About Last Night...

The thing about traveling extensively for work is that I find myself in hotel rooms. A lot. Mostly, things are pretty uneventful. Other times, thanks to fire alarms, whiskey benders and new friends found in the lobby bar, they get interesting.

Last week, I stumbled back to my room after a few too many drinks and flopped down on the bed, still in my shoes and tie, fumbling with the phone to arrange a wake-up call for the next morning's sales meeting. About fifteen minutes in, I hear a steady banging against the wall. Then I hear moaning. Female moaning. I am intrigued, but it's nothing I haven't heard before. So I try to get to sleep.

But she won't stop. In fact, she gets louder. And louder. And the thumps against the wall start coming with extreme prejudice. So I bury my head under the pillow, but I can't escape it. Them she starts yelling things, like "Don't you fucking stop," and "I will ride your cock until it explodes" and "Is there no one on this planet who will challenge me?" (I'm a little hazy on that last one, but that's the best of my recollection.)

This went on all night. Blood-curdling screams, ecstatic moans, bedposts pounding. Eventually, it stopped, when either her partner died or I blacked out. But the damage was done. I was a wreck as the wake-up call arrived, and there's nothing worse than losing sleep over fucking that you're not actively participating in.

I showered, downed a couple Red Bulls and dragged my ass to the door. As I opened it, The Screamer next door opened hers to wheel a cart into the hallway. She was pretty, blond, probably in her late 30s, and while I couldn't see her body under her robe, I assumed she was made of mostly metallic parts. She looked at me without a whiff of embarrassment; I gave her a smile and a nod and headed down the hall to the elevators.

A few hours later I'm in the meeting and jabbing myself in the thigh with a pen to stay awake. Then our Executive Vice President says he wants to introduce our new west coast sales rep. And in walks The Screamer, all dolled up in heels that made her look about fifteen feet tall. She didn't seem to recognize me, and if she did, she was totally unfazed, as if damn proud of her fucking abilities.

She talked about her experience, her performance targets, her sales strategies, blah blah blah. All I wanted to know was the name of the lucky guy she was pulverizing last night--and if his health and/or whereabouts could be confirmed.

Not much of a story, I know. But I'm always happy when the magical worlds of business and fucking collide.