Motel 69, Rm. 3825 - Part I

• 4:12 p.m. •
Ever notice how the second you step into a hotel room with your spouse or significant other, the gauge on the sexual tension meter reads “FUCK NOW. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.”?
And it doesn’t matter if the place is a 14-room shit-hole with bars on the windows, or a swanky 22-story high-rise in Chicago – the twitch in your left nut knows no prejudice.

Good – glad it’s not just me.

But there’s always that pause when you stop and think “Damn – how many other sick bastards have done on that SAME comforter the SAME sick shit that I want to do right now!? That’s nasty!”. So you put down your stuff and start checking out the room. As you reach for the switch on the lamp on the nightstand, you think about all the ass-matter that’s got to be on it! Forget the light. You sit down in what should be called the Bark-Like-a-Dog-o-Lounger, by the looks of all the stains on it. Crack open the bag of Chee-tos you picked up from the gift shop, and reach for the remote. HEL-LO nasty! If Grissom were there, the remote would glow in the dark there’s so much fuck slag on it! It’s like someone taped the remote to a bath towel and flossed themselves from ass-crack to navel and back! To change your shoes before going out you lay a towel down rather than sit directly on the gross, gawdy comforter. You try desperately NOT to think about all manner of fluids that have been spilled, burped, smeared, burnt, shot, dumped, seeped, launched, farted, wiped, leaked, rubbed, spit and otherwise unloaded onto the damn thing!

TIME FOR DINNER!!

You grab your card key, play a little grab-ass with the spouse, and off you go to dinner and a show.

• 11:37 p.m. •
Back to your hotel room. Before you can get the door deadbolted behind you, your pants are around your ankles and you’re fucking her mouth like a rubber ball in one of those wooden paddle games! Couple the “strangeness” of the room hitting you all of a sudden with the alcohol from the hotel bar, and the next thing you know you’re in the bathroom shaving your balls and painting your toe-nails some shade of ‘Carribean Temptation’. Soon after turning on every light in the place, she’s propped up on the nightstand with the crusty comforter draped over it, and you’re eating Cheeto’s outa the crack of her ass! Within minutes, you’re spitting and snorting like two camels fucking on top of an out-of-balance washing machine loaded with 9 pairs of jeans and a cinder block! DAMN. Soon the deed is done and you’ve broken laws in two neighboring states. She hit’s the shower while you stand in the room window chuckling like a crazed lunatic, wiping your dick on the curtains!

Ever notice how after you’ve been with your spouse or significant other for a number of years, the sexual tension meter reads “Hurry up so I can go back to sleep!”?

I have just the remedy……read Motel 69, Rm. 3825 – Part II.

-Greg