Fun_People Archive
17 Feb
The Further Adventures of Sweetie -- Hotels

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From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Thu, 17 Feb 100 01:16:00 -0800
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Subject: The Further Adventures of Sweetie -- Hotels

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THE HOTEL ROOM
By P.S. Wall (Off the Wall) (February 28, 1999)

I would suggest that he invite her to meet him at his hotel room, but
somehow I suspect he's not up to it.

"Who is it?" he asks through the door.

"It's your dream come true," I say.

While almost every couple we know has split, Sweetie and I have somehow
maintained the magic in our relationship.  When people ask me our secret,
I tell them it can be summed up in two words -- hotel room.

Sweetie is in Cincinnati on business and I'm meeting him for a night of
romance.  My lips are glossed, and all I'm toting is a teddy and a
toothbrush.

"What do you want?" he asks coyly.

"Sweetie," I purr, "I want you."

Sensing I'm not alone, I glance over my shoulder.  A man with an ice
bucket is watching me.  Winking his approval, he gives me a thumbs-up.

Spurred on by crowd endorsement, I lick my lips, toss my hair and pucker
seductively at the peephole.

"Have we met?" Sweetie asks mysteriously.

"I like a man who plays hard to get," I tell the ice bucket man with a
shrug.  "Come on, Sweetie, let me in."

"Not on your life," he says.

By now I've attracted a small but very attentive crowd in the hallway.

"Honey, he's got somebody in there," a woman in curlers and a chenille
bathrobe says.  Rolling an accusing glare toward her sheepish husband,
she lets out a little growl.  "Trust me, I know!"

Sensing my inexperience in these matters, the curler woman takes charge.

"Stand back," she says, pushing me aside.

Taking a running start, she rams the door, and every light in the hotel
flickers.

"Let us in," she yells, "or I swear I'll gnaw my way through like a
beaver!"

"I'm calling security!" Sweetie squeals.

Except for that time I accidentally slammed the freezer on Sweetie's fly
while he was digging for Haagen Dazs, I can't ever recall his hitting a
note quite this high.

Raising up on tiptoe, I glare into the peephole.  Other than an
occasional red-eye morning, Sweetie has brown eyes.  The eye peering
back at me is a terrified green.

"You're not Sweetie!" I say.

"Lady, I don't even touch sugar," the quivering voice says.  "I have a
family history of diabetes."

Pulling out my phone, I punch Sweetie's mobile number in like a frantic
woodpecker.

"Where are you?" I demand.

The crowd waits with baited breath as I bite my lip and listen.  "Right
room," I announce, pushing the antennae in, "wrong hotel."

As the grumbling crowd disperses, the sheepish husband trots eagerly
behind his fuming wife's chenille coattail.  "Honey, I swear," he
pleads, "she was the maid."

"Well, sorry about that," I say to the peephole.

"I have shooting pains down my left arm," he mumbles.

After all that I've put him through, I hate to just desert the poor guy.

"You here on business?" I chat, leaning against the door frame.

"My wife kicked me out of the house," he sighs.  "She says the magic has
gone out of our relationship."

I would suggest that he invite her to meet him at his hotel room, but
somehow I suspect he's not up to pulling the rabbit out of the hat.

Copyright 1999 P.S. Wall.  All rights reserved.
http://www.uexpress.com/ups/funandgames/ow/archive/ow19990228.html

© 2000 Peter Langston