Fun_People Archive
17 Feb
The Further Adventures of Sweetie -- Hotels
Content-Type: text/plain
Mime-Version: 1.0 (NeXT Mail 3.3 v118.2)
From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Thu, 17 Feb 100 01:16:00 -0800
To: Fun_People
Precedence: bulk
Subject: The Further Adventures of Sweetie -- Hotels
X-Lib-of-Cong-ISSN: 1098-7649 -=[ Fun_People ]=-
X-http://www.langston.com/psl-bin/Fun_People.cgi
Forwarded-by: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Forwarded-by: Keith Sullivan <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
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