Dude, Where's Your Pants?

Part of the fun of staying in a hotel is ordering room service.

Room Service In Bed

In exchange for the money hotel guests pay for a room, everything that happens in there, stays there. If that weren't the case, black light wands would detect sunshine and happiness when passed over a Hilton bedspread, not remnants of a teenage hooker's life and DNA so perverted your eyes bruise, causing thoughts so foul you can smell them.

I worked in room service at Morgan's Hotel in NYC in the 80s. Break that sentence down, and add it was wild after every other word. Sprinkle the sentence with immoral and illegal. If a guest checked into the hotel with drugs and a bellman sneaked into their room and stole the drugs, who're they going to call?

The maids were the first on the scene to find evidence of foul play. Guests tended to abandon porn magazines like Red Hot Milky Mamas featuring lactating women, rather than take them back home to be discovered by their wives, mothers, or airport security personnel. I can see the young, clean cut businessman from Ohio, rushing to catch his flight home. His suitcase falls open, sending his filthy magazines scattering onto the airport floor, along with the doll he bought for his daughter.

Morgan's housekeepers were all recent Chinese immigrants, and these meek, quiet, giggling, women had not seen anything like this back in their country. It all makes sense now -- if they could clean up a U.S. hotel room, they can take over the world.

A rumor spread like gossip about a guest in Room 1103. He kept flashing his staff to the hotel staff who serviced his room. Both his bold act and rumored penis size were impressive. I heard.

He'd call the front desk and report trouble with his television. When the engineer arrived, he found the TV simply unplugged. The engineer plugged it in and when he turned to stand, the guest would be naked. The engineer left politely. Soon, the guest would order room service. When one of my team members arrived, the flasher would be in a complimentary hotel robe. Perfectly normal, they were cushy cotton robes, available for purchase upon checkout.  But when the waiter put the dinner tray down on the desk and turned around, he faced a tip. And the rest of the guest's penis. This went on for about two weeks. David Youse saw it at least six times. He became blase´ about it.

I had to see this penis. I missed so many opportunities and I was afraid he was going to check out or get beat up by that one mean Russian engineer.

One night, I got excited when an order came in for Room 1103. A coke. That was it. Who orders a Coke from room service? A pervert. That Coke probably cost ten times its street value, but he obviously didn't care. I tossed caution to the wind and braced myself as I rode up in the elevator, holding that huge tray with that little bottle of Coke and lone glass of ice to get flashed by a sicko. I was in NYC, living the big city dream.

I knocked on the door. He answered wearing just a towel, not the bathrobe I was expecting. That took me a back a bit. I walked in confidently, noticing that he was more handsome than I imagines. I'd figured him as the kind of guy who would be, but shouldn't be, nude on the beach. I pictured him all humpy, living in his mother's basement. All his friends were creepy too. But he looked like a regular guy. I crossed to the desk like the scene had been blocked by a skilled director and I knew the actor's next line.

I'd turn and his towel would drop, revealing his massive member. I'd gasp, slap the demented but hung man with my imaginary hand, telling him that I wasn't that kind of boy, and leave. You can open your own Coke! would be my stinger of an exit line.

I was glad my back was to him and that I had business to do, it hid the fact that I was a little nervous -- we all have a first time. Instead of fumbling with buttons or a bra closure, I shakily moved the Coke bottle off the tray. He spoke before I even turned around.

"Let me get my robe," he said.

And he did. He wrapped the belt tightly around his waist as he signed the bill. I left as if I'd just delivered eggs to a middle-American family. As I walked to the elevator, two room service cohorts surprised me by jumping from a hallway where they had been hiding while I got non-flashed. They wanted to see my reaction to the flasher.

I let those amazingly supportive guys down. And myself. I felt so dejected by the flasher's rejection. Sure, there would be other times, my pals assured me, as we rode down the elevator.

"You're too good for that small town perv," they told me. 

The general manager asked the guest to leave a couple of days later, claiming the housekeepers were freaking out.

What a way to honor the hotel room no-holds-barred attitude. God love him, I am sure the advent of the internet was his biggest blessing. He is now free to practice his beliefs in his mother's own home. He was my first pervert, but I was not his.

In a hotel, I am the guy who messes up both sides of the bed so the maid doesn't think I slept alone. I also remove any suspect garbage myself. And when I order room service, I am sensitive to the waiter and any trepidation they might feel about knocking on the door of a stranger's bedroom. I make sure there are plenty of lights on, and there is no evidence of a good, relaxed time in my room. We do our business, I sign the bill and escort them out.

2 comments:

  1. Oh the life of a Bell Hop! So broadening.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Red Hot Milky Mamas. Red hot milky mamas? Wow. this takes perversion to an entirely new level.
    Well beyond monkeys and footballs. Beyond donkeys and donnas. Imagination staggering. Old pinnacles have now been peaked. Kudos, Greg.

    ReplyDelete

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