Stella at stelladellasera writes in a recent entry of a brief return to her call girl days, as part of a birthday gift for the lovely Caitlin at kissmecaitlin:

As I suspected, the martinis were already charged to the room, the room was already rented, and Caitie already had the keycards, everything was set. When the whore (me) had been inspected and approved and the negotiations over her Owner-pro-tem’s fees were successfully concluded (Caitie didn’t budge a dollar and she added a fee for miscellaneous non-hole usage), I was handed over to the two distinguished gentlemen and we all headed for the elevator. Michelangelo and Caitie checked the elevator car for security cameras, Caitie knows what to look for. They said it was clean, so they stripped me down to my garter belt and hose in the elevator. The hall was empty and clean too, so they led me down the long hall to the hotel room, naked and collared at the end of my leash. Oh wait, let me just repeat that one lovely line, please! "They led me down the long hall to the hotel room, naked and collared at the end of my leash..." Oh that was so nice to get to say that again! Sigh. The janitors are probably still scrubbing my trail of pussy juice out of the hall carpet, thinking it must be the aromatic nectar of some exotic flower…

There are so many incredibly hot and deliciously wicked things going on in that paragraph--- not the least of which is Caitlin's knowledge of how to check for security cameras. Stella was panty-free--- as lovely girls should always be, although I prefer girls stocking-free as well. I used to love girls in lace-top thigh-highs (garter belts were overdone in the '80s re-discovery of retro-fetish), but these days I prefer the L.A. look on girls--- long, sleek, tanned bare legs and spike pumps. But I'd have spent more time in the elevator asking Caitlin to show me how to sweep for security cameras. I'll never get over my spy-novel/Wm. Gibson dreams. I really won't. [Debauchette at debauchette.wordpress.com--- would Debauchette know how to scan an elevator and disable the security cameras? If not, why not?] Having Stella naked in a hotel corridor is a excellent image, certainly--- a perfect Jeff Dunas colour photo from the early 1980s, or (of course) a Helmut Newton b/w shot. But my focus would've been on the spy-movie skills Caitlin at kissmecaitlin might know...

The line in Stella's paragraph that did evoke a melancholy sigh was the first one, though: As I suspected, the martinis were already charged to the room, the room was already rented, and Caitie already had the keycards, everything was set. I haven't been in a hotel room in ten years, and I've certainly never charged martinis at the hotel bar to my room.

I remember charging things--- late-night sandwiches ---to room service once or twice, but I've never had champagne (Vulva Clickit, always) sent up. And I've certainly never charged martinis at the hotel bar for myself and a lovely courtesan. Well...sometimes the settings and accoutrements of decadence and wicked sex matter more than the sex itself. I might forego the sex if I could just charge the martinis.

Writing about this makes me want to rent "Hitman" from Netflix. Yet another non sequitur in my life. One more mental hyperlink I'll never be able to explain. It also makes me want to re-read Morris West's "Masterclass" and Gibson's "Pattern Recognition". And as the note into my Moleskine says: buy another SpyderCo Delica, buy little Torx screwdriver set, buy fibreglass "CIA Letter Openers". Though none of that will enable me to charge martinis at the hotel bar.

Stella writes:

[Caitlin] walked me arm in arm right past the bartender, who paid us not the slightest attention. He must see enough call girls not to care anymore, I thought. Our booth was around the corner of the L-shaped bar, the most secluded corner in there, and the whole place was still empty, not even a waitress, just the four of us and the bartender. Oh, and the two men in dark suits who were now sitting in the booth...

I don't own a suit.

I've had drinks at the old, pre-modernisation Oak Bar at the Plaza. Drinks with Caterina, actually. But that was a lifetime ago. I've never been to SeaBar at the Mondrian in L.A.--- though I suppose Ms. Flox at besideserato has, and quite possibly Lexie at popartagenda, too... It's not just that I'll never have hotel sex again, it's that I'll never get to charge drinks to my room. I don't know why that matters so much tonight. I know I'll never have an AmEx card again--- not even green, let alone gold or black. I won't be at a hotel bar again. I won't be at home there--- I'd never be able to get a booth and order drinks, with or without a demimondaine.

The vur' fascinating Longitude at Diaryland writes about tent sex on the beach in a tent shell a lover had rigged against the side of his Volvo:

He called to me and when I went to him, he had set up a lean-to using the tent shell and his Volvo. I had to laugh, I mean, it was ridiculous looking. He laughed and gave me a hug.

We lay inside of two sleeping bags. Under the stars, I wanted to kiss. We made out for a while and I took off my clothes. I only remember the tent flaps grazing my back as I moved my hips against his, his eyes looking up at me and me catching the reflection of the moon on the side of his car.

In the morning, I watched dolphins play and hunt.

Camping isn't as fun unless you can have sex under the stars. This is my conclusion.

I always hated camping. I always hated the moment when the outdoors goes dark, when you can't read, when you're stuck there with a campfire and outside climate and whatever is lurking in the dark. I don't do camping. I might spend the night aboard a moored sailboat--- one of the things Ms. Chang enjoys ---but I won't spend time in a tent. I don't do camping. At all. So--- no hotel sex, no tent sex.

Stella at stelladellasera writes:

...I was facing one corner of the bar now and if the bartender came around the corner he would look me right in the face or more likely right in the boobs and cunt and I was shivering a little and I was thinking, "Oh please please please Caitie please know exactly what you are doing here please! If you slip up or miscalculate and get us thrown out of this hotel or they call the cops on us it might ruin the scene for you and please God, and Lucia, do not let that happen to Caitie, and to all of us, PLEASE!"

I probably should have been worrying about getting my own lipsticked little ass thrown in jail for public indecency or soliciting prostitution, but I wasn't thinking about that at all. And then I realized, Wait a minute: Lucia and Michelangelo are here! Nothing will go wrong. Everything has been arranged. Rachel and Caitie (and I) have nothing to worry about. The bartender has probably been bribed to let the scene play out without interference, the waitress has probably been given the night off (or kidnapped), the martini tab has already been charged to the room, of course the room is already paid for and waiting for us, for all I know they've rented the entire hotel for the night and the doors were locked behind us as we came in, everything has been thought of and taken care of and it's all under control. Lucia is here so everything is all right.

That's only a variation on an old joke: a couple in a stagnant marriage decide to spice things up by going to a hotel bar and pretending to be hooker and john, only to find out that the bar is filled with other married couples doing the same thing. (And, yes--- I do suspect that Ms. Chang and her husband will be doing that in Sarasota and Miami bars this summer)

I can't bring myself to eat tonight. I'm too lethargic and bored to either cook or go out. In a better world, I might call room service and order a club sandwich (no cheese, no tomato) and a cold Sapporo Dry.

Mr. Smylie tells me that when he chided the new proprietor of a favourite NYC restaurant for calling the renovated eatery a "steakhouse" rather than a "chophouse", the reply was that no one knew what a chophouse was anymore. Smylie responded that he of course knew the difference, and the answer was that, yes, but Smylie was in the last generation that ever would. That's true--- and depressing. And something that should be taken up at refinement.

Adelie at soft_melodies writes that she re-painted her rooms a buttery cream colour beacuse the shadowy blue of the walls left her a bit melancholy. The walls here in the flat are a vur' deep buttery cream. The walls of my rooms at New Haven were a pale blue. I've forgotten the colours at my father's old house. The bedroom walls must have been an eggshell--- all houses built in the mid-1970s had eggshell walls. It'll be six months this week that I moved here by the lake and the old Spanish fort. Six months, and I'm already forgetting what that house was like. That really does make me sad.

I must ask soft_melodies for stories about being an expat, about the rooms she's lived in, about what made her decide to live abroad, about what made her decide to come home. I must ask her what she'd see there in the mornings from her window...

There's a famous speech from "Johnny Mnemonic"--- Keanu Reeves' "Room Service" speech. I used to be able to quote it by heart. It's something I do agree with; it's a speech I'd give myself. I do wonder if Umi at ivich or Alexandra at grapefruit87 would ever shout it aloud in a hotel bar in NYC...

Alexandra is calling herself Ipsum at Twitter these days. I've missed her, missed her sketches and paintings. She's graduated FIT now--- I do wish her all the success she might desire. She's even living in Williamsburg--- a hip neighbourhood for a design girl. She writes that on the last day of her spring internship she went out at lunch and bought a new vibrator. Again--- not something a male can do. I might have come back with expensive Scotch in my briefcase. I can't do hotel bars, but I suppose I could drink Dalmore or Isle of Jura there at home. (Does Rachel at henceforth still drink Tomintoul?)

Caitlin at kissmecaitlin is a great fan of steak and martinis for lunch. (Porterhouse? I must ask) I need to do a serious steak-and-martini lunch one day soon. Even if that means just making martinis in the galley kitchen while I do a Whole Foods steak. Buy vermouth--- make a note. Lacey would've done a steak-and-martini lunch with me. Lacey was five-eleven--- angular and cachexical and stark-hipboned, but she could eat steak or ribs all night and never gain an ounce. I miss dinner with her. I'd buy Caitlin steak and martinis--- though since Caitlin's the one with the AmEx card, she'd be better placed to buy dinner for me. Well, if she'll teach me how to disable security cameras, I just might spring for veal chops or prime rib.

I was once there at the Oak Bar having drinks. I probably wore a blue-and-white university-stripe tie. I'm not likely to be there again. And I'm not likely ever to be able to charge martinis to my room. I should lament never having hotel sex again, but truth to tell, what I lament is not being able to charge things to my room.