There's a magnetic force in Las Vegas around Olympia weekend, a pull that draws in a motley crew of bodybuilding, figure, and fitness fans. Add a concoction of mood-altering and inhibition-lowering substances, and you've got yourself one hell of a party.

Normally, what happens in Vegas tends to stay there, but not this time.

These girls are just getting warmed up.

If you enjoy being around hot, horny, fit, ready-to-party people, then Olympia weekend in Vegas is your nirvana. If you weren't there, you can experience it vicariously through me.

And if you don't enjoy such things, then I advise you to hit the back button on your browser, because this article's not for you.

Thursday: Warm-Up

As soon as we landed, we headed straight for the Orleans (the host hotel for the Olympia), to change clothes and check out the honeys by the pool.

World-class glutes in a less-than-flattering bikini.

Unfortunately, just as I started chatting up this pretty young thing, I got the mother of all nosebleeds. That dry Nevada air plays hell on your mucous membranes, generally resulting in tons of boogers. In my case, bloody boogers. I felt like the world's biggest dork.

Luckily one of my boys saved the day by hooking us up to go to a party with a fitness model at the bar in the Hard Rock Hotel. The place was packed with hot, drunk girls, none of them seemed to be there for the Olympia. So I didn't have to be built like Dexter Jackson to have a chance.

Decisions, decisions.

Our fitness hottie, in a Cheech and Chong* sandwich.

* Not their real names.

The cool thing about partying at hotel bars, rather than the mega-clubs, is that you don't have to wait in line forever, or hock one of your kidneys to pay for the cover charge. Plus, given the fact that our group included one girl with four average-looking dudes, the odds of getting past the doorman at a happening club were pretty close to zero.

I knocked back a few shots, then washed them down with a few more shots. After that, it gets kind of fuzzy. I do remember quite a few girls laughing in my face when I pulled out my hundred-dollar digital camera and told them I was covering the Vegas nightlife scene for a major fitness magazine.

I did get a shot of these two chicks making out at their table. Unfortunately, neither of them went for my offer to give them a ride back to their hotel. They were staying right there at the Hard Rock.

The shutter snapped one second before the deep, sloppy kiss.

My own rock was pretty hard by then, but the hot-as-shit fitness model who was flirting with me all night decided she'd burned enough calories for the night, and went back to her room.

So no taco for Señor Stiffy the first night.

Friday: a Very Close Call

The next day, we visited the expo over at the Las Vegas Convention Center. If you want to read about that, I highly recommend Chris Shugart's comprehensive report. Between the sugar rush from the eye candy and the pounding in both of my heads, I couldn't concentrate on a single thing.

My friends and I went back to the Orleans for some sun, where we were treated to still more visual stimulation, thanks to the photo shoots going on in and around the pool. The models seemed to be vying to see who could wear the skimpiest thong. I heartily encourage this kind of competition, even if the businesslike atmosphere prevented any serious flirtation. Plenty of time for that later.

I went up to my room, showered, shaved, and trimmed my pubes (you never know). Then we took off to watch the show. The highlight was Jen Hendershott's fitness routine. Damn! Now that's what fitness competition is all about. Unbelievably, the judges got it right this time, and awarded her the Ms. Fitness Olympia.

Jen Hendershott, the best competitor by leaps and bounds.

The women's bodybuilding started out boring, but got much more interesting when Rick (not his real name) and I started playing "Would you hit that?" We concluded that we'd bump uglies with about half of the female bodybuilders, but only if we were lit up like a Christmas tree and it was really late.

Then came the men's prejudging. Based on the callouts, it was clearly a duel between Jay Cutler and Dexter Jackson. Dexter had the superior physique, but Jay took up more space.

Dexter "The Blade" Jackson fills the projection screen.

The real surprise was Toney Freeman, who looked impressive from every angle. So did Melvin Anthony, but until he gets leaner, he's not going to be a threat at the O.

By the way, unless you're sitting in one of the first 10 rows, you're going to be watching the show on the giant projection screen. So if you don't have the cash for one of the best seats, you might as well get one of the worst.

Here's the view of the first callout (using a zoom) from the $80 seats.

After the show, we went back to our room to get a drink (with the alcohol of six ordinary drinks), then swung over to see what our friends Cheech and Chong (not their real names) were up to in their room.

While Rick and I were ogling female bodybuilders and watching oily men in Speedos, our friends were blazing it up with a pair of young hotties from Southern Cal. Lucky bastards.

Cheech decided to come with us to Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville, but Chong elected to keep the ladies company. Not that I blame him one bit.

Things started looking up when two sexy chicks pulled up beside our cab and asked us where we were headed. When we told them, they said that Margaritaville's lame, and that we should all go back to our hotel and party. We were just about to have the cabbie turn around when they told us the price: six hundred dollars.

We said no thanks, and went back to Plan A. A few minutes later, the cabbie got a serious look on his face and asked, "Hey, do you think they meant six hundred for all four of us?" That would have worked out to $150 a head – a much more appealing proposition. But by then we were too far away to circle back and negotiate.

As it turned out, the pros were right. Margaritaville is lame. There was maybe one cute girl, and the rest were old enough to be our mothers. First lesson learned: If a club has no line outside and no cover charge, there's probably a reason.

The only cute girl at Margaritaville.

As we were leaving Buffet's place, my luck seemed to change, if only for a moment. An exotic little cutie flirted with me, offering me acts of carnality that I can't repeat, not even in Testosterone. And she'd bring a friend. But you know what's coming next: the price.

Second lesson learned: If a girl approaches you in Vegas, and brings up sex within the first minute of the conversation, you can bet dollars to dildos she's a pro.

Exotic little cutie, only $300, friend included.

Humbled and frustrated, we piled into a cab to return to the Orleans. That's when I noticed that our cab driver is kind of hot. Not super hot, mind you, but definitely doable, especially at 4 a.m. when I was half-wasted and had spent much of the past 36 hours fully erect.

 "You know," I told her, "you're the hottest cabbie we've had so far." It was on! She purred and talked dirty, and I felt my pants tighten. She wanted my cream in her chocolate, and she wanted it now.

The hot little cabby with a deep, dark secret.

She pulled over into the Orleans parking lot, and just as her luscious ruby lips were ready to meet my baby maker, Cheech grabbed her and pulled her back. "Dude," he said, "you do realize that this chick is a guy?"

Holy crying game, Batman! I looked again at her beautiful breasts, her fabulous round ass, her sensational lips. She looked more feminine than half of the female bodybuilders I'd seen on stage earlier that evening.

My dick made the dying Pac-Man sound as it shriveled up and hid its head in shame. I love a good blowjob as much as the next guy, but not from the next guy. A philosophical question: If you get a hard-on for a dude, is it still gay if you thought he was a chick? Maybe I don't want to know.

For what it's worth, I wasn't the only one in the car who was fooled; Rick was just as surprised as me. We were both lucky Cheech had seen enough trannies to know one when on sight. Otherwise " well, I don't want to think about it.

Saturday: the Clothes Come Off!

It wasn't easy, but by early afternoon I managed to drag myself out of bed to check out the 202-pounds-and-under Mr. Olympia Showdown at the convention center.

And you know what? It was a great show. The guys in the lighter weight class were the next-best thing to seeing the "golden age" physiques back on stage. Small waists, great shape, and symmetry ruled the day, with David Henry, Kevin English, and Flex Lewis taking the top three spots.

After a brief run through the Expo, I tried to take a nap by the pool before the men's bodybuilding and women's figure finals. Unfortunately, my sleep was interrupted by a nightmare about the trannie in the cab.

No big surprises in the finals. In the figure competition, Biotest's Gina Aliotti was the crowd's favorite, and easily the best physique on stage. But the judges didn't agree, and she took second place for the second year in a row, with Jennifer Gates winning. Jennifer is a tiny little thing, and while she looked good, she didn't look anywhere near as good as Gina. Sexy Zivile Raudniene took third, while last year's winner, Jenny Lynn, slipped to fourth place.

Even though I disagree with the judges, I'd hate to be in their shoes, because they have an impossible job. Every one of the girls looked awesome. I mean, just look at Felicia Romero, who tied for dead last. That chick is hotter than a two-dollar pistol.

Felicia Romero, hotter than a two-dollar pistol.

Men's bodybuilding is a whole different story. First, the competitors don't turn me on at all, not even if they'd been wearing lipstick and a blonde wig (which, come to think of it, would've been a lot easier to judge).

The buzz after Friday night's prejudging was whether or not Dexter Jackson — clearly the best physique on stage — would be able to upset the reigning champ, Jay Cutler.

Just when you thought that IFBB judges score the competitors' physiques blindfolded, they finally got one right. Dexter was overcome with emotion as he was announced the new Mr. Olympia.

Dexter gets the gold cookie.

Jay took second, while Phil Heath got third. I think that Phil should've taken second, since his shape, size, and conditioning were very similar to Dexter's. But let's not nitpick. The best man won.

Dexter was celebrating at the JET nightclub at Mirage, so that's where we went. Of course, we weren't VIPs, and we didn't have hot chicks hanging on each of our arms, so we had to wait in line for half a hour. Which actually isn't bad for a Vegas hot spot. We paid the $30 cover, and we were in.

JET has three different rooms, with a different mix of music in each, but one thing in common: wall-to-wall hot chicks. JET is the quintessential happening Vegas club, and if you can't score a one-night stand there, you might as well take up knitting.

JET Nightclub.

My boy Cheech said that his game plan for the evening was to go for someone who was just decent looking, and maybe even a few pounds on the heavy side. He reasoned that she'd be grateful for the attention, and far more willing to get down and dirty. It was a smart game plan, as it happens: Three hours later, Cheech and Ms. Mediocre were banging their brains out. 

Because Rick and I weren't quite as resourceful, and didn't feel like knitting, we went on over to Dre's, which is the late-night (actually early morning) hot spot on Olympia weekend. Soon we were partying with Dorian Yates, Monica Brant, Mike Tyson, and a slew of other bodybuilding, fitness, and figure pros.

Oh, yeah. She wants me.

Third lesson learned: Don't take Tyson's picture without asking first. I didn't know this. It was hard to catch what he said to me with that high-pitched lisp of his, but it sounded like, "Hey, thithead, how'd you like me to put my fitht through your thkull?"

Don't take this guy's picture without permission.

If you're into Ecstasy, then you'll fit right in with the jaw-grinders at Dre's. Even if you abstain, you can sit back and enjoy the fact that when fitness hotties roll, they like to bump, grind, and take off their clothes.

It doesn't get much better than pro figure chicks stripping.

Sunday: Rehab

How many words is this picture worth? At least 1,000, right?

Just as the hardcore stimulants were starting to wear off, and it looked like I might be able to catch some Zs, it was time to start drinking again. I'd been having fun so far, but nothing compared to the all-day pool party at Rehab, the pool at the Hard Rock Hotel.

Cheech offered this preview: "Dude, take everything you've ever heard about this place, every picture, and every one of your wildest dreams, then multiply it by 10. That's what it's like."

Hey, Testosterone, come party with us!

Rehab has thick girls"

...thin girls"

...and even girls with real breasts!

By this point, I was a convert to Cheech's strategy of going for a sure thing with a mediocre chick. Sure enough, within an hour I was playing tonsil hockey in the pool with a young coed from the East Coast.

Except Cheech intervened again: "When I said to lower your standards, I didn't mean that low!"

Fourth lesson learned: Vodka goggles are even more dangerous than beer goggles.

I found my upgrade within 30 minutes. Even Rick was having some luck with a golden-brown beauty, with giant chest kittens barely restrained in a leopard bikini.

The kind of body that makes one want to give a Tarzan yell.

We soon ran into Dorian Yates, who must've been on the same schedule we were. Ever since his divorce a few years back, Doz has taken to partying like a rock star.

We also saw sexy Jenny Lynn out by the pool. I would've gone over and talked to her, but it went against my "mediocre chicks only" game plan. Well, that and the fact that I probably would have sounded like Forrest Gump. "Hel-lo, Jen-ny."

The highlight of the day was the serious girl-on-girl action going on in the pool. Pictures don't lie, but they don't tell the whole truth, either.

I still don't know how Cheech managed to get between these two vixens long enough to get them to bare their tits for the camera, but he pulled it off, so to speak.

Beautifully bodacious bisexual boobies.

As for me, alas, my luck didn't change. After two hours of kissing, fondling, bumping, grinding, and talking dirty with my Cheech-approved Ms. Mediocre, she told me she had to rush off to the airport.

So once again, no boom-boom for Carnal. Where's a hooker when you're finally ready for one?

Rick, at least, had some luck. He ended up tapping Ms. Leopard Bikini. Twice. Then the next morning he gave her a pearl necklace that didn't come from a jewelry store. He took his time about it, though, so we ended up missing our plane. I had to cut my boy some slack, though. If there was ever a good reason to miss a flight, he'd found it.

So even though I'd gone 0-for-Vegas this year, I still considered it a successful adventure. Besides, there's always next year!