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…