Tipping the Chambermaid

Wow, look at this suite! Dirty glasses and plates all over. Tortilla chip crumbs and egg salad stains on the carpet. The bed--a mess, but I won't point fingers. No wonder the maid is reprimanding us and reaching for her feather duster. Yes, it's time to let the chambermaids take over for this last installment of our hot-el sex party in celebration of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

The first chambermaid story I highly recommend is Andrew Wilson's "The Afternoon of a Venetian Chambermaid" in Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, volume 2. I believe I first read this story in Libido or it may have been Scarlet Letters, back when I was a barely published writer, but it's really stayed with me. In spare, but evocative prose, Wilson helps us don a maid's uniform for an intimate tour of Hotel Giorgione as we handle the semen-scented sheets and wiggle our way to a pick-me-up orgasm over a bidet. It's voyeurism at its best and took me right back to the strange and gorgeous decay of modern Venice.

For a more modern taste of the chambermaid with other things on her mind, check out Alison Tyler's "Tightly Tucked," a funny and very sexy story in Do Not Disturb--definitely one of my favorites! Will you recognize yourself in Elian, the hedonist who "uses" hotels in every way he can think of? Or Sophie, who is too busy tsking at the poor maid service to do the naughty things the characters are doing in all the other stories in the anthology? Or maybe you relate to the fair Bella, a chambermaid who shares my bad habit of falling into sailors' dialect a little too easily?

I'll admit I see a little of all three in myself. In the spirit of Elian, I lift all the replaceable hotel swag and gobble up any complimentary fruit baskets or mints on the pillow and love throwing towels on the floor. Like Bella, I swear like a Navy Seal and have freckles. And I also clean up after myself, not as much as Sophie, but I sometimes wonder if the maids tsk at my light footprint, my presence nothing more than a slightly rumpled bed and a dirty novel on the nightstand. Having worked as a "maid" in high school, I don't want someone else to have such an intimate look into my life as I did into theirs--and yes, it's been material for stories. I also do it because some of those maids will re-arrange my stuff, and that creeps me out, too, having someone organize my toiletries in some apparently more proper way.

Bella in Alison Tyler's story would never fuck with my stuff--but that's only one of the reasons I like her. In fact, this party was named in her honor ;-).

Tomorrow--final credits and a big thank you to all who shared wonderful stories and left brilliant comments here at the party in Suite 69. Oh, and help yourself to the pens and notepads. They're on the house!

Banker's Lunch at the Roosevelt Hotel

The party in celebration of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, is winding down in Suite 69. I've so enjoyed peeping into hotel rooms around the world--each day a new vacation, a new indulgence. Before we check out, though, I wanted to share one more naughty scene of my own before the chambermaids take over (believe me, you'll want to hang around discreetly for peek at what they do when no one's looking).

Let's travel back to New York again, the hotbed of so much ambition, so much lust and greed. The financial crisis has brought the titans of Wall Street to its knees, as described most recently and eloquently by Jon Stewart in his interview with "Mad Money" Wall Street shill, Jim Cramer. But sometimes, a banker on his knees isn't such a bad thing, especially when you lure him to a midtown hotel room and take total command. Today's refreshments to accompany this snippet from a "woman in her prime takes charge of her life" tale? Provided solely by the hostess herself, of course. Time for lunch!

From “Banker’s Lunch” by Donna George Storey

The sheets had barely warmed around her in the hotel bed when she heard the soft click of the card key in the slot. The door opened. In another moment her afternoon lover was standing at the foot of the bed, blinking in the dim light, an animal unexpectedly set free from its cage.

“You had something you wanted to discuss?”

She liked the hesitation in his voice. A touch of fear, perhaps? She sat up, giving him a glimpse of the red satin corset. She waited a moment before she spoke, savoring the look of surprise on his face.

“We don’t have to talk at all if you’d prefer silence, Mr. Flynn.”

“I’ll let you decide. It pretty clear you’re the one calling the shots here,” he said. Not that he seemed to mind it.

Lauren smiled. Taylor P. Flynn was right. In bed at home—in her ordinary life--she liked to be dominated, although more and more she chafed at such attempts in other parts of the house. But here she was totally in charge, a woman in the prime of life who knew what she wanted and took it. Selfishly. One day at a time.

She stood and walked over to him, her fingers grabbing the lapel of his jacket as she leaned up to kiss him. The cloth was cool and smooth, yet vaguely irritating to her skin. She resisted the urge to tear at it, pull away the shell to uncover the warmer, more vulnerable skin beneath it. She would defile it—and him--in a different way.

“First I want you to turn off your Blackberry. Then take down your trousers,” she said. “I’m going to suck your cock.”

His eyebrows shot up. At her tone or the brazen abruptness of the request, she wasn’t sure, but he went for his zipper without protest. She watched as he stepped out of his trousers and boxers, privately delighting in the fact he was already hard. For her. Which was foolish because penises were notoriously impersonal in their loyalties. His cock would stand to attention for any female in a red corset, no doubt, his admin, a prostitute.

“Don’t take off the jacket yet.”

He stopped, hands on his lapels, and immediately dropped his arms to his side as if to await her next command.

She knelt to take his bobbing erection in her mouth. It tasted…different. Faintly bitter, smelling like money, and yet it was a flavor she craved. It was the first time she’d ever sucked off a man wearing a jacket and tie and the perversity of it spurred her on to a new vigor, lapping and circling the head with her tongue, gripping the base with her hand and she swallowed him and began to hum.

“Jesus,” he whispered, his hand, the one with the wedding band, stroking her hair.

She pulled away. “Do you like that?”

“Yes. Very much.” His hand brushed the corset. “I like this. Where did you get it?”

She sat back on her heels and gazed up at him. He towered over her, and by all rights, it should have been a submissive position, but, oddly, it didn’t feel that way today.

“No questions from you, Mr. Flynn. Just answers. Are you telling me that you are glad you took time off from your esteemed job at one of our nation’s finest banks to do naughty things with a hussy like me?”

“I can’t deny it,” he replied, his lips twitching.

“Then we’ll proceed. Take off your jacket. Not the shirt or the tie. I want you wearing them while we fuck.”

His brow creased in a faint frown. Naturally a fastidious banker would be worried about a mess on his nice, proper uniform.

“I won’t get them dirty. Just a bit of pussy juice on the shirttails maybe, but you can tuck those into your trousers. You won’t mind a little souvenir of me, will you?”

A smile playing on his lips, he shook his head obediently and took off his jacket, tossing it over the desk chair.

“Good boy. Before you put it inside, though, I want you to lick me. With proper deference. Get on your hands and knees, please.”

The smile shifted back to surprise, but he did as he was told.

Lauren sat at the edge of the bed and parted her legs. The garter straps tightened over her thighs, dark against her pale skin. “Come here. Let’s see how wet you can make me.”

His cheeks were flushed now as he crawled the three steps to her, his tie dragging on the carpet. If only the bank president could see him now.

Positioning himself between her thighs, he looked up, as if for a sign to begin. Lauren nodded. His tongue darted out, teasing her clit with quick little flicks. But this felt strange, too. New.
She closed her eyes. She had to get past the strangeness, the chill of this anonymous room, the unusual position, the glint of bright noon sun peeking through the window. Afternoon used to be her favorite time to do it, before her daughter was born. How many times had she wanted just this, a banker licking her twat for lunch?

Sexy Hotels and a Taste of "Room Service"

I just wanted to mention that another juicy bit of excerpt from "Room Service," my story in Do Not Disturb is up on Rachel Kramer Bussel's blog along with some of my musings on sexy hotels around the world, my favorite part of a hotel room for erotic encounters, and other hot-el related secrets.

Check-in time is now, baby!

“Room Service” at Nobilis Erotica

I have exciting hot-el sex news of an intimate, purr-in-your-ear sort today! My story “Room Service” which concludes Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, is now available as a professional podcast over at Nobilis Erotica. Diva Diane, a trained operatic soprano, reads my story. Her silky voice brings the perfect soupcon of humor and plenty of sultry spice to the presentation. She does a fantastic job! (Our next stop, Carnegie Hall?)

Japanese Love Hotel Quickie

Since travel and hotels are the theme at Sex, Food and Writing right now, I thought I’d let you know about my article on Japan’s love hotels that was recently posted over at the Do Not Disturb blog. As you might expect from a country that values form as much as content, no-tell motels in the Land of the Rising Sun have a style and whimsy all their own.

Thanks to Jeremy Edwards for inspiring me to put a humorous spin on this trip into the realm of rent-by-the-hour sexual hideaways. Will you be a winner in the Love Hotel Madness Game? Give it a try—maybe you’ll get lucky!

Indeed, I got lucky today with a story idea after my trip to a salon for my first Brazilian wax job. Or rather Venezuelan wax job... but best to let inspiration simmer before I bare all!

Hotel Sex Goes to the Movies

Our suite 69 bash is in full swing, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our tales so far. Now, in honor of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, and its provocative trailer, I thought we might discuss the topic of hotel sex in the movies. I expected this subject might be difficult to narrow down to bloggable proportions, but actually I discovered my choices were easy. Although there are plenty of movies with suggestive (or explicit) hotel sex scenes, two in particular epitomize the special magic of hotel eroticism for me.

The first is a classic of American film-making, The Graduate (1967). Coincidentally, I just happen to have finished a fascinating book called Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood by Mark Harris. Harris discusses the making of the best picture nominees for 1967: Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, In the Heat of the Night, and Doctor Doolittle. The last movie was an absurdly expensive turkey, the rest did indeed represent some aspect of a shift in American film in the mid twentieth century. Although some of the book dragged for me, especially the deals of the excruciating road to production, once the casting started, I was enthralled.

And of course, don’t we all love those little behind-the-scenes tidbits such as the fact that Katharine Ross damaged Dustin Hoffman’s eardrum during the multiple takes of the scene where she slaps him in the Berkeley boarding house? Apparently she wasn’t slapping hard enough and director Mike Nichols had to goad her along. Hoffman later discovered the reason his ear was stinging when he slipped under water in his scuba-diving gear and felt his head explode. When he got out of the water, blood was pouring from his ear.

And then there was the eye-opening insight about Nichols’ initially unacknowledged personal investment in the movie. His choice of Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin was a mystery to all, even himself, in spite of the actor’s outstanding screen test, which showed a brilliance that did not reveal itself until the film was developed. The Benjamin in the novel was a blond WASP, meant for the likes of Robert Redford.

“My unconscious was making this movie,” [Nichols said]. “It took me years before I got what I had been doing all along—that I was turning Benjamin into a Jew…Who was the Jew among the goyim? And who was forever a visitor in a strange land? […] Part of me knew what I was doing in terms of the outsider and so forth, but another part of me, a part that I had no inkling of, must have known that I would never get material so suited to me again.” (PAR, p. 319-320) By the way, Nichols also directed Carnal Knowledge, which makes my top ten favorite movie list.

But, of course, we can’t forget those wonderful scenes at the “Taft Hotel” actually filmed at The Ambassador in LA, which was soon to be demolished. Did you know that there was a deliberate attempt to dress Mrs. Robinson in animal skin patterns to highlight her predatory nature? Or that Hoffman and Bancroft had to spend days in bed filming the scene where Benjamin attempts to talk to Mrs. Robinson before they have sex?

Perhaps it is best just to close our eyes and remember the scenes in the hotel room. Mrs. Robinson dressing as Benjamin lies in bed staring blankly. The time he kisses her when her lungs are full of cigarette smoke. The hilariously uncomfortable scene in the hotel bar where he can’t wave down a waiter, but she manages it with a snap of her fingers.
But there’s another film that epitomizes hotel eroticism to me, this one a rather obscure French film, Benoît Jacquot’s La Fille seule (A Single Girl, 1996). Since I discovered Ingmar Bergman in eighth grade, I’ve been a fan of foreign films. I love how they subvert my Hollywood expectations, how they trick my eye and best of all, how they make me think about film-making and life itself as art. La Fille Seule is cinema verité, filmed with a hand-held camera, defiantly undramatic. For most of the movie, you watch Virginie Ledoyen’s shapely derriere as she walks down the corridor of a Parisian four-star hotel delivering café au lait and baguettes to the guests. Naturally, she walks in on some interesting scenes. A “small” film ala French New Wave that is now out of print with its distributor, it’s a movie that’s never left me since I saw it about ten years ago. Here's a Youtube clip:



It took some doing to find it again and I have to credit Herr Doktor with discovering the winning key words for Google: French movie, hotel worker, handheld. Now he finally can receive his own Amorous Woman bra and panty set as his fitting reward!

But enough about me. Do you have favorite hotel sex scenes from the movies? While we’re sharing, help yourself to cocktails from the Taft Hotel and baguettes with sweet butter, plum confiture, and café au lait from Paris….

Steamy Inspiration from a Famous Japanese Inn

Jeremy Edwards got us started off right yesterday with his very naughty postcards, but I've got an amazing line-up of wonderful writers who are going to give up a peep into some hot-el action over the next two weeks. Thank you, everyone, for stopping by suite 69!

Ah, I see the sushi platter I ordered has arrived, so please help yourselves--it goes great with champagne--while I sift through some old postcards of my own to celebrate the publication of Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

For my money, the traditional Japanese inn provides the ultimate hotel experience. More than a place to spend the night, it offers a complete escape from the restraints of everyday life, inviting sensual indulgence of every kind. The moment you arrive, you shed your clothes for a soft cotton robe that allows for free and easy movement. The first order of enjoyment is always a nice long soak in the inn’s large bath, followed by a feast of a dinner, more bathing and then, depending on your company, a feast of another sort on the thick, soft futons.
I’ve stayed in many delightful inns throughout Japan, but one particular place stands above the rest. The beautiful Chojukan at Hoshi Onsen has hosted famous writers, including Nobel Prize Winner Kawabata Yasunari, whose photograph takes a place of honor in the lobby. I’m sure the management is not aware they’ve hosted another far humbler writer who draws apparently constant inspiration from their mountain hostel. For indeed the beautiful nineteenth century bath at Chojukan inspired at least five erotic stories: “Hot Spring,” my Pushcart Special Mention story; “Spring Pictures” in the Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4, “Wet” in Best Women’s Erotica 2008, a Playboy Cyberclub story that I’ve sold all rights to forever throughout the universe, and the scene in Amorous Woman where Lydia has an enlightening encounter with an anthropology professor in the very same steamy water.

Here’s how I describe the setting in my novel: The soaring cross-beamed ceiling, glowing pedestal lanterns, and swimming pool-sized cedar tub brought to mind the cathedral of a cult that worshipped both purity and indulgence.

Perhaps one day, Chojukan will post these words in their lobby, but until then here’s a purely indulgent snippet from “Wet.” In this scene, the American narrator, a fan of Japanese-style ablutions and fantasies involving the same, tricks her Japanese boyfriend into an impromptu lesson after midnight by the glowing lamplight of Chojukan’s grand co-ed bath.

From "Wet" (read the entire story at The Erotic Woman):

I think that’s when he finally got it, because in two long strides he was at my side, grabbing my arm and hauling me back to the faucet. With a downward tug, he forced me to my knees. He quickly filled the wooden basin with steaming water and splashed it over my chest and shoulders. I cried out softly. Kneeling behind me, he wrapped his arms around me, but it was more a punishment than an embrace.

I don’t think I’d ever been so turned on in my life.

“I will wash you now,” he whispered.

“Yes. Teach me how. I’m dirty,” I confessed in a low voice. “My breasts, they’re very dirty. Maybe you have to scrub hard.”

“Is that so?” There was no doubt now he’d caught on to the game. “Why are they so dirty?”

“I let a man kiss them and suck them.”

“Yes, then I think you are very dirty.” He took the bar of soap and began to rub the flat side over my nipples. Pin-pricks of pleasure shot straight to my pussy. A beguiling combination of smooth and hard, it was even better than my fantasy.

“What about between your legs?” he murmured.

“Yes. It’s very dirty. I let a man…take me…from behind.”

“That is dirty. Like an animal. I must clean you there very well.” He picked up the washcloth, draped it over his fingers and pressed it between my pussy lips. His movements were subtle--firm, slow circles over my clit--but the flesh there was already swollen and sore from the earlier fucking. I had to grit my teeth to bear it, but I also found myself pushing into his hand with small rocking motions to intensify the sensation.

“Spread your legs a little. Now we will rinse.” He took a basin of steaming water and splashed it vigorously over my slit. It streamed down my thighs, mingling with my juices. My cunt was on fire, my skin a throbbing scarlet hue. When I imagined how it would go, I was hoping this part would last an hour, but now I wanted him inside me so badly I was shaking.

(It goes on from there, but sometimes not getting exactly what you want can be...exactly what you want!)

Tomorrow--a sneak preview of Craig Sorensen's novel....

Postcards from Jeremy Edwards

Mardi Gras is the perfect day to begin our party in sumptuous suite 69! Our first raconteur is the delightful Jeremy Edwards, who's confessed his own hotelphilia in private to me and in public to the world in so many steamy stories set in rented lodgings. But don't take my word for it--here's Jeremy!

The quiet elegance and modest luxury of a boutique hotel are so sexually stimulating for me. To my eye, the decor of a simply but artistically appointed hotel room is like a set of lingerie—there’s not much there, but every thoughtful detail is aesthetically pleasing. A cozy, attractive hotel room is a favorite place to rock the bed with my delicious wife ... and a favorite place to dip into a crisp, new volume of erotica. And I don’t mind admitting that it’s also a favorite masturbation setting for me. The exquisite private space within a cheerful public building; the pleasure-focused mindset of a vacation environment; and the inevitable thoughts of all the sexy women in other rooms and other buildings ... on sidewalks and subway platforms and in bedrooms and bathtubs ... it all makes me relish every moment with a special tingliness, and makes me want to dance with cosmopolitan ecstasy in the charming afternoon hotel-room light.

[“Architectural Photography,” posted at Alison Tyler’s blog]

Oh, that was the hotel in Phoenix, with the cartoonish turrets. I remember gazing down on the courtyard from our window while you hugged me from behind, frigging your bush against my buttocks and teasing my backbone with your nipples. You humped me like that till my erection pointed skyward; then you held it. I think you must have put your other hand between your legs, because as you stroked me off the sound of your breath became dense. I could smell your heat.

That one is from Chicago. Don’t be fooled by the size of the building: as you may recall, the entire block was composed of one immense complex, of which our hotel was only a sliver. There was barely room for the obligatory revolving door. Looking at this picture, what I really see is you with your ass in the air, your knees sinking into the super-soft mattress we had. That night, I went around and around in the revolving door between your thighs.

The picture next to it is the place we stayed at in Boston, of course—when they were in the middle of restoring the façade. Look how the painted-on tulips appear to be gradually resaturating from left to right! The shower in that hotel was a perfect aquatic sex-nest, just large enough for two to squeeze, really squeeze, together, without banging against the soap caddy. The steam enveloped us, and I could see it floating right into your pussy. I followed the steam.

***

[from “Pack the Essentials,” published at Oysters & Chocolate]

When I awoke in our sunny hotel room, my wife was reading a travel guide in a large, comfortable armchair, her bare feet together on the seat and her knees bent out from her body. Seated in this position, wearing a minidress, she was giving me an intimate view. Her narrowly clothed crotch took center stage, framed by the creamy curtain of her thighs and the cushion of her bottom. I noticed how the slim gusset of her lavender panties lay clingingly in the center of her slit, leaving the outer parts of her femininity visible. The lewd effect was crowned by the cute straw sun hat she had put on, in preparation for the day’s tourist activities.

As morning consciousness pushed out the haze of sleep, I remembered how our evening had begun. “Are you busy?” she had called to me from the bed, while I made some notes at the neat little hotel-room desk. “Because I was hoping you might come over here and kiss all the invisible hairs on my bottom. I’m situated just right, see?” Her eyes had lit up her otherwise impassive face as she gracefully flipped the back hem of her short, silk dressing gown to reveal the soft curves of her naked cheeks. They were radiant with anticipated delight. I had approached her and watched her derriere wriggle in a brief, involuntary spasm of pleasure. Her slight lime underpants, which she had peeled down silently while I had been absorbed in my work, nestled politely on the carpet at the foot of the bed. A minute later, I was feasting on her, watching the flesh of her hills drink every squeeze, every playful little slap, every tiny kiss; and seeing her roll into each titillation of our bedside feather up and down the sensuous crack.

Party With Me in Suite Amour!

Hotel rooms turn me on. The blankness, the anonymity, that big bed begging you to strip off its tacky flowered spread and indulge in sensual excess. It’s not just me. I’ve found things in my travels: European porn with captions in four languages stuffed in a phone book, a single black stocking behind a chair.

So begins my story "Room Service," the last steamy tale in Rachel Kramer Bussel's very sexy new anthology Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories.

The truth is hotel rooms do turn me on. And I did find European porn stuffed in a phone book in a hotel room in Brussels. The Omni in Baltimore had the single black stocking behind the chair. Other parts of my story are autobiographical, too. I find the sight of a man click-clicking at a mouse suggestive. I daydream about the people who've had sex in my hotel bed before me. As for the rest of the action in "Room Service," well, I'll let you decide what's real and what's fantasy....

Speaking of fantasies, another one of mine is to rent a lovely suite in a grand city hotel, hire sexy bartenders, pop open magnums of champagne, and party on into the night with my fellow storytellers, dancing, talking, nibbling on room service treats. The great thing about the blogosphere is that fantasies can become virtual reality and so I'd like to invite you all to party with me in Suite Amour, overlooking the lovely San Francisco Bay.

While we eat and drink, we'll talk about hotels as a setting for sensual indulgence of every sort, rather like a modern-day, hotel-happy Decameron. Share your fiction and memories of hotel romps, recommendations for places to stay for a romantic weekend or a down-and-dirty lunchtime rendezvous. Tell us about your favorite hotel scenes in classic novels or what turns you on about hotel sex. Email your stories to me and I'll post them here for all to enjoy as we empty the mini-bar and ignore the pounding from the room next door (it's not annoyed neighbors trying to sleep, it's an inspired couple doing the mattress dance, right?)

Join me tomorrow when everyone's favorite effervescent MC Jeremy Edwards stops by with some naughty hotel stories to share. Be there or you won't get any mints on your pillow!

Smokin' Hot "Do Not Disturb" Trailer

The spicy Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories is just now available on Amazon, but I already got my contributor's copy and I have to say this is a particularly smokin' HOT anthology and I'm very jazzed to be part of it. I have a few goodies planned to celebrate the release of the book right here at Sex, Food and Writing (all good things to pursue in hotel rooms), but in the meantime, editor Rachel Kramer Bussel has just released the book trailer and it's very provocative in the best kind of way. Or pop on over to the book's special blog for more information.

Enjoy your stay!