What It’s Really Like Being a Casino Dealer (Hint: It’s Not Just Free Drinks & Glam)

You think being a casino dealer in Vegas is all glitter, high-rollers, and sipping comped mojitos under a chandelier, right?

Bless your heart.

Let me walk you through what it’s really like dealing cards on the Strip when you’re a queer pop artist moonlighting as a table games wizard with glitter in his veins and a permanent poker face.

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First of all, we’re basically stage performers in polyester

If you’ve never stood under fluorescent lighting in a full black vest with an itchy collar while doing hand choreography faster than a Beyoncé backup dancer, congrats, you’re not a casino dealer.

Every day, I walk into that pit like I’m entering a scene. It’s part drag, part drill team, part social experiment with strangers holding onto their last $20 and a dream.

I smile. I shuffle. I pretend that man didn’t just try to tip me a cough drop.

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You’re dealing cards and decoding chaos at the same time

Every dealer is a human lie detector, therapist, and psychic all rolled into one.

You’ve got:

• • The tourist who thinks basic strategy is a vibe

  • The regular who talks to his chips before every hit

  • The bachelorette party that thinks we’re strippers

Also, the eye contact. The intense, “if I lose this hand I’m blaming your aura” eye contact. I’ve developed the ability to look at people and not look at them at the same time. It’s a survival skill.

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Tips? A beautiful mystery

Some people tip like they’re allergic to generosity. Others will throw you a red ($5) chip like they’re Oprah handing out cars. One guy gave me $100 just because I made him laugh. Another handed me a fortune cookie. (It was empty.)

Pro tip: I will absolutely remember you if you tip with style. Slide it across the felt with a wink and I will call you baby.

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The hours are… ungodly

Being a casino dealer means embracing a sleep schedule that only vampires and shift workers understand. Graveyard shift? That’s my natural habitat. I’ve eaten dinner at 5 AM and cried at sunrise more times than I care to count.

Weekends? We don’t know her. Holidays? We serve you while you get drunk on champagne. It’s part of the deal. Literally.

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But the stories? ICONIC.

One woman once told me I reminded her of her late third husband. I asked what happened to the first two and she said, “They couldn’t handle my bets.” I aspire to that level of mystery and menace.

Another time, a guy claimed he was a “slot whisperer” and tried to bless my table with essential oils.

This is my life. This is casino dealer life.

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So why do I do it?

Because despite the sore feet, the ridiculous hours, and the occasional player who thinks they’re the reincarnation of Rain Man, I love the energy.

I love the unpredictability, the people-watching, the glamor mixed with grit. I love being part of the electricity of Vegas. And let’s be real: I’ve always had a flair for theatrics. Being a dealer is just another stage… with better lighting.

And when the show’s over? Gabro hits the mic, flips the script, and reminds you that we all gamble with something: money, love, time, the dream.

Just tip your dealer on the way out, babe.

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I dealt cards, cracked jokes, and survived an empty fortune cookie. Surely that’s worth a chip. 🥠

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Please 🔗gamble responsibly.

Related posts:

Dealer Secrets: What We Really Think at the Table How I Survived Graveyard Shift (And Thrived): Dealer Edition Things I Whisper to Myself While Dealing Cards So I Don’t Scream Why I Don’t Gamble (Even Though I Work in a Casino) The Lies Dealers Tell (And Why We Say Them with a Smile) When the Chips Are Down: A Love Letter to the Ones Who Stay Too Long