Rooms, Hallways, Bathrooms, Wherever: Let’s Talk About S-E-X

WARNING:  Today’s post deals with naughty themes, dirty talk and many, many sexy shenanigans. In other words, it contains content that some readers, if they’re unfamiliar with my “work”, will find offensive. But those folks need to get laid. Seriously.


Economic vitality is the order of the day when it comes to building hotels. Owners, whether they be families or multi-billion dollar corporations, employ entire departments whose sole mission is to stretch the All-Mighty Dollar to the Nth degree. (Plastic Man would make a great hospitality number cruncher, assuming the bottom ever falls out of crime-fighting.) One of the first areas to be “economized’ is infrastructure; why spend thousands on hundreds of heavy wooden doors when you can squeeze by with a lighter press board model? Sounds reasonable, right?

That all depends on which side of the door you’re on. Just remember this the next time you decide to get freaky while on vacation: the bellman can hear you having sex.

As an amateur adult film critic (truthfully, I was on the verge of going pro while in high school and college, but fortunately I grew up, found a real woman to love and avoided carpal tunnel syndrome), I can truthfully say there is no comparison when it comes to “professional” coital dialogue and the real world. Porn stars are “acting” out a script, such as it is. In the real world, people are forced to draw on their inner porn director for their lines, and trust me, when it comes to dirty talk, they come up with some doozies

Here now, are some of the best/worst lines I’ve been fortunate enough to overhear though paper-thin press board filters.

“I’m a naughty slut! Do me like you’re my stepfather!”

[Have you ever met a slut that wasn’t naughty?]

“Make it rain, baby! I want to be as wet as the Sahara!”

“I’m here and I’m going to ring the bell!”


“You’re one sexy bitch! No wonder my father married you!”

“Do you feel me yet, honey?”

[Trust me, pal, if she doesn’t feel you – and right away – she won’t be calling you “honey” for long.]

“Beat me like we’re on COPS!”


“Strap ‘Brad Pitt’ on and do me like Jen Aniston would!”

[Don’t ask, I have no idea. I can tell you this much: A man spoke those words and a woman answered with an equally puzzling, “I’m George Clooney, baby!”]

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! (I may have missed a ‘Yeah’; it’s easy to lose track after ten.) This is top-shelf sex! I’m one lucky mega-whore!”

“Time to mash those potatoes!”

“I’m going to peel your onions, you naughty girl!”

[And there wasn’t even a culinary convention in town.]

“Oh Gawd! I love to cum in a strange bed! No laundry after!

“I’m going to make you cum like Sinatra!”

[I’ll say it for you… WTF?]

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, there are far too many people of below-average intelligence engaging in sexual congress these days. Then again, that’s always been true, hasn’t it? Speaking of which, on one occasion, in a case of the worst timing ever, I was forced to check on a room that was due to check out that morning. As I  approached room 1210, knocking fist at the ready, a siren-like, husky declaration rang out: 

“I’m a foul, filthy whore! Do me like a nuclear bomb!”

Now, I had a decision to make: If I returned to the lobby the Front Desk manager would just send me right back up there to determine why these guests hadn’t left at 11 am. (Guest Service Agents aren’t asexual, but their agenda is to put heads in beds. Period.) And B, knocking on a room that was rockin’ would make me a Grade A prick – but then again, that’s the role I’ve been preparing for my whole life. One powerful rap on the door later – I’m normally a light touch but that wasn’t going to cut it – another declaration, this one from a male voice, could be heard over the mechanical drone of the housekeeper’s vacuum.

“I know we’re supposed to check out, but I’m in the middle of something.”

His partner chimed in before I could even begin to compose a response.

“Yeah… he’s in the middle of me!”

Truthfully, I felt for their plight but I had a job to do. Nevertheless, I was going to give the “copulating couple” twenty minutes to wrap things up – until they decided to direct some of that nasty my way.

“Are you still there, Mister?” she inquired, in-between raspy gasps.

When I opened my mouth to answer, however…

“You know what? Just fuck off, will ya? I’m getting rammed here!” she screamed. And then, inexplicably, she attempted to appeal to my compassionate side. “Cut us some slack, please?”

Needless to say, I did what any bellman would have… I left and sent Security back up.


You’re going to find this difficult to believe, but sometimes, in my world an anti-climax is the most satisfying climax of all.

Contrary to popular belief, delivering bills to hundreds of rooms during a midnight shift is not the most thrilling aspect of a bellman’s career. It can, however, be the most titillating. As we’ve already established, press board doors are quite ineffective when it comes to muffling the sound of couples

(and sometimes groups)

engaged in late-night/early morning amorous exploits.

Thank Dog.

I’ve lost track of the number of times the mind-numbing tedium of a 4 am bill run has been broken by the orgasmic eruptions of a sexual symphony. An inexperienced bellman will react quickly when the silence of an empty hallway is shattered by various grunts, groans and coital chatter; he’ll slide his bills under their assigned doors in record time. But that changes once he has a few midnight shifts under his belt. Voyeurism comes with the territory; not every bellman writes about his observations like I do, but trust me, they all pay close attention, especially when they’re as bored as a Kardashian in a public library.

You really can’t blame us, not when the material is this good.

“Baby, I’m going to bust your ass like two water balloons!” 

Context, anyone? All right, but only because I like you so much.

Picture this: It’s 4:30 am. You’ve been up all night doing nothing. (Except surfing the web, watching movies and reading comics, that is.) Hours of inactivity have left you as listless as Rob Ford at a Jazzercize class. (I can’t wait until that reference is outdated.) Suddenly, the still of the night is eradicated by:

“Baby, I’m going to bust your ass like two water balloons!” 

[Yes, it’s the quote so full of vice, I repeated it twice.]

I’m willing to wager a month’s pay that even the most straitlaced bellman would move closer to the room that particular soundbite emanated from. I certainly did. The voice was ragged (for obvious reasons), young, frat boyish and definitely creative. Stupid, but definitely creative.

“Shakespeare’s” partner was equally inexperienced in the dirty talk department

(to be honest, she sounded like a young lady who had a few years to go before she even qualified as jail bait)

and her enthusiasm left a great deal to be desired.

“Uh yeah… that sounds (super weak moan)… um.. nice?”

Was she asking or telling? I still don’t know. To him, the answer was irrelevant.

“You like that… (grunt)… don’t you… (exhale)… you dirty… little… (groan)… panda bear?

His panda bear didn’t answer, she merely whimpered at a barely audible range, which only served to inspire him to even greater lows.

“I claim your… (I think he needed a moment to select a suitable substitute for vagina)… candy counter as my own.”

He should have taken another moment.

Nevertheless, things just got worse.

“You’re mine… (wheezing)… baby.”

His voice started to boom, indicating things were wrapping up.

“You’re mine… you slut!”

Until that moment, Panda Bear had remained fairly quiet, in spite of her partner’s ridiculously vigorous attempts to pleasure her – while simultaneously ruining dirty talk for this bellman… and now, all of you.

“You’re mine… you candy-coated whore!”

That was the line, apparently, and once he crossed it there was no going back. His timing couldn’t have been worse; just as he was “climbing the mountain”, Lover Boy’s companion pushed the giant “PRESS HERE TO INITIATE BLUE BALLS” button.

“We… (gasp)… really… need… (exhale)… to talk.”

There are several phrases a man NEVER wants to hear during coitus. Among them:

  • “Don’t mind my vestigial tail.”
  • “There’s a chance we’re brother and sister.”
  • “By the way, the clinic called this morning.”
  • “We need to talk.”

But back to the action…

“I’ve been thinking…”

(During sex?)

“You’re great and all that…”

It was at that moment that I realized I hadn’t heard anything to indicate that Lover Boy had climbed off of his companion. Nevertheless, she continued.

“But I think I’m gay.”

If you’re not picturing a mushroom cloud or a pair of testicles in a guillotine… you should be.

I have to admit, part of me was relieved; can you imagine these two reproducing? They’d give the Kardashians a run for their money. As for Rip Van Horny, he had an agenda to complete and he wasn’t about to let a case of spontaneous lesbianism get in the way.

“I still get to finish, right?”

The boy may have been dumber than a termite-infested post, but he was a trooper. And you gotta admire a trooper, right?


Would you like a couple more? Of course you would. Perverts.

“Surrender… uh… Toto?”

I’ll admit, I was tempted to correct this confused copulator, but my damned professional ethics

(yes, I actually have those)

got in the way of a good time. Again. Fortunately, a couple of well-lubricated, Texan bankers rounded the corner just as I was weighing my options. The best part? It was four in the afternoon.

“Toto?” The largest and drunkest of the bunch wondered aloud as his partners-in-sobriety-crime cackled. “You’re supposed to call her Dorothy, son! Toto’s the damn dog!”

He could have stopped there but you know he didn’t, right?

“Call her Dorothy, you sumbitch! I say, it’s ‘Surrender, Dorothy!'”

(Of all the guests I could have ran into, I had to meet up with Foghorn Leghorn: Drunken Banker and Co.)

His buddies, all three of them, hit the floor, bowled over by his “comedic brilliance”. I just stood motionless, lost in my own amazement – I’m surprised so rarely I never know how to react – until the room door opened, that is. 

There he stood: The biggest, nudest, blackest man I’ve ever seen… with the most ginormous, Nubian member in existence. (Honestly, it should have been continued on the next guy. To this day I have no idea how he managed to reach the door handle with his hand. But he did.)


In retrospect, he should have put all that power into his romantic delivery. But I digress.

The Texan Peanut Gallery froze on the floor. Foghorn started to mumble something. I ripped off my name tag and took off like a shot, hopeful that the entire sorted matter would never reach the Front Desk. As always, my luck held out. This next anteater wasn’t so fortunate.

The exact details elude me; I’m no Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary. I am but a simple bellman – who occasionally overhears things. Luckily, this sound bite says it all.

“I’m so sorry, Cindy! I guess I got overexcited! How’s your eye?”

I made a mental note of the room number and positioned myself in the hallway the next morning. (I go above and beyond for my craft, kids.) Sure enough, my suspicions were correct: He was a strapping young lad with muscles over his muscles – but an appalling lack of control. Cindy was a Zooe Deschannel clone – who was rockin’ the pirate look over her right eye.

Sorry about your luck, Cindy. Would you like some more?


A TYPICAL MORNING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FALL BUS SEASON: After my usual trek across the desolate Niagara Falls urban landscape in the early hours of the morn, I was feeling simultaneously mellow and tense. Residual joy from a restful slumber served me well – until I arrived at my desk and cast my weary eyes upon five separate sets of rooming lists for five different buses.

Fortunately, I had sixty-minutes to prepare myself for the coming onslaught.

Unfortunately, sixty years wouldn’t have been enough.

After tackling a single bus as a team, the midnight bellman and I split up; he headed for a separate tower, leaving me to handle a small group of Spanish travelers solo. According to the plan, their bags were to be left outside their doors, thus ensuring privacy.

The plan, however, was shot to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks with extreme prejudice.

I was forced to knock on each of the group’s ten doors, after which I was forced to fake my way through a Spanish-English verbal exchange that ended with an awkward smile and a nod. In spite of that obstacle things went quite well. 


(You knew this was coming, right?)

I knocked on the door of Room 805. The door opened – slightly. A statuesque Spanish female, wrapped head-to-toe in a series of towels, answered. She giggled hysterically, yet in a very low tone. She allowed me the bare minimum berth necessary to retrieve a single bag. She then abruptly shouted in Spanish to her male partner in the bathroom, who answered in a similarly pensive tone.

In retrospect, I suppose I can understand how he felt.

I moved away from the doorway to load the first bag on my already-overloaded cart and when I returned, my mind became equally cluttered.

There she stood in full view: my Spanish guest of Amazonian descent, the air of mystery had evaporated slightly and so her figure was visible – as was the inanimate, plastic male appendage strapped to her waist.


You read that correctly.

She was wearing three white cotton towels and a strap-on dildo.

Just let the weight of that statement thrust its way into your consciousness for a moment – repeatedly.

What else is there to say, really? I reached for the second bag – slooowly, mind you – and then I got the hell out of Dodge, faster than Justin Bieber if he accidentally walked into a PTA meeting.

Now do you see where my sympathy for her partner originated from? Talk about bending over backwards for your girlfriend…


A MOSTLY TYPICAL WINTER’S DAY AFTER BUS SEASON:  It was a dark and stormy night – in my mind. The reason for my sprightly disposition? A quiet day at the salt mines that was notable only for the realization that this was my life, and always would be. Before I could decide if I was evolved enough to accept my fate, however, Mistress Fate herself decided to make me her bitch once more.

Apparently I look good on a leash.

But enough about me. The second call of my day brought me into the gravity of two twenty-something CW drama wannabes who took the concept of PDA to a farcical level. (To be clear, when I say “PDA”, I’m referring to Public Display of Affection, not Posterior Descending Artery. To be even clearer, I have no idea just what Posterior Descending Artery even means, but it makes me picture an artery falling out of someone’s butt, and that scares the spit out of me.)

As for the two would-be adult film stars in question, they were determined to rewrite the rule of physics that prevents two physical objects from occupying the same space at the same time – and let me tell you, they were really giving it the ole community college try. He had a foot on her at least, and was attired in the latest fashions as advertised in UM (Unimaginative Monthly): a ball cap atop his crop of highlighted blonde hair, a leather jacket, a crisp white t-shirt and deliberately faded/ripped blue jeans. From what I could tell, his partner was a petite brunette who had just graduated from the Sasha Grey School for Wayward Girls.

“We’re in room 4550 and we’re in kind of a hurry to get upstairs!” she squealed between lip locks, “Can you just grab everything?” Her man completely ignored me and their valet driver who looked as though he’d would have rather spent three hours listening to Kim Kardashian give a lecture on quantum physics than watch these two brain donors dry hump one another against a BMW, preferring to nibble on his girlfriend’s neck like a weasel eating corn on the cob.

“That tactic seems to be working for you, so how can I say no?” was my comeback, delivered with my usual arid tone.

She responded with a light-hearted “Thanks!” worthy of a Disney Princess – who had overdosed on Spanish Fly. The valet driver just stared at me for a moment before bending down to retrieve his jaw. Her man continued to chow down.

In my corner of the hotel biz we call that the circle of life. “Special travelers” check in, blow your mind, and they check out. Repeat.

See you in the lobby, kids…

About The Hook

Husband. Father. Bellman. Author of The Bellman Chronicles. Reader of comic books and observer and chronicler of the human condition. And to my wife's eternal dismay, a mere mortal and non-vampire. I'm often told I look like your uncle, cousin, etc. If I wore a hat, I'd hang it on a hat rack in my home in Niagara Falls, Canada. You can call me The Hook, everyone else does.
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22 Responses to Rooms, Hallways, Bathrooms, Wherever: Let’s Talk About S-E-X

  1. vinnieh says:

    Wow, being a bellman sounds like a most interesting job.

  2. Wow. Just wow. I love these stories as I have since I found you!! I was away with Tony Friday night at a hotel – probably much like yours – and we managed to avoid any shenanigans 🙂

  3. 1jaded1 says:

    I was gonna say best intro ever and leave it at that….but damn, Robert, this is one of my favorite funny ones.

  4. oceanswater says:

    Great post! Makes me think about when I’m in hotels, which is frequent… 😉

  5. Do they spray your hotel with bleach? A person could catch something! I don’t think there is a square inch that hasn’t been….ummm….well….you know.

  6. Hilarious, the creativity of dirty talk amazes me, love that people manage to incorporate pandas and balloons!

  7. I think the Sinatra reference was a disjointed idea of making his partner sing. Not sure, wasn’t there. Good fun tonight.

  8. shimoniac says:

    Oooookay. The difference between fiction and reality is that fiction has to make sense. This must be real.

  9. The Cutter says:

    So, um…do you ever get any actual work done, or is just ears to doors all day long?

  10. curvyroads says:

    Oh my god, Robert, I swear this post and the creative ‘cast’ broke my Chrome browser LOL!

    Made me die laughing, and then, of course, try to get it working again to finish reading the post!!!!

  11. I just…I can’t… I don’t… omgoodness. I don’t even know where to start. Except maybe with, What the hell are all you white people doing outside my door. Now THAT was funny. Mental picture is worth a thousand words.

  12. Useful stuff in case you ever get called on to talk a little dirty won’t have to go to Wikipedia, right?

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