I love so many things about hotel rooms. To me they are a blank canvas that is asking to be written on. There is no laundry to be done, no dishes to be washed. You don’t have to clean the toilet, change the sheets, shine the mirrors or vacuum the floor. You have paid for someone else to do all that for you.
A hotel room is for a brief period of time your space to exist in. You can read, watch TV, take a bath or a shower. You can walk around naked. You can use as many tissues as you like and all the towels and you can fuck or masturbate to your heart’s and schedules content.
I love those crisp white sheets and the big plumped up pillows. The best ones are where the bed looks like a giant white cloud just waiting to embrace you in its comfortable hold. It is there to be used, to be rumpled and crumpled beneath you and them. For a time it is your bed and the best way of marking it as such is to use it for pleasure, shared or alone, both count, although in my experience shared is especially joyous.
When you share that space it becomes home to your intimacy, it is a witness to the moments you share. It holds all those secrets of the lovers who were there before you and you know once you are gone it will keep your secrets too. Even though the sheets smell of you when you leave it will soon be restored to a blank canvas ready for the next person who will never know what you did there, or with whom, which is probably for the best because it was utterly filthy and just thinking about it makes you want to touch yourself.
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