Hourly hotels

There’s nothing like an hourly hotel.  When you walk into such a place, when you greet a clerk and ask if they have a room “for a couple of hours,” it’s an unusual moment:  you’re looking in the eyes of someone, announcing your intention to fuck someone, and asking for their help.  As you ask, the person behind the counter surely is imagining the fucking you’re about to do, seeing you naked, seeing your companion naked.

And then, as you leave, you do so as they gaze at you, enviously, or judgmentally.

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