Hotel

A gig took me to Virginia Beach for an overnight trip. I was set up with a nice hotel room, looking out over the ocean.

I arrived on a drizzly winter evening, and walked the beach. I didn’t have to work until the next day, beginning mid-morning.

A town where I don’t know a soul, a free night, a pleasant room . . . nice opportunity for some Southern loving.

Only one thing was lacking: another Southerner to love on.

Most people in this situation might think, now this is why bar pick ups were invented. But I must confess, gentle reader, that I have very little experience with bar picks ups.

Little, as in none.

Now why should this be so? I’m an attractive and outgoing person, who loves to booze and schmooze. Sex with someone I’ve just met? No problem.

I suppose my problem is an aversion to the games I associate with bar pick ups. You know, the girls who flirt to get free drinks, the boys who evaluate you in a glance. Not much appealing in that for me.

My walk took me to a sports bar. I stopped in for dinner and a beer. The place was nearly empty.

I sat at the bar. The bartender poured a pint and brought me a menu. She was sexy, in a tomboyish way that appeals to me. She had a soft athletic body, with tattoos revealed by her much-too-small shirt. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore no make up.

She was nice to me, I was nice to her.

At the end of the bar, a waitress was chatting with some of the regulars. She recounted the sad news that her vibrator was now broken. She loved it like no man. She contemplated a memorial service.

The guys hemmed and hawed.

The bartender had climbed onto the bar to reach into a cabinet. You ain’t kidding, she said, looking down as she straddled the area near the regulars. My useless husband ain’t got nothing on my vibrator. I’ll be glad when he’s gone so I can spend more time with it.

Hem. Haw.

One of the guys offered that he might be better than her husband, if she wants to try him after the divorce. She hopped down. Yeah, I’ll keep that offer in mind, little man.

I ain’t that little . . .

Yeah, that’s what they all say.

And so it went, this banter between the men who drank and the women who served drinks.

I had a bourbon, settled up and headed back to my room.

I had a night of decadent self-indulgence planned. Masturbation and a long, deep uninterrupted sleep—two activities I find too little time for back home.

Anna called. How’s the room?

Nice. What are you up to?

Not much. Just laying in my bed naked, masturbating, thinking of you.

Hey, that’s funny. I’m doing the same.

As she touched herself, she talked about things she wanted to do with me. She talked and talked; I listened, interjecting infrequently.

She got herself off over and again. I came.

We talked a bit longer, then said good night around ten thirty. I phoned in a wake up call for nine.

A wake up call for nine. Sweet!

I woke around seven, with light streaming in the windows. I turned over, grabbed a pillow and watched the waves. I was well rested, sated. I drifted back to sleep.

I flew back to the city the following evening, after a day of work. Bridget met me at the airport.

I have been negligent of Bridget, my BBW Sugar Mama. She reminded me daily of how many days had passed since we last had sex.

At seventy-five days, she said that she was due. I agreed. Alas, I couldn’t host this week, as I had guests at my place. Her place was out of the question, as she has a roommate.

So she did what any horny Sugar Mama would do. She got us a hotel room. Oh, but she’s not just any Sugar Mama—she’s got brains, this one. She did some research and got us booked at a fancy hotel at a bargain rate. On her tab, natch.

The room looked out over New York harbor. There was a large bottle of bourbon waiting for me.

She got her clocks cleaned. The calendar was reset. She can now count the days until next time.