Oh well,” I thought, mentally prepping for my Irish exit. “She’ll figure it out.”

I was on drink 5,362 and, unlike our parents, knew Anna had the brain capacity to figure out how to get back the room without her big sister.

She’s the younger sibling, not Helen Keller. Actually, here is a photo of how my parents view Anna’s life skills…I’m on the right:

Helen Keller

I only say this to defend what happened to her, which she outlines in her own post. Like our Facebook page and make sure not to miss it.

Sunburned, drunk and starving, I ran towards the bag check. It was my one mission in life: get away from Lil Bobby and get my beach bag. It contained everything, including Anna’s shoes, phone, and keys.

LOLOLOL WHOOPS.

So, I go back to the room, take a shower, order room service and flip on the TV.

No signs of Anna for another hour.

I was about to find out why.

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, NBC.com, the official White House blog, CollegeHumor.com 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.