I’m in Las Vegas, Nevada for my Queer Across America road trip, and my best friend just dropped their cocaine into the pool. Well, he didn’t exactly drop it. 

Minutes earlier, my ethereal, gay bestie with faded pink and turquoise hair was splashing around the pool at the Cromwell hotel. His beautifully loud and wonderfully abrasive self was sporting a painfully tight-looking red Speedo that left nothing to the imagination. 

As he gyrated to whatever Ariana Grande song was pumping through the speakers, the security didn’t take too kindly to the view, despite the area being empty of any other pool goers. My bestie was kindly asked to put their clothes back on. 

Was this a homophobic request? My friend sure thought so. But, was it really? It’s possible. I doubt if a woman was wearing minimal clothing she would have been asked to put clothes back on. 

Anyway, my majestic friend threw their tiny jean shorts back on before returning to the pool. In his fit of sassy gay rage, he didn’t think about the drugs in the pocket, giving ol’ Mama Coca a bath. 

It’s hard to get kicked out of anywhere in Las Vegas, but not impossible.

We parted ways when my friend accepted a quest bestowed upon himself to find more drugs while I ventured around the city to see what makes it queer. 

I gamble on some Pai Gow, Blackjack, Poker, and Roulette at the iconic Flamingo casino, where Rupaul’s Drag Race LIVE! is held, in hopes of making enough money to fund the rest of my Queer Across America adventure. After losing my entire budget for the day, I continue to the queer bars to spend more money.

The first place I venture to is The Garage, a gay sports bar a couple miles away. The dingy establishment is filled with pool tables and other bar sports. There aren’t a lot of people here because, according to the gruff bartender, the nightlife in Vegas doesn’t pop off until around midnight or 1am. Surely, I will be missing the festivities, because I will be laying cozily in my hotel bed by that time…right?

Though the Strip provides plenty of fun and stimulation, it can’t compare to the bars beyond it. The same tequila drink I ordered at the casinos for $18 was only $5 at the Garage. 

There were also no tourists—no disrespectful frat bros that lacked common decency, no wannabe ballers that treated Vegas like a rap video, or middle-aged white women crawling on the floor trying to be sexy. Are straight people okay?

Around the corner is a place called The Dive Bar, and, well, it’s exactly what it sounds like. It’s a grungy, dark bar that caters to all things punk including live music, burlesque, professional wrestling matches, and drag shows.

Britney Glam, a highly-energetic drag queen, graces the stage lip-syncing to Britney Spears’ “Circus.” I giggle hearing the pop song at a punk venue, reveling in the fusion of the two sides of my musical taste. 

I continue to Piranha, the premiere queer bar in the area. The trendy, multi-story nightclub is intimidating! 

Another drag show is taking place. I’m surprised to learn that drag is much different in Las Vegas than in other cities. It sticks more to the classical Sin City roots of impersonation. Despite it being a Saturday night, there’s only one performer, and they’ve done multiple numbers impersonating Christina Aguilera.

The numerous go-go dancers wearing shimmering underwear and leather straps are a welcomed bonus.

Apparently, every bar in Las Vegas has video poker and slot machines. To no one’s surprise, I didn’t win enough money to fund my Queer Across America journey. In fact, I donate copious amounts of money to the Las Vegas queer community through video poker. 

I decide to call it a night (don’t ever take a debit card with you in Vegas; leave it in the hotel). I was elated to see my bestie not only alive in the hotel room, but also excited to show me what he had. 

He dumped a massive pile of white powder onto the nightstand, offering me a rolled-up dollar bill–the last piece of cash between us because the rest of his was spent on drugs. I respectfully declined. 

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“I can find drugs anywhere,” he replied, pointing to his head. “I’m street smart.”

Then, he placed the dirty bill to his nostril, inhaled, and let out a guttural yell that shook the room.

“It’s fucking sugar!” he screamed.

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Photos courtesy of social media and London Alexander’s personal collection. The personal collection photos are copyrighted and cannot be used without written expressed permission.