Saturday, July 29, 11:25 p.m. "Club for one and ... me all by myself." Such is the battle cry of the single female, unaccompanied and out on the town. Same goes for the lone businessman, the solo tourist or the restless local. Visiting a nightclub alone—like seeing a movie alone—is not for the faint of heart. Maybe you hope to meet up with friends, they make other plans, flake on you ... life happens. Whatever the situation, here you are, approaching a club on a Saturday night posse-less, sans entourage and maybe sans confidence.
Pulling into the Paris Las Vegas parking lot, I text myself the floor and aisle, a trick I learned after many wanderings through Vegas' finest multistory garages. I rarely valet as I rarely carry more than a stray dollar bill on me. That ritual done, I begin the long trek through the hotel, noticing the unsettling number of toddlers awake at this hour and stepping around the puking wedding attendees as I teeter on highest heels over the cobblestone streets of "Paris."
I have to adjust my calf-length skirt before climbing Risqué's stairway entrance, from which the general-admission line extends out into the night. When it comes to clubbing for one, I like to err on the side of classy and conservative. No need to be fending off troublemakers, reaching for their wallet with one hand, their room key with the other and me with their third. Halfway up the stairs, I pick up the dueling beats from Risqué's two rooms: the spacious, multi-leveled Grand Hall where Cyberkid spins hip-hop and mash-ups, and the intimate Salon Privée, where DJ Albert spins samba, salsa, merengue, reggaeton, cumbia and bachata on Latin Explosion Saturdays.
Whatever is the opposite of a sausage-fest, I think I've found it as I take a place at the long mahogany bar. No fewer than 12 Latinas are lined up beside me, the lucky ones perched on barstools while the rest stand, juggling tiny purses and large martinis, all while bouncing expertly to the potent reggaeton beat without spilling a drop.
My own bum begins to bounce as I check out the bottle menu, a great way to kill time on one's own while everyone else pairs up on the quickly filling dance floor. Not only does a bottle of Grey Goose vodka go for only—only!—$300 but so do Belvedere, Level, Ketel One and Chopin. Practically a steal! I enjoy a chuckle at the expense of Risqué's $12 signature drink, the Couchette. The name of the tart blend of Grey Goose Le Citron and Hypnotiq translates as a train's sleeper car.
Promoter Mario Guardado moves through the room like the most polished of maitre d's, knowing every name, making sure every drink is fresh and every night the best it can possibly be. Guardado has long held a finger on the pulse of Vegas' Latin community, organizing Brazilian- and Latin-themed nights everywhere from the Krave Lounge and Voodoo to here.
"Latin Explosion is a niche-market promotion that fills a void in the Salon," says Pauly Freedman, Director of Nightclubs for Paris, Bally's and the Rio. "It adds some flavor to the venue and offers an alternative to those seeking something different, some spice without having to go to a completely Latin club." Through the grapevine, I hear that Paris' façade will undergo a renovation, a face-lift rumored to include a two-story bar that will overlook the Strip and resemble the Rio's I-Bar ultralounge, though it's too early in the game for Freedman to comment other than to promise "it will be amazing." The project could also affect Risqué, a club whose future has long been a topic of discussion. Freedman confirms that "a partnership has been established, but it will not come into play until the master plan design and construction for Paris comes into play."
By 1 a.m., the dozen Latinas have found a dozen dance partners. Leaning on a high-boy table texting friends, a new bride flies into a rage at the guard who had just informed her the table was reserved for bottle service. She'll hear none of it. The guard has no issue with my pit stop, but for his sake I slink away to the one true haven a nightclub offers: the ladies room, where a Chinoiserie chair offers me a safe place to text. Praying that Bridezilla has moved on to a new victim, I emerge and make a break for the door, leaving behind my one dollar for the restroom attendant; she, too, is all on her own tonight.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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