Room 621

Of course Chakira was gone by the time I got back to my suite. Not even a note. Not that I'd really expected one. Well, maybe a little. But any disappointment was quickly made up for by the wonderful service the hotel's staff provided for the rest of my stay. Helped along by an exquisite four course meal from the hotel's three star restaurant served up in my room by two tuxedoed waiters.

It wasn't until I checked out that I realized the entire bill had been taken care of by some else. Erik, perhaps. I would never know. And of course, I'd never heard from Chakira again. Even though, I'd left my business card for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many months later, after I'd met the man whom I would eventually marry. In no small part for his magical ability to always get special treatment everywhere. A prized table at a booked up hot-spot. Center court seats for the Wimbledon finals. First class upgrades without even asking. House seats on the aisle at a sold-out West End run. When our relationship got to the point where I was able to share my affection for X-rated videos and not feel embarrassed about it, I asked him to rent something for a Friday night. But instead of coming home with the latest silicone-valley fuckfest, he announced he had gotten hold of "something special." A friend of a friend. "Not for sale through normal channels."

We settled in on the couch, my head resting on his chest. The video starts. He tells me that there are four or five different scenes on the tape. Obviously a hotel suite somewhere, shot with an artfully hidden camera. Probably behind a full length mirror judging from the well-dressed man adjusting his tie. Talking over his shoulder to a slender Asian woman sitting on a pretty Louis XVI couch. The yellow, damask pillow looking strangely familiar.

© 2004 Steffen Andrews. All Rights Reserved.