(History Favors) Loving Strangers
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom
(History Favors) Loving Strangers
July 13, 2008, Salt Lake City, UT:
I spend a lot of time in motel rooms.
Roadside, big neon signs that flash VACANCY almost always, an OFFICE next to Room 1A.
Most don’t know the time of day and have never heard of the word “concierge.” Some got swimming pools, and quite a few ‘ve got vibrating beds. “Quarters available at the change machine next to the ice box” one once read—it didn’t matter that night, because we made use of practically every other piece of furniture in the room—the dresser with the mirror, the little round table, the arm chair, the bathroom sink and window sill.
When they’ve only got headboards that you can hold on to, I use the bed frame posts instead. Old and worn sheets stolen from other motel linen closets strip rather easily and make great soft tethers; the ripping sound is especially titillating if you blindfold them first.
I particularly like when the chamber maids get involved. I’m turned on by the ones that wear the little black uniforms with the aprons on the front, they always remind me of the dollies that my grandmother used to have on all her coffee tables. White shirts and skirts are pretty nice too though.
I like it when their hair is pulled back; I enjoy pulling pigtails, and I love it when they squeal.
One time we jumped naked in the pool with one of them right after midnight. She happened to be the night manager too—“Owners actually live in another town,” she said as she hurriedly took off her clothes. “They call a couple of times a week, but usually come out only once a month, especially if its slow, like now.”
The bed didn’t get many quarters that summer night. We watched the sunrise at poolside instead, and then we all went back to the one room with the king size bed and slept till noon. It was so hot we slept naked, on top of the sheets, on top of each other, with the door wide open for the world to see how wonderful life truly is.
Never did see Maria or Sandy ever again, but I certainly do think of them often.
I fondly remember how Maria had a smile that said, “Suddenly, I feel free as a bird,” and how she excitedly told us “I’ve been working here for four years now and I’ve never been skinny dipping before!”
Sandy, on the other hand, who I had just met at the local bar down the street, seemed like she had been swimming naked all her life.
It was just a feeling though, never got to know her much beyond her name; didn’t even know if she was living there or a just another vagabond like me, just passing through other people’s humdrum lives, sometimes shaking things up a bit, if only because you know it’ll make life a wee bit more exciting for them.
I suppose I could fly more often, for it certainly would get me where I’m going a lot faster.
Alas, these days the stewardesses just keep getting older, uglier and fatter—or gay. So, that’s just one of the many reasons that I prefer to drive.
Besides, cocktail waitresses, diner wenches and lonely housewives rifling through glossy magazines at the local Stop-and-Shop are almost always far prettier and quite willing. Odds are far better too.
Admittedly, I don’t know why, but I’m still surprised by how easy it all is sometimes.
Guess, when you live in the city and you’re a rambling man like me—always on the road, rarely a spare moment to think about how damned bored I would otherwise be—you don’t realize how boring life is for everyone else.
Half of the time, I’m not even trying, but there’s just this gleam in their eye, that certain sparkle, that inspires you to set them free, to set them on fire. This is especially true, when they make the first move—pretending to check out the potato chips, when all they really came in for was a pint of ice cream, The Enquirer and a box of tampons. And you can just tell by the way they shuffle that they have a whole lot of frustration pent up inside and that they’re ready to spontaneously let it all out during one long evening with you.
That’s why living a life of ennui—one of stability, security, predictability and utter boredom—just doesn’t make any sense to me.
I’ve learned that sometimes the solution to all the world’s problems lies in a little bit of loving. Which is why, when you travel as much as I do, you’ve got to let a stranger love you every once in a while—just a nice and easy night together, no wondering “What if?,” no strings attached, no emotional baggage to handle.
This is why, when I go somewhere I’ve never been before, I never waste my time being a tourist. Because I know, unlike the statues and the stories and the legends, the local attractions for me are very much alive and often feeling alone in the world, much like me.
Besides, why would I want to read about the tall tales of others when I can assuredly weave some pretty interesting yarns of my own?
“The "timeless" men are those who make history, for history can be made only by those who are not floating with the stream. It is only those who are unconditioned by time who have real value, and whose productions have an enduring force.”
This story is fictional. R&O thank you for the inspiration)