For a moment my sexual fantasy jumped on top of me. Well, not exactly my sexual fantasy, more an approximation of the Platonic form of my sexual fantasy. Not much has changed from boyhood to manhood. As a young boy I would sit in front of the television and stare relentlessly at the scrambled playboy channel spotting out any nipple, areola, and breast shape. My imagination undoubtedly saw more of what I wasn’t supposed to see than my eyes ever did. In the suburbs, my eyes were limited to shrubbery and wooden fences, and rarely did I sneak a peek into another window so upon my first trip as an adolescent male to New York City, staying in a high-rise hotel, I hoped against hope as all young men do, that in the building adjacent I would gaze at a beautiful woman walking around naked in her apartment. Of course such fantasies never play out according to plan and instead, shadows and lights became silhouettes of my wildest dreams and I could almost convince myself that I actually saw something. And then the sunlight cracks over the horizon revealing that silhouette to be a floor lamp and an end table.
The older I got the more I understood it was fantasy for a reason, none of my fantasies would ever really happen, but I still entertained them nonetheless. In my early twenties I worked at a luxury hotel on the beach which attracted a plethora of beautiful women for weekend trips to San Diego for the nightlife and the beach. Like all bellman, I had the cliche fantasy of knocking on a door to assist a guest, and as the door opens, an exotic model pulls me inside and throws me on the bed as she rips her clothes off. I never expected anything of the sort to happen. My social and flirtatious nature got me invited on many occasions to have a few drinks in their rooms, or to meet at a bar after I got off, but I always maintained the position of not defecating where I was poorly paid.
One late afternoon of a Friday shift a black town car pulled up and I opened the door to assist the guest in checking in. A woman, who looked to be in her early forties, stepped out in a white dress. She had nothing with her but a few items on hangers. She was slightly overweight with long black hair and pale skin. She walked towards the front desk with the eagerness of a woman on vacation alone and getting away from it all. I hung her clothes up on the bell cart and escorted her to the front desk. Even though she could have carried her few item up to the room herself, she insisted that I assist her. After showing her to her room and hanging up her clothes in the closet, she asked, “What is there to do here at night?”
“well ma’am, this is Pacific Beach, there’s plenty of bars within walking distance.”
“Which ones do you recommend?”
That question is one that can be answered in many different ways. Because she appeared to be older than myself, I suggested bars that would be more appropriate for her age range.