Today, Calico explores the question of whether hotel sex is really hotter than sex at home – and whether the answer might be more individual than universal. Can you really enjoy hotel sex when you’re terrified of the stains on your hotel’s bedsheets, for example?
What if you forget to hang the “do not disturb” sign and find yourself face-to-horrified-face with a mortified maid? Read all about it in Calico’s latest post, “Wait; Hotel Sex Is Better Than Sex At Home?” Read on…
by Calico Rudasill, Sssh.com Porn For Women
I’m a strange person. How do I know I’m a strange person? Other people have been telling me I’m strange, pretty much my whole life.
I don’t mind being strange, though. If anything, I tend to revel in it, or even cultivate my strangeness. I grow and refine it by associating with my fellow weirdos, as well as reading about and observing the behavior of other strange people throughout history.
Being strange is not without its challenges, of course. For example, when you’re strange, not only do faces come out of the rain, but you find yourself confused and befuddled when reading about things which normal people appear to agree upon, but which are totally foreign to you.
One of these generally accepted notions, apparently, is the idea hotel sex is better than sex at home.
What The Hell Is That Pale Yellow Blotch?
The reason for my confusion isn’t that I’ve never had sex in a hotel, or even that I’ve never had good sex in a hotel. It’s just that over the course of my last several hotel sex encounters, the experience has been marred by problems which would just never happen at home.
For example, at home, I know how and why every single stain on each of my sheets, blankets and pillows came into existence.
That sort of light brown smudge near the upper corner of the fitted sheet on my side of the bed? That’s a stubborn old coffee stain which gets refreshed from time to time, because for whatever reason, I have a disturbing tendency to put only about 40% of the base of my coffee cup on the nightstand, leaving the other 60% free to tip toward the bed with reckless abandon.
Hotel sheets, on the other hand… Well, let’s just say if there’s a yellowish, brownish, greenish or in any way semen-reminiscent stain on the bed, I’m not just requesting new bedding, I’m requesting a new room.
Maids, Universal Hotel Key Cards And Bad Timing
Part of my problem with hotel sex boils down to timing, and how mine fails to align with that of typical hotel room cleaning schedules.
I favor late-morning sex – giving me enough time to digest breakfast, then get down to business before getting hungry for lunch. (What can I say? I’m just food-centric like that.)
I also like my sex to have an element of spontaneity and a spur-of-the-moment beginning to it – which means I’m very unlikely to remember to hang the “do not disturb” sign on the doorknob before it’s too late.
Next thing you know, there’s two quick knocks on the door, a sing-song emitting of “hooouse-keeping” and then a middle-aged woman gasping in shock, clutching her chest and making the sign of the cross as she beats a hasty retreat from the room where a bespectacled brunette lunatic is riding some poor man’s face and breathlessly exclaiming “Aw, shit; I forgot the sign again!”
It’s that sort of encounter which can lead to accusations of being an exhibitionist, when the truth is you’re just equal parts absentminded and late-morning horny.
Please understand, I’m not blaming the maids for such occurrences; I freely it has been my fault, every time. I honestly feel quite remorseful about the times this has happened, but I console myself with the knowledge these maids have seen worse – possibly much worse.
You Know What Else Couples Do On Vacation? Fight Like Hell
“Vacations can provide opportunities for couples to self-expand – engage in novel, exciting activities,” said Amy Muise, psychologist and professor of psychology at York University, in the article about why hotel sex is better than sex at home. “This can promote sexual desire, sexual activity and sexual and relationship satisfaction.”
I’m sure this is true, but it’s also true vacation affords couples the opportunity to fight over petty, irritating things like whether they should go to the Museum of Modern Art, or a stupid fucking wine-tasting at Alcatraz, or even (god help me) a San Francisco 49ers game.
Either that, or they’re fighting about how to get back to the hotel, and the related question of when they’re maybe, some damn day, going to join the freaking 21st Century and get a GPS guidance system in this pile of junk he calls a car – or (who knows?) even buy a car manufactured in a year which started with 20 instead of 19.
And if it’s not the car, it’s the still-unsettled question of whether they’re going to bother with so-called “Wine Country,” or just declare California done, for Christ’s sake, and head further up the coast while they still have the fucking time, or it’s… Well, you get the picture.
Granted, make-up sex after such arguments can be quite hot – but for a person with my specific strain of strangeness, I guess it’s only hot on sheets I trust, far away from potentially-mortified maids.
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