I don’t like blackjack. I’ve never played craps in my life. I’m not a fan of Celine Dion, Barry Manilow or any other semiretired headliner at Caesars Palace. However, there is one reason why I enjoy a trip to the good ol’ City of Sin; just like with real estate, there are three rules determining the quality of sex: location, location and location. And although the infamous fourth floor of the library comes close, there is no place that satisfies the ferocious carnal appetite of a college kid quite like the Las Vegas Strip.

The infinite flashing lights, the drunken adrenaline rushing through the casino floor at all hours and the wandering waitresses cum cage dancers all come together to create a sexual utopia. The best part of it all is that none of it counts, because it’s true: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Welcome to the good life.

It’s not just about the fact that there are thousands of fresh new faces at the Pure and Tao nightclubs, and even in the Circus Circus buffet line. Sure, there are opportunities to hook up with random, scantily clad hookers named Candi in front of the famous Bellagio fountain, but there are also certain people you’ve known for years and never would have glanced at outside the state of Nevada.

Of course you can hook up with your best friend! You can even hook up with your ex, or a soap opera star, or another girl! Or, if you’re like me, you can get laid in the ladies’ room – you’d be surprised how much his bare ass on a toilet seat can turn a girl on. You’re in Las Vegas – where the champagne flows, the orgasms are endless and the boundaries are nonexistent.

One of my roommates had been friends with this guy for years, but I don’t think she realized he had a penis until we made our first trip to Vegas over the summer. As soon as the car passed through Barstow, they were attached at the lip. And as son as they were safely inside the room at the MGM Grand, they were attached near the hip. While the rest of the group went to the casino and played games with quarters, the two of them scored a jackpot on his very own slot machine.

When we got back to Isla Vista without any money, dignity or innocence left in the lot of us, they pretended nothing had ever happened. When I asked my roommate if she wanted to finish what she had started in Sin City, she laughed and informed me she wouldn’t be touching him with a 10-foot pole until we were safely back in Las Vegas.

And touch him she did, three months later on yet another 21st birthday blowout. I, still uninformed of the unspoken Vegas vows, pulled her off the dance floor and told her she would regret it if she performed a belligerent blowjob, but she told me it was too late – apparently a few Jager Bombs too late. In the middle of an over-the-pants hand job, she had to look up to remember whose boner she was grasping. They’re still close friends because even if they do remember their tryst, it definitely didn’t count.

While those two were dry humping to the sounds of T-Pain and I was being thrust into in the Planet Hollywood elevator – I swear I didn’t know those things have cameras – my other friend was playing the part of NBA groupie. I mean, who is she to say no to doing the Soulja Boy dance with Charles Barkley, even if he has gained a hundred pounds and a creepy demeanor since his glory days? Under normal circumstances, grinding on the dance floor with half of the 1994 Phoenix Suns could be considered crass, but in Vegas, it’s downright cool.

She did reject Ron Harper when he texted her and invited her up to see his “sweet digs” at the Wynn, though. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, but what happens with ex-NBA stars could end up in the tabloids.

And the best part of the whole “It doesn’t count” caveat is, if you get married in Las Vegas, you’re only married in Las Vegas… right?