Not every room I visit temporarily houses a prime example of the case for birth control.
But I thank Dog for the ones that do.
Most travelers are your garden variety working-class animals who covet their meager savings and so they refuse to share any of it with anyone in the service industry. No harm, no foul, I understand. Part of me hates them for it but like Kevin O’Leary says “They’re dead to me, so who cares?” I get it and besides, there are plenty of crazed fish in the sea.
Speaking of which, meet Warren WASP, the most stereotypical blonde, rippling- with-muscles frat boy I’ve ever encountered. This guy was so white he made Brooke Shields look like Beyoncé.
(Yeah, I crossed gender lines for that one. Get over it.)
Warren called me up to his room just as a typical Sunday morning checkout frenzy was dying down. Warren’s room was ripe with the sticky, pungent odor of bodies slapping up against one another in an orgy. Of two. Come to think of it, can you have an orgy of two? Let’s just assume you can.
“Uh, I’m afraid we’re going to be a little while, Boss,” he said sheepishly. His golden-haired companion, completely swathed in a rumpled, visibly-stained-with-a-mixture-of-bodily-fluids-sheet, wasn’t so reserved.
“We’re not going anywhere,” she exclaimed in a quiet, mousy voice, as she literally dripped sex on the carpet. “He destroyed my vagina.”
She was a twenty-something, fresh-off-the-vine, petite sorority queen bee with eyes as wide as Julia Roberts’ smile, toned legs like a mini-gazelle (they have those, right?), hair as golden and lengthy as Rapunzel’s and apparently, thanks to Warren, a vagina like a Kardashian.
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t so fresh-off-the-vine anymore…
ME: Uh… say again?
I got it, but I wasn’t about to let these fish go so easily.
WARREN: I’m afraid Cindy’s a little under the weather this morning, pal.
CINDY, OWNER OF THE BROKEN VAGINA: DON’T TELL HIM MY NAME, WARREN! HE’S GOING TO REMEMBER ME NOW!
Apparently the mouse knew how to roar.
ME: You’re standing in front of me in a soiled bed sheet, miss. I’m going to remember you, regardless.
CINDY: Well… you never know… you do meet a lot of people…
ME: You’re. In. A. Bed. Sheet.
Warren lost it. He almost fell over , he was snickering so hard. Cindy remained firm in her confusion. I was once again forced to steer the course of events. Just call me Captain Hook.
ME: Tell you what, why don’t I go back downstairs and you can pack up your things, sir… and the young lady can assess the damage to her lady parts before –
CINDY: I’ve checked out the damage already! He really did destroy my vajayjay! I need vaginal reconstruction surgery!
ME: (My arms raised high in surrender.) Hey, I have many talents but I draw the line at rebuilding lady parts!
CINDY: Seriously? My boyfriend will tip you way extra!
WARREN: No I won’t! I’m flat broke! I spent all my cash, babe!
ME: Not on lube, apparently.
I couldn’t help myself. it just slipped out. Something I bet Cindy wishes had happened to her. Fortunately, the vagina-bustin’ duo started laughing… after they lifted their jaws from the stained carpet, that is.
WARREN: You’re hilarious, man!
CINDY: No he’s not! (Her hysterical laughter betrayed her, though. And then it caused her arms to betray her as well.) He’s –
What came next occurred in a nanosecond but being a male, I caught it all.
Cindy’s entire body shook like a bowl of pornographic jelly.
(I should be writing a Fifty Shades sequel, right?)
Her arms moved to her respective sides.The bed sheet succumbed to the forces of gravity and went down like Cindy a few hours earlier. Cindy’s jaw popped open, much like it did… well, you get it by now, right?She froze for a moment before bending over like a speedster (I’m such a mega-nerd), and reacquiring the bed sheet.
CINDY: You didn’t see that, right?
Protocol dictated that I answer with a firm, “Certainly not, miss.”
ME: Did I? You’re perfect!
I hate protocol. Besides, protocol doesn’t begin to cover bed-sheet-draped-guests with broken lady parts. This bell call had gone off the rails in a spectacular fashion but it was righted by the most unlikely person imaginable.
WARREN: (Shaking his head.) Well, now that you’ve seen my girl’s honey pot, can we get going, buddy?
CINDY: ARE YOU HIGH, WARREN? HELLOOO! BUSTED VAGINA HERE!
WARREN: Well, we have to go sometime, don’t we?
CINDY: “WE” DON’T HAVE A BUSTED VAGINA, WARREN! I DO!
WARREN: You’re the one who kept screaming at the top of her lungs, “HARDER, BITCH, HARDER!”
As an observer of human nature in all its “glory” this was beyond delightful… but enough was enough.
ME: I’m going to interject here, folks. (Pointing to Warren.) Why don’t you go get the car? I’ll get the bags loaded up and meet you downstairs. (Pointing to She-of-the-Destroyed-Vagina.) And you, young lady, can get dressed. And before you say anything else, just think about this: Your lady parts are going to be hurting whether you’re up here or in the car so you might as well get going. As they say at the bars, it’s closing time, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.
And with that, my friends, Cindy and Warren made their way out of the hotel – eventually – and into these virtual pages. Personally, I was quite pleased with myself. I can’t get my dog to listen to me but I managed to wrangle two horny idiots with incredible ease.
Take that, Cesar Millan.
See you in the lobby, kids…