So they tell me something called “Valentine’s Day” is around the corner. Personally, I’ve always assumed this “holiday” was an urban legend like the female orgasm or a period in human history without the deliciously horrific taint of the Kardashians.
But apparently it exists and it’s wonderful.
Women get enough ammunition to last forever if their partners fail to honor them in a fitting manner. Men spend copious amounts of cash in displays of affection directed at a single date rather than a lifetime. Restaurants are jammed tighter than the door to Sia’s sanity. And the retail sector? Well, the retail sector makes so much money manipulating the public it burns half of it during a Pagan orgy of decadence and sacrifice involving virgins (a rare commodity these days), midgets, whip cream, horses, and duct tape.
Or so I’ve read. Somewhere.
Admittedly, I don’t know much about romance. Most of my attempts at wooing the fairer sex have resulted in comments like…
- “Don’t be ridiculous, where are we going to find a riding crop, a small pool filled with Cool Whip and midgets at this time of night?”
- “I’m sorry, pal, but the service said your card had been declined.”
- “I’m pretty freaky, but even I have limits.”
- “Are you nuts? I don’t even know you! And we’re at the DMV!” (To be fair, I was just trying to kill the three hours we were going to spend in line.)
So you can understand why I’m not about to regale you with tales of my past romantic exploits, right?
However, as the chronicler of the exploits (in this case, the sexploits), of travelers of all shapes, sizes and mindsets, I am uniquely qualified to share a few Valentine’s Day epic fails with you. You see, long before EL James’s Fifty Shades of Grey took the world and soccer moms everywhere by storm, people were trying to spice up their lovemaking by exploring their steamier side. Some succeeded, but those individuals have no place here; there are many bloggers/scribes who are better suited to share those tales on their sites.
I’d rather focus on the sexual misadventures of my guests. Let’s begin, shall we?
1) Spiderman, Spiderman, Does whatever a spider can…
Except attach a sex swing to his room’s ceiling and strap his “Spider-Woman” in for a night of web-slinging. Oh, he can try, but unless he’s an engineering wizard, he’s going to seriously underestimate the hotel’s structural integrity and send his “prey” crashing to the floor. At the most inappropriate time off all, to boot.
The best line to emerge from this super-heroic debacle? That belongs to the young lady who suffered the most from her paramour’s shortcomings.
“Ugh, that’s the last time I play “Spider-Man Saves Spider-Woman! I’ll never get this ‘web-fluid’ off my face!”
2) The “Great Outdoors” aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
Especially when you take a tumble from a second-story balcony while making the beast with two backs.
Many years ago, my hospitality career began when I accepted a position with a two-property company on Clifton Hill in Niagara Falls. One of their properties had a wing that sat atop a hillside across from the Falls; the balconies in these rooms inspired more than one adventurous couple. One such couple took their amorous acrobatics too far.
By about a foot, I’d say.
One thrust too far (and the arrival of a frisky raccoon looking for a cross-species threesome), and they both tumbled over the balcony like an X-rated version of Jack and Jill. Even Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey would have had the wind taken out of their sails after a trip to the ER while completely naked.
Or maybe not?
3) Getting “down ‘n dirty” can be fun. But literally? Not so much.
As we’ve discussed before, some guests feel the need to forgo the bed they paid good money for in favor of supposedly-dirtier pastures. I can understand this, (to a point), but using a set of cold, cement stairs to do the deed? That takes a special kind of sexual innovator.
It also takes a couple that is truly dedicated to their mutual orgasm to enure the risks that come with such an undertaking. Risks like…
- Staff members who walk the stairs as part of their midnight rounds. (A tip of the hat to the staff member who simply stepped over the copulating couple in question, rather than disturb their rhythm.)
- Drunken gamblers who have no idea where they are or what exactly they’re witnessing.
- Smokers who take refuge in the stairs and who are known for flicking their butts down the stairwell. (In this case, one particular butt made its way down the stairwell in a straight line, until it became a “magic bullet” of sorts and bounced off a railing before landing directly into the nether regions of the world’s unluckiest female. Try explaining that burn to the paramedics.)
Trust me, kiddies, stay in the room. Your naughty bits will thank you for it.
4) Engaging in vehicular maneuvers that aren’t covered in the driver’s handbook.
Like frolicking in the front seat of a classic automobile. With your wife’s best friend. During a couple’s weekend retreat.
What could possibly go wrong?
Finally, an easy one.
Flailing limbs could easily strike the gear shift, sending the vehicle moving whilst the occupants are otherwise occupied. (Don’t laugh; I’ve had some experience with this. It’s easier to accomplish than you think.) In this case, the car headed straight down the ramp bridging the first and second floors of the hotel’s parking garage – while the philanderers within no doubt did the same.
Rolling karma, anyone?
But wait, there’s more!
Not only did the “Rolling Car of Cheating Death” (the trademark is pending, so don’t get any ideas), travel a good distance, it slammed in to a vehicle that was backing out of a space. And that vehicle? It was a van containing four of the biggest, blackest citizens to ever inhabit Harlem.
And they weren’t exactly pleased with, and I quote…
“The two crazy-ass crackers who busy bustin’ it while their white-ass, old car busted up our wheels!”
Needless to say, I love my job.
5) Cosplaying couples.
To be clear, not every cosplayer looks like this:
I’ve seen some who look like this:
You know what? I can’t do it. A quick Goggle Images search for “ugly cosplayers” revealed some sights that only intense shock therapy will be able to clear from my mind.
I refuse to subject my readers – all ten of you – to that. Now, to clarify, I don’t have a problem with cosplaying in general. If it works for you and your partner, go for it. But folks who are a disaster in their real lives have no business dressing up to engage in fantasy play while staying in my neck of the woods. And if someone is going to dress up, they should at least pick an outfit that works with their specific body shape.
So I guess this one isn’t really an epic fail so much as my opinion. But so what, right?
My blog, my rules.
That concludes my Valentine’s Day offering, friends. I know its not sweet or fragrant, but it won’t fatten you up or wither with age.
Beat that, corporate marketing machine.