An Update and A Hooker That Looks Like Charo.

I’ll wait while you all Google “Charo”…

Done? Good. Let’s move on, shall we?

The State of My World:

1)  It’s bus season – which, contrary to popular belief, isn’t a period of time during which bellmen are permitted to shoot at bus loads of tourists – and my bad leg (yes, I’ve become that guy), is aching like I’ve gone two rounds with Tyson or ten rounds with Sasha Grey.

(I’m most likely going to pay for the Sasha Grey remark – once my wife Googles Sasha Grey, that is.)

2)  My second tome is currently filled with 42,500 words, some which are actually grouped in a coherent order. Unfortunately, my artistic drive operates on an intermittent cycle and so I’ll experience a week of hyper-activity followed by a drought. On the plus side, I’ve learned the value of pacing from the nuclear disaster that was my first book, so this time around I’m going to write at my own pace and choose the right words, tone and order.

3)  I’ve pitched several projects to various individuals and corporations over the course of the last few months… and I have yet to hear back from any of them. Credit where credit is due though; Robyn Lawson has been the greatest cheerleader to ever wave her pom poms in my praise. You rock, babe.

4)  Bus/conference season has meant I have had fewer encounters with “regular-but-no-so-regular” guests. Fortunately, a single encounter can stretch pretty far…

A Conversation With “Morgan Freeman”

Seriously, I’m not being racist; this gentleman was a less-refined version of Freeman.

MF:  (While answering the door for yours truly.)  Sorry, you had to knock so many times, pal! As you can see, I’ve been a little busy!

With that, he directed my attention to the interior of the room, where five details stood out like Kevin O’Leary surrounded by puppies.

ONE)  The room smelled like the Seventies. And I don’t mean the sweet sounds of soulful rock music. No, I’m referring to the musky, pungent odor that can only be produced by the collision of two not-so-beautiful bodies making the Beast With Two Backs.

TWO)  There were damp hotel towels all over the room. I’m not exactly certain what this guy was doing, but it involved copious amounts of water.

THREE)  A self-pleasuring device of considerable power and size – it was buzzing like a neon sign in Vegas – was humming away on the bed. Yes, these people knew I was on my way to the room and they still left the vibrator out -and running. To most guests a bellman is virtually invisible.

FOUR)  An extra-large paper bag, overflowing with various costumes (Batman’s hood stood out) sat in the corner.

FIVE)  A twenty-something, Latin, paid-escort/hooker (yes, I’m certain she was a hooker), the spitting image of Charo (as she looks now), was flexing like a body-builder in the middle of the room. She was a pleasant, smiling, well-mannered young lady… who was just horrible.

MF:  So, what do you think buddy? You think she’ll love me forever?

ME:  As long as your credit’s good, sir.

MF:  Oh, you’re good, son!

ME:  It helps if I have good material and guests with open minds, sir.

MF: Yeah! Well, anyway… can you store our luggage? I’m going to take my lady for lunch. Is that okay?

ME:  I’m sure it’s the least you can do, sir. (Especially considering what she had to go through to earn her pay.)

MF:  Oh yeah! See you soon, Mr. Funny Man!

And that’s the state of my world and my offering for today. See you in the lobby, kids…

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The Hook Finally Returns.

I’m back in uniform… but up until now, I haven’t really felt like I’ve truly returned to the typical, run-of-the-mill, everyday, atypical, out-of-the-ordinary life that I live between the hotel’s walls.

Did that sentence make you dizzy? Good. That’s merely a fraction of what it feels like to be a 21st century bellman in a thousand-room hotel in Niagara Falls. In my world, the atypical is typical. Out-of-the-ordinary is run-of-the-mill. Up is down. At any rate, let’s get back to today’s business. Namely, sex behind thin Pressboard doors.

Can you believe I had difficulty starting this post? Makes sense, I suppose. After all, it can sometimes be difficult – or in this case “hard” – to begin coitus. Everyone has their own specific ritual/starting point.

Some people lock eyes with their partner, each tuning into the other’s primal urges (which many of us don’t indulge in often enough, sadly). And then they tear each other apart like two rabid wildebeests, as it should be. Clothing is shredded. “Loved bites” and light bruising are inflicted.

Others are far more regimented. Candles are lit. Music fills the space. Lingerie and fancy underwear are donned. Silk bonds are are prepared. Various devices, some mechanical in nature, are inspected and powered up.

Yes, I’ve led an interesting life, kids. What of it?

Some begin with light kissing on the neck and other erogenous zones, while fingertips conduct a feather-light inspection of every inch of their partner/prey’s quivering form. After moments that feel like separate eternities, the kissing finally becomes deep kissing. The two forms slowly become one, each desperate to fill a single space in the universe. Breath is exchanged. Waves of sexual electricity flow like summer rain. A collective mountain is scaled until…

This is getting pretty hot. Excuse me, won’t you?

Okay, I’m back.

You’re probably wondering what precipitated this naughty post. Not that I blame you, this sort of thing isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. Or is it? I mean, as a bellman I’ve overheard more lovers engaging in illicit lovemaking than a prison guard. In fact, this exchange filled my consciousness through one of the hotel’s aforementioned Pressboard doors yesterday afternoon…

BABE:  (In a young, throaty, frustrated tone.)  This… isn’t working for… ow!… me, Peter! We’re going to have to switch it up. AGAIN!

There was silence, save for a few gasps, for a few long moments.

BABE:  PETER! I’m speaking to… you! Stop… Get out of me, will you?

PETER:  (In a ragged, weasly voice.)  Seriously, babe? I’m almost there!

BABE:  Already?

That’s what I thought.

PETER:  (After “disembarking” the carnal carousel.)  Well, yeah! You know how hot I get when we play “Peter and Gwen”!

“Peter and Gwen”? But he didn’t call her “Gwen”.

BABE:  But you weren’t even playing it right! You weren’t calling me “Gwen”!

Told you.

Another moment passed. “Peter” was no doubt weighing his options. Finally, he realized playing along with a demanding, imaginative lover was better than playing alone.

“PETER”:  Okay, so what are we playing now, Babe?

BABE:  Let’s play “Naughty College Librarian snaps and interrogates and tortures the chronically-late Science Nerd Grad Student!”

You have to hand it to Babe, she wasn’t exactly original, but she was thorough. 

BABE:  Or wait! Let’s play “Zombie Stripper eats the Dirty Cop”!

I blog corrected. She was quite imaginative.

Yes, being a bellman does make one take on the role of Peeping Tom temporarily  (is it peeping if you’re listening?), but it’s all in good fun – from my side at least – so it’s all good.

See you in the lobby – and behind closed doors – kids…


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At Home With The Hooks…

After a brutally long day consisting of collecting, tagging, sorting and delivering 241 rooms worth of banker luggage, nothing beats relaxing at home with the wife in bed while watching television.

Of course, in my world, “relaxing at home with the wife in bed while watching television” quickly becomes “relaxing at home with the wife in bed while watching television… until the dog shows up.”


VAMPIRELOVER:  Chelsea is so cute! Isn’t she?

ME: Yeah, sure.

VL:  You really care don’t you?

ME:  Cut me some slack, will you? Bankers are high-maintenance guests. Anyone who wants to understand why the economy is in such a state of chaos need only attend a banking conference. I’m exhausted!

VL:  And jealous.

ME:  And jealous… of someone who eats her own feces.

VL:  She doesn’t do that anymore!

ME:  So that makes it all right?

VL:  You leave Chelsea alone! She’s so cute and furry…

ME: Parts of me are cute and furry…

VL:  What’s wrong with you?

ME:  I’m a bad, bad bellman. I think I need disciplining…

She did raise her hand to me – just not in the smooth, sensual manner I was hoping for…

Marriage is a wild ride, kids…

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Random Thoughts From A Weary Bellman.

It’s early morning here in God’s favorite reservoir, Niagara Falls, and the hotel lobby is as desolate as Kris Jenner’s soul.

Bu that’s going to change soon. In an instant, the lobby will be filled with travelers, bus passengers, overweight bus drivers, wound-tighter-than-a-virgin-who-has-just-been-told-she’s-the-guest-of-honor-at-a-prison-rodeo-tour-guides, would-be lotharios, hungover bachelorettes, over-caffeinated Japanese tour guides, tornadic rugrats, frustrated housewives, disillusioned dads, sinners that would make Stephen King wet his bed, the occasional saint, corporate drones, bewildered foreigners, every variety of mammal under the sun, and of course, hookers.

Speaking of, a couple just passed my desk. She was a hooker, dressed to the tens with an outfit that wasn’t painted on… it was permanently fused to her milky flesh (though I’m sure it could be removed in a nanosecond). He definitely wasn’t a hooker, not with a gut that could only come from decades of consuming backyard barbecue, Saturday night hockey game beers, and far too many cigarettes. She looked young enough to be his daughter’s babysitter – which was probably the point. He was old enough to be her parole officer. They were the stereotypical modern-day “How the Hell did he ever land her?” couple.

The answer, of course, lies in the power of cold, hard cash. Many of the mismatched couples I encounter are living a dream. The girls are Sasha Grey in The Girlfriend Experience and the guys simply don’t have enough blood in their brains to land a non-professional companion, and so they hire one. it’s a win/win situation, I suppose.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, inquisitive readers, and yes, I’m happy to help. Here now, are a few ways to spot a prostitute/escort who is being paid to deliver the “Girlfriend Experience”.

1)  She’s wearing a change-maker on her belt.

2)  Her name is Candy. (Simultaneously the worst and most popular hooker name of all.)

3)  All her outfits are Velcro.

4)  She’s adept at negotiating her way through a crowded hotel lobby with a mattress strapped to her back.

5)  Makes knee pads work with any outfit.

6)  Smells of deception, regret, satisfaction, and hard-earned wealth.  (Which, I imagine is how Kim Kardashian smells.)

7)  Calls her “boyfriend” names like “Honey”, “Pookie”, “Sweetums”… anything other than his actual name which she’s incapable of remembering anyway. Not that he cares.

8)  She’s willing to overlook any transgression her temporary partner is capable of.  (Money is a great relationship tool, kids.)

9)  Spider-Man envies her pliability.

10)  Her eyes are as empty as my pockets currently are, her stare is as vacant as Rob Ford’s consciousness (I realize he’ sill but I’m not letting him off the hook, so to speak), and she really doesn’t care where she is, what’s she’s doing (as long as she’s being paid to do it) or who she’s doing it with.

Of course, you realize this all about fun, not the devaluation of young ladies who have chosen to sell their affections to the highest bidder, right? After hookers are people too.

Well, my day is about to truly begin. See you in the lobby, kids…


Check out this post from Brother Jon. He’s a good man in every way that counts, and I intend to honor him further soon. Thanks, Jon.

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Tolkien Had WW1… I Have Hookers.

I’ve certainly not been at a loss for words – or tweets – since I’ve returned from my self-imposed (sorta) exile… even during those dreaded moments of downtime.

Unfortunately, these observations land me in hot water when VampireLover scans my twitter feed…

VL:  (In a sing-songy, slightly school marmish tone) Hey, boy…

ME:  (Detecting her tone and preparing my self for a tongue-lashing of the negative variety.)   Yes, sweetie?

That never works, by the way.

VL:  I’m just looking at your Twitter, pookie, and I noticed this…

And so she pointed my tweet out to me and very carefully studied my face as I re-read it, hoping to see some sign of guilt.

ME:  Yeah.. so?

Guilt is overrated. I don’t like it so I don’t allow myself to experience it.

VL:  Hookers?

ME:  Yes, hookers. So?

VL:  You’re writing about hookers now?

ME:  I’ve always written about hookers at the hotel. Of all the things I could be doing with hookers I would think you’d be glad I’ve chosen writing.

VL:  You can’t afford to do anything else with them anyway!

ME:  That’s painfully true but I’ll never stop writing about them. They’re too fascinating. Muses come in all shapes and sizes. Just like hookers.

VL:  No to me. I’d never be interested in a hooker.

ME:  What if he looked like a vampire?

VL:  Do you really want the answer to that?

After a nanosecond of pondering.

ME:  I love you.

VL:  Yeah, yeah.. Butt Boy.

Ours is a complicated relationship.

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A Bellman’s Greatest Enemy.

After three months on the sidelines – otherwise known as “my front porch” – I’d forgotten that a bellman’s life isn’t all about racing the clock to deliver luggage, manipulating surly personalities to procure a gratuity,  dodging frisky hookers, cougars and drunken bridesmaids/bachelorettes, and expecting the unexpected… it’s also about managing your downtime, something a bellman has in abundance on given days.

Today is one such day.

And how.

The day started out with a metaphorical bang; the first sight that filled my consciousness when I arrived at work at 8 am was a stack of lists. Specifically, passenger lists – for four buses: two had been scheduled simultaneously, one was to be dealt with at 8:30 and another for 9:00. My first thought?

“By the time this wave of buses is over, I’m going to be that guy, ‘the bellman with the bad leg'”

And so I was. Still, I didn’t have a problem with the routine in general. I almost missed the frantic dash across the length of the hotel, dodging guests of all varieties and mindsets along the way, the challenge of loading twenty bags on a cart designed to hold less than half that number, the sheer fun one can derive from attempting to converse with tourists whose only grasp of the English language is derived from North American television shows, and of course, frigid, soul-sucking tour guides and crusty, slovenly bus drivers who are so filled with resentment over their life choices they literally spew venom when they holler, “Where are my bags, pal? I’ve got a schedule to keep!” Of course, “almost” is the operative word here, but you knew that, didn’t you?

Anyhoo, thanks to an overloaded schedule, the morning has come and gone in a cocaine nanosecond. However, now I’m faced with the unenviable task of burning through what remains of my shift. Wish me luck, gang. I’m going to need it; I’ve only seen one hooker all day – which is truly bizarre when you consider that the hotel is currently playing host to a corporate  conference with money to burn.

Oh well, this too shall pass.

See you in the deserted lobby, kids…

Welcome to my world, kids.

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“Follow my advice, pal, don’t knock up a stripper! She’ll give you a less-than-perfect kid!”

8:00 am: This is my first Sunday back in the trenches, kids, and so far the travelers are trickling out rather than flowing like a river of tourism madness.

Believe it or not, I’d rather have the deluge.  The Niagara Falls Barrelman Triathlon will be zooming by the hotel later today – directly in front of our valet deck exit, to be exact – and The Powers That Be expect the resulting chaos to be anything but controlled. Personally, I’m still rockin’ a wicked mellow buzz so I doubt I’ll even notice.

Let’s face it, anyone who has ever read this blog knows that Sunday mornings are the mirror image of the fall of Saigon – including the screaming Asians, the horny, drunken American soldiers and civilians, and on occasion, the explosions and helicopters.

Yeah, I realize I may get comments about that last line. Good, this blog could use a shot in the virtual arm, so so speak. I need to catch up to my buddy/arch-foe Ned Hickson, who appears to have become a blogging sensation after years of ranting and sacrificing virgins to Pagan gods or as he puts it, “hard work”.

As for me and my Sunday morning routine, I didn’t have to wait long for the “fun” to begin. A put-upon father just stumbled by my desk with his demonic spawn/child in tow. To clarify, the larvae in question was being towed – on Big Daddy’s suitcase. They made the journey through the lobby, across the valet deck, into the garage, into the elevator to the second floor, across the second floor, right to the requisite mini-van. All the while, BD slowly shook his head, no doubt searching his memory for the exact moment his life went off the rails. As for his progeny, the wee bugger just bounced up and down like a lap dancer earning her keep on a Saturday night.

Finally, they arrived at the Daddy-mobile, where Big Daddy was forced to lift his suitcase up into the van with Little Nicky still clinging on. Fortunately, I was there to assist.

“It’s a good thing morbid curiosity forced me to follow you along your perilous journey, sir.”

To his credit, Big Daddy took my stalking in stride. 

“Yeah, I don’t blame you, Boss. I’d follow the Big Jagoff with the crazy kid if I was you, too! Follow my advice, pal, don’t knock up a stripper! She’ll give you a less-than-perfect kid!”

I should have let the matter lie, but where’s the fun in that?

“Actually, I’m married so there’s no chance that’s going to happen, sir.”

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

“Hey. I’m married too, buddy! Why do you think I came here all the way from Boston? My ‘other family’ here is my little secret!”

As soon as he had finished his segment on Parking Garage Confessions, his Baby Momma appeared. My friends, I’ve seen many a stripper in my day but this piece of dance hall meat was as the top of the peeler food chain. She was the living embodiment of Stephen King’s Rose the Hat, with razor-sharp cheekbones, toned limbs that stretched to infinity and beyond, raven locks and nipples that were winning the fight against the thin white t-shirt that barely covered her made-for-sex form.

She wasted no time establishing that her inner-self matched the black, tangy, candy-coated exterior.

“I didn’t know you were getting help, honey! Did you tip him or should I give him a “little something something extra’?”

I screamed “God, no!” repeatedly in my head, but fortunately Big Daddy reached into one of his ginormous pockets and produced a crumpled five-dollar bill.

After that bit of blogging gold, I honestly felt I owed this guy a tip.

5:00 pm: I hope you found this fragment of my morning tasty, my friends. It’s currently early in the evening and the day has nearly burned to its core. I hope you enjoyed reading about my day as much as I enjoyed living it. It’s good to be back, isn’t it?

See you in the lobby, kids…

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