A Hotel Room with a Stranger.

She frequently cursed in silence. The day of his arrival,
as they entered the hotel room she cursed the cigarette smelling room, cursed
the view, cursed the broken promises. A day passed and not much had changed. Water  fell like meteors on her fragile and petite figure, it was hot and fast to
rinse off her worries, he checked his e-mail in the next room of the hotel. She
came out of the shower, dressed in a towel, feeling slightly more comfortable by
his company. She relaxed. Cars sped through the highway like wishing stars; she
stood by the oversized window, hair dripping, naked under the towel, barefooted.
Finally all thoughts were blocked by ideas, she wanted him to edit the story
she had worked on weeks before. They were finally to do this  together, as she sat on his lap. It was then that her attraction awakened,  literary conversations indulged her in his world. She gave him a broad smile and  briefly touched her lips to his.

His leg cramped, she lied in bed listening to his typing,  opening her eyes to look at him, closing them to think, opening them again to inspect  his expression. He was always so serious, even when he was happy, when he was admiring and fondling her his expression was endlessly focused, as if overwhelmed  by such unusual beauty. He came to her side, his hands reached down dryly in  between her legs, but there was nothing, no response, for all emotions had been drained from her. They were stubborn, unable to see that they did not belong to  the same book shelf, the same lives, the same time, the same world. She wanted  the urgent and merciless slamming of bodies against a rough floor or strict wall, the weakness of the legs, and the hopeless pleasure that came from being  with a man whose masculinity overpowered all else. She wanted to feel the  helplessness of being touched beyond expectations, the intimacy after the euphoria,  the kisses, the touch, the feel. She wanted the things he could not offer, things  that were unattainable, a character that was not formed in his being. He was so  careful and ever so gentle, slow, yet quick to detach.


2 Comments to “A Hotel Room with a Stranger.”

  1. It’s intriguing to no end, this idea of masculinity–much like a stereotype. Perhaps I’ve read incorrectly or maybe I’m perplexed by this seeking dominance by the female character. One minute men are expected to be gentle, sensitive, understanding–yet there’s an unspoken expectation on men to ravage women in the bedroom. Then there are the times when men actually set out to do just that and the women pull away as if in shock. The wires, in my opinion, tend to cross consistently but also inconsistently until we men have no clue as to what is up and what is down. Simply one of those mysteries, I suppose, an universal question such as: Why? Your writing keeps me moving from one line to the next. There aren’t many who can do that for me. Enjoying the words, keep writing them down.

    • It all depends on the people one is handling with. Those are the times when I wish men and women would lay out the cards to what their expectations are. Yes, women want someone to be gentle, and sensitive, but you’d be surprised to how many of us would prefer a man who takes control. The tenderness and fondling would be mostly preferred after the performance. But over all, it’s as confusing for men as it is for women, especially when there’s a stereotype cast on us that keep us from really lying out the things we want done to our bodies. I hope this made sense to you. Thank you for the feedback!

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