Warning: this may be our first, and only ever, R-rated blog. So if you’re accustomed to reading our blog to your children, you might want to tell them we just didn’t blog today. If you’re a mature adult reader, not afraid to delve into what goes on in hotel rooms around the world, then read on.
There must be something about hotels. In Saturday’s blog we mentioned in passing that raw oysters are purported to be one of the best aphrodisiacs, but with all the time we’ve spent in hotels the past year we’re pretty certain that the best aphrodisiac is checking into a hotel. Without the kids, of course.
We’ve both endured and enjoyed some interesting episodes through the years. Just a week ago, during a week-long stay in Kissimmee, Florida to visit family and do some house hunting, we had some particularly amorous neighbors. Granted, it was Valentine’s Day. Well, to be precise, it was about 2am that night. Our room was one of those with a door to an adjoining room, and under that door came the unambiguous sounds that passionate human beings make. I’m not talking about ambiguous tap-tap-tap’s or squeak-squeak-squeak’s which, after all, could be any repetitive activity or motion. We’re talking the soundtrack from a seedy, late-night, college-town, drive-in from the 70’s. We’re talking spoken directions, requests, and advice given from one partner to another. We’re talking we should’ve recorded it and sold it online: just the audio track could have made us rich.
We both rolled over with a sigh with their grand finish. But then a little bit later, round two began. We (sort of) laughed it off, but by the end of round two, we were pretty well awake. We attempted to return to sleep, but just as we were dozing off again, round three began.
“Three times?” Lori asked incredulously.
“I’m obviously taking the wrong vitamins,” I replied.
It was with great restraint that we didn’t stand up and cheer with their third, grand finale.
This, our dear reader, is a true story.
The next morning we had to check out. I (Chuck) cheerfully volunteered to fetch coffee and carry luggage to the car, a piece at a time if that’s what it took. I confess I was hoping to catch a glimpse of our neighbors. What, I wondered, did this love god and goddess look like? Is that wrong? I don’t know, but unfortunately I never got that glimpse. They were, obviously, too tired to awaken as early as we did. But–I swear to you, I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to–just as we left our room for the last time, they were starting up again. They were, apparently, “morning people”.
This was a very exceptional situation, but not particularly uncommon. Usually the sounds are discrete and, like we said before, ambiguous. Anyone who’s spent any significant time in a hotel can relate and tell their own stories. The truth is that we probably didn’t want to see who it was in that room next door; quite likely there would have been disappointment or surprise somewhere in the discovery of who it was making those noises. But then again…
One time a few years ago, we used up some free hotel nights we had earned for a weekend in downtown Atlanta. We stayed at a hotel in a historic, turn-of-the-century building. One with paper-thin walls. Late that first night we noticed the tell-tale noises in the room next to us. They weren’t the graphic vocalizations like we heard recently in Kissimmee, just the typical, innocent, barely overheard but unmistakable sort of noises that are surely common in that old hotel. The kind of noises that made us smile at one another and feel just a bit guilty for listening in. The next morning as we got ready for breakfast, we noticed the noises again. We frequently spied through the peephole (ok, ok, Chuck spied through the peephole), but didn’t catch our neighbors leaving their room. We went out for the morning and returned around midday. A few hours later, as we prepared to go out for the afternoon again–you guessed it–we heard the noises again.
This time though, our room exit followed theirs by just enough time for us to inconspicuously spot them as they headed out of the lobby and off for a walk. I’ll only say that we didn’t feel guilty at all: they were obviously happy and in love, and it was heartwarming to see them walk off, hand-in-hand. We’ve faithfully kept their secret ever since.
So, dear readers, particularly our fellow couples, remember when you’re in a hotel room and “the moment” arises (so to speak), to be aware of those thin walls, those adjoining rooms, those neighbors inevitably spying for a glimpse through their peepholes. Speak softly, whisper to one another perhaps, and try not to make the headboard tap, or the box springs squeak, too vigorously.
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