As promised, here is a little clarification. Happy Monday, kids!
Imagine all of humanity’s sensuality, lust, raw sexuality, rage, passion and power funneled into a single source and made manifest in one female form.
Our paths crossed on the valet deck as she floated into the hotel on the afternoon breeze and then converged in an elevator bound for the top floor of the tower catering to the needs of the elite traveler. Fate has bestowed many riches upon me, my friends; true, passionate love, lasting and fulfilling. Fatherhood, enlightening, never boring and ultimately, enriching. Employment in a place between places, a temporary haven for all manner of beings, whether they be goddesses or dregs.
Let it be stated for the record – such as it is – she was definitely the former.
Her lips were as red and vital as freshly-spilled blood, dangerously dark but enchanting. Their moist hue evoked images of morning dew in the Amazon. Her skin, in spite of the ravages of time and dangerous living, appeared fresh and untouched. Eyes that contained the raw intensity of a million suns remained resolute, never wavering to take stock of her surroundings. Sculpted cheek bones, a delicate chin and a nose that appeared too perfect to be natural – but clearly was – were accentuated by hair as black and endless as the night sky, tied tight with nary a strand unaccounted for.
Indeed, her regimented locks were indicative of the overall look of her product, namely, herself. An upscale, icy blue blouse had been grafted to a chest that appeared to have been chiseled from cold stone rather than formed naturally into warm flesh. An ashen skirt tastefully walked the line between business and pleasure, revealing toned, powerful legs that were the result of a dedicated fitness routine. Ebony stilettos completed the package.
To the assembled horde in the lobby she was a woman dressed for a sticky, lustful rendezvous or a businesswoman looking to climb the corporate ladder in the oldest manner possible. But my years of experience made the truth clear as day. If the public was privy to that actuality they would pass a harsh judgement upon her.
They would call her a hooker.
They would call her a whore.
They would call her a concubine.
(I know what you’re thinking but don’t assume; some people still read books.)
But here’s the naked truth: While it was true that this woman charged others for the pleasure of laying with her, she was no hooker. Referring to her as a prostitute would be akin to calling Kim Kardashian an actor. Or well-adjusted.
Nearly two decades of observing travelers has left me with the sort of skills referenced in The 40-Year-Old Virgin (“Use your peripherals, dawg!’), and so my subject was unaware of my observations – but not my presence. Turning to face me, she opened her delicate yet powerful hands and revealed a scrap of paper.
“Can you tell me, honey, am I heading for the right floor for this room?”
My ears have received messages/queries from millions of voices over the years but none of them compared. The words dripped from her mouth like honey on an August day. I rolled with the punches and nodded quickly while choking out a “You’re on the right track, miss.” She smiled ever-so-slightly and turned away again.
Time and a lack of blood to the brain tend to play tricks on a man; what felt like the longest elevator ride of my life was actually less than ninety seconds (men always exaggerate the passage of time, don’t they, ladies?). We arrived at our destination and, for no reason in particular – that I could fathom, at least – my new “friend” turned to me as I began to roll my cart out of the elevator and made a very oddly-timed declaration.
“What I offer is never overpriced and its value definitely exceeds the charge. Now, if you’ll excuse me, its way past my head-time.”
I can only assume the femme fatale in question was as evolved as she appeared to be, and was toying with me while simultaneously validating the role she has chosen to play in this little drama we call life in the so-called civilized world.
Either way, she made her point. I moved onto my destination and she did the same. I didn’t see her gain, but it was better that way; nothing could top that encounter for its surreal nature. I have to wonder if David Lynch isn’t the puppet master behind my life at the hotel. Best not to ponder such possibilities, I suppose.
That’s all I have for you today, my friends. See you in the lobby…