Confession: Sometimes, ‘almost’ counts!

“People pay a lot of money for ‘almost’.”

Stuart made this epiphanous observation while lounging, like a lazy king, on a large cabana. Sprawled beside him were two gorgeous, topless women who adore him, while others cavorted merrily in the sparkling pool before him. A cabana boy refilled his drink and fluffed the pillows behind his back while a cabana girl, a gauzy scarf almost covering her perfectly tight little ass, adjusted the fan so that His Laziness (and His best friend, happily esconced on the other side of the two nearly-naked women) wouldn’t get too hot in the Vegas sun.

Needless to say the boys wore huge grins with their sunglasses and board shorts.  We girls wore sexy smiles...and not much else.  No schedule, no time lines, no agenda.  No kids.  Almost Paradise. 


We Nevadans should make Stu’s quote our motto. After all, most of our revenue comes from expertly and decadently providing the ultimate ‘almost’ experiences. The epicenter of the Almost is, of course, Las Vegas. And, although Stu and I like to consider ourselves highly evolved, metacognitive, self-actualized adults, we make an annual pilgrimage to this mecca of Almost-Dreams.

And no, I’m NOT going to tell you what we do there. “What happens in Vegas…”.

Besides, The Hangover has already been made.

Initially, I wanted to disagree with Stuart. I don’t like "almost". "Almost" makes me uncomfortable. "Almost" makes me twitchy. I generally seek to resolve any "Almosts" as quickly as possible. I like closure. I like completion. I like final acts and conclusions and grand crescendos that signal crashing finales.


But then I looked down at my almost-naked self and realized how sexy I felt. I’m not a prude (obviously), but total skinny-dipping generally makes me uncomfortable. I just don’t want sand or sunburn in the area where the sun (shouldn't!) shine! But being topless in the sun? Ahhh…that ‘almost’ is a wonderful, freeing tease. I felt like one of the heavy-lidded, full-lipped Guess models who are always almost bursting out of their tops. Not only did I feel sexy being topless myself, but I also enjoy looking at other women's breasts. 

Yeah, I said it.  Girls are hot.  Cosmo calls it 'hetero-flexible'.  I call it basic asthetics. I'd much rather look through my Victoria's Secret catalog than go see the Thunder from Down Under.


Isn’t the ‘almost’ the point of lingerie? The peek, the glimpse, the tease, the almost-naked that is often much, much better than totally-naked? Advertising has perfected the Almost.  Almost naked, almost fornicating almost real girls and boys sell everything from motor oil to perfume.  From this, savvy girls learn early on that an ‘almost’ glimpse of a pretty pair of panties, bra or forbidden flesh is guaranteed to get the attention of every man present.

The allure of the 'almost' is its lack of obviousness.  It is the difference between sexy and sleazy, enticing and trampy, go-go dancer and whore.  Sometimes, the "almost" is even less obvious. It can be found in peep-toe shoes, boyfriend-cut jeans, fade-to-black movie scenes and seemingly-innocent experiences.

Massages are a well-known--and often cliched-- example. A well-done massage can be the ultimate "almost" experience.

I have been getting massages since I was 12. In fact, I’m lucky enough to have received amazing treatments at many of the top resort locations in the world. This extensive research has shown that, low-quality Skinimax Porn aside, most masseuses are large, German women with bad skin and strong hands who answer to names like Helga. Not that I much care once those freakishly masculine hands start working out the knots that gather habitually at the base of my skull, but my illicit-sex fantasies don’t really run to women who could be subbed in for the Bears' defensive line.


On this most recent trip, I visited one of the many lovely and plush spas Vegas offers and signed up for an hour-long massage with ‘Sean’, expecting the ‘artist’ who greeted me in my robe to have sloppily-large breasts, limp hair and a very firm handshake. Boy oh boy, was I pleasantly surprised!


Sean was gorgeous. Sean was sexy. Sean immediately made my fertile little imagination turn hot and steamy. I was very, very excited that I was about to spend an hour almost-naked with Sean's hands all over my body.

Sean looked Spanish, or maybe South American, with dark hair he wore long (not usually my taste, but yummy on him), rich olive skin and deep brown eyes. When he took my hand, his long fingers stroked my tender palm. I think I may have whimpered. Later, I am certain I moaned shamelessly as I lay face-down on the massage bed, naked under a thin cotton sheet while those magic hands rubbed oil on my back, arms, legs, thighs….almost everywhere in slow, sensual circles.

Oh, yes…yes!…sometimes, almost is amazing. And well worth the $150 60-minute session.

Although ‘relaxing’ isn’t the adjective I’d ascribe to my interlude with Sean.


Taking it past sex (just for a moment, I promise!), the almost-death experience is equally compelling. Roller coasters, sky diving, scuba diving, cliff diving (really, any ‘diving’) all simulate the ‘I almost died’ adrenalin rush.


After all, in the subject of death, it’s the almost that counts.


All of these are exceedingly profitable. Want the feeling that you’re almost about-to-be fabulously wealthy? You can experience that thrill for just 25 cents! Drop your quarter into the machine, pull and for a few heady seconds, you’re just a spin or two from financial nirvana!

Want the feeing that the gorgeous and bendy woman doing impossibly acrobatic things to that big shiny pole desires you? Flash some cash and she’ll mimic almost having sex with you.


How about plummeting out of the sky? Couple hundred bones and some guy will strap you to his body and hurl himself—and you!!—out of an airplane. You get to free-fall for 2-3 breathless seconds before the parachute saves you from almost plunging into the ground.  Or, if you prefer to take your thrills sitting down, $35 will buy you an all-day pass to the rollercoaster on the top of the New York New York casino where you almost fly off the edge of a super-high building while regretting drinking that last vodka-redbull before you climbed in.


There is serious money to be made in the ‘almost’.


Obviously, the examples are endless and would be fabulous fodder for a psychology thesis. Thankfully, I already wrote one and don’t have to ever do that again.


So, back to sex. Does the almost count in sex?


To answer, allow me to return to Vegas. Still tingling and glistening from my massage, I slithered down between my husband and our friends on our pool-side cabana. I could feel the slightly rough towel against my naked belly and breasts, the warm sun on my back and my husband’s hand on my thigh. Slowly, slowly stroking up and down, almost going too high, almost dipping in, almost breaking the code of public decency.


I spent most of the day almost having an orgasm.


And, when we returned to our hotel room, that almost was finally, amazingly, satisfyingly completed. Several times.


Priceless.