In the two years I’ve been blogging I’ve been fortunate enough to have received many awards from my fellow writers; a subset of these awards requires the recipient to share a small piece of himself with the world in an attempt to bridge the gap between the controlled virtual reality one creates within a blog and the “real world” we live in.
But I never fulfill that requirement.
The brilliant and beautiful Tracy Fulks recently wrote a post entitled “Want Should and Are, in which she discusses… You know what? I’m going to let her explain. After all, her skills put mine to shame.
Within each of us there reside 3 people. The person we want to be, the person we think we should be, and the person we are. I don’t know if those italics were really necessary, but they seem like something a real writer would do, so I put them in.
Deciphering the difference between these is difficult to say the least. Sometimes all 3 converge, sometimes there’s a battle between one of them, conscience? Perhaps. But being true to yourself is often easier said than done. All of us have a people-pleaser inside, just as all of us have a critic. All of us have a peacemaker, just as all of us are reactionary. We audit ourselves in different situations based on which of the 3 dominates the specific situation.
Told you she was brilliant.
But getting back to me, I want to explain just why I have always refused to share revelations about my inner being beneath the rugged, smart-ass bellman surface. It’s not that I’m lazy or unappreciative of the honors that my fellow bloggers have seen fit to send my way, nor am I hiding anything.
To be honest, there is no disconnect between The Hook and Robert Hookey. There is no Jekyll and Hyde. There is no Clark Kent and Superman. There aren’t two separate and wholly distinct personalities vying for control beneath the surface of my mind.
What you see is what you get, bitches.
I am The Hook.
That having been said, I have a little story to share with you that perfectly illustrates just what kind of bellman, and for that matter, just what type of man, I really am.
“Or I could give you this.” she cooed, her strong, yet wholly feminine hands, lifting up her figure-squeezing top all the while. She ceased her efforts as the fabric finished scaling her twenty-year-old breasts, the clothing making a popping sound as air finally touched her chest.
Allow me to type what you’re thinking: WTF?
Let us peel back the curtain and peer into the past, shall we?
An entirely unremarkable Friday afternoon – which had followed a completely quiet Friday morning – became quite memorable when I answered a young couple’s eloquent request for luggage service.
“Yo! We need some help with our shit!” he shouted across the valet deck, his loose-fitting, white boy style hip-hop clothing reverberating against his frail form as the wind threatened to blow him back to whatever suburban hell he emerged from. His companion, a blonde of average height and equally questionable fashion etiquette, merely rolled her eyes as he began to fill my cart with the usual items: overpriced shoes endorsed by rappers and athletes, liquor and six packs, shoes, leather coats, butt-ugly shirts on hangers, shoes, a radio, and duffel bags thank clinked when handled.
Did I mention shoes? Because there were a lot of shoes.
After loading the last pair, I began my journey through the lobby, fearful of what awaited me at their temporary dwelling. I looked back and watched as the young “power couple” had a conversation I’ve observed from a distance a million times:
- He sat in the car, prepared to self-park in order to save $5.
- She stood at his window, a perplexed look on her young face as he gave her instructions to follow me to the room.
- She held out her hand, no doubt hoping he would pony up a few dollars and spare her the inevitable embarrassment of having to explain to a bellman that she has no funds to give him for services rendered.
- He shook his empty head.
- She walked away shaking hers.
As a member of the male species I am unaccustomed to having my suppositions proven correct, but as a bellman my instincts are second-to-none.
Sure enough, as the last pair of shoes left my grasp my buxom guest took up a position in the corner of the room beside a bed and set in motion the events that began our little tale.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“I’m Robert.” I knew where this was going, even as the words left my lips. At least, I thought I did.
“And what time are you working until, baby?’ Why do women always assume that utilizing another word for infant and giving it a sexy twist will reduce any mammal with a penis in the immediate are to a malleable puddle of jelly, subject to their every whim?
Scratch that. My knowledge of how the world works and my vision of how it should work just collided…
“I’ll be here until six.” (“Even though I’ll never see you again and you’ll soon fade into memory” I thought) But I was wrong about her fate; she wasn’t destined to fade into the obscurity of my memories. Not a chance in Hell.
“My boyfriend is parking the car and he has the money. We can come see you later,” and this is where we came in…
“Or I could give you this.” Technically, she should have said “these”, but I’m guessing she wasn’t much for book learnin’ in school. She appeared to be the type of girl who only visited her school’s library to hide away in the stacks with a willing partner.
But getting back to her bountiful offering: I remember thinking “They’ve really come a long way in terms of the structural integrity of ladies’ double-barreled slingshots.”
Seriously, she was asking A LOT of that bra, and it held firm. Literally.
At this point, many of my male readers are screaming “Yeah, baby! The Hook finally has a story worth sharing! The hell with the cheap douches, bring on the boobies!”, in their heads.
Sorry, guys, but you’ll have to stick with Tube8 or some other web portal if you want to see some of God’s most glorious creations. There are plenty of other bloggers out there who spin salacious tales of bodies wrapped together to form the Beast with two backs.
I didn’t miss a beat; I responded from my heart, utilizing my patent-pending deadpan style of delivery, “If it’s all the same to you, miss, I could really use the cash.”
Granted, I cannot recall if I directed my words at her face – or just what her expression was at that point, for that matter – but I definitely spoke in a clear tone of voice to avoid any confusion.
I then got the hell out of there, just as a very loud “Hey!”, escaped her open mouth.
I’m guessing she’s employed this method of payment in the past, but I wasn’t biting. Or groping. Or licking. Or anything else. And it’s a good thing too: I heard her boyfriend return to the room as I was waiting for the elevator (and formulating the creation of this post) in the service area.
I can only imagine what would have happened had he returned to see his busty companion being bounced around the room like a piñata by a tall, balding bellman in his forties. Fortunately for him, I wasn’t interested in his girlfriend’s rack. (Although, to be truthful it was PERFECT!)
I’m not that kind of bellman.
The visual memory of his companion’s immaculate breasts is not considered an acceptable form of currency in Canada. I can’t pay my mortgage with it. It won’t buy me comic books or put food on my table. In short, her offer of role-reversal – for once I would have been the one doing the “stiffing” – didn’t titillate me, it irritated me.
What can I say? I’d rather go home and face my wife with money in my pocket rather than a dirty deed hidden beneath my face.
So there you have it, my character in a nutshell.
Have a happy Monday, folks!
ONE MORE THING BEFORE YOU GO…
The beautiful and talented August McLaughlin has a thing or two to say about Solo Sex and Body Image. Click on her pic to be enlightened…