The Plaza

The Plaza

Billy’s room is a huge suite that looks like a modest sized NYC apartment. There’s a proper little foyer, a living area, and four doors concealing two closets, a bathroom and bedroom. The kitchenette is full of snacks, drinks, even a fresh bowl of exotic fruits. Replica Monet’s paint the wall, all gilded in gold accents, over gold and cream striped wallpaper, molten gold lava erupts over all the furniture and finishing. Bill leaves his keys, wallet, cellphone, a box of mints and crumpled receipts on top of a desk, also accented with gold knobs and borders. He takes his briefcase with him into one of the doors, the bedroom, and closes it halfway. 

I plop myself on the couch by the phone and grab on the phone’s receiver, then slam it down hard. “Shit.”

“What?” he calls from out the doorway

 “I don’t know any of my friends phone numbers.” Of course not, no one remembers anything anymore, they just google it.  

“That’s ok sweetie,” Bill answers from the bedroom,” We’ll have a party, just the two of us.” 

He walks into the living room looking very relaxed, filled with innumerable certainties, as if he’s just crafted a master plan. He seats himself right next to me, places one hand on my knee and asks me to call room service. 

“Tell ‘em to bring up two bottles of Dom P.” 

“What about the steaks? I’m starving” I salivate through sucked teeth. 

“I like my girls skinny.” He snarks. I’m in his territory now, his rules. Put off by his new attitude but up for a challenge, I submissively do as I’m told and call room service, a little champagne won’t hurt.

Billy puts his arm around me to make me comfortable or uncomfortable, I’m not sure, then he starts drunk analyzing “Sometimes things don’t go according to planned Maria. See, I didn’t plan on meeting you tonight and I don’t think you planned on your boyfriend sleeping with his secretary. Some would call this fate or even destiny. What a load of horseshit. Not me baby, I call this opportunity. Sometimes there’s an opportunity staring right at you and it’s up to you to decide what you’re gone do with it. That’s what this whole life is about, OP-OR-TU-NI-TY.’ His boozy breath steams my pores. He stares abstractedly out the window, thinking over his next move. 

“Good thing for you, I know how to improvise. You see, I take the hand life deals me and I pull a joker card out, every time. I always win. That’s my plan. I don’t care about details or business plans or schedules and maps, no mam not my style. All I want to do is win and I always do Maria. I always win.” At this last sentence he menacingly peeps my gaze, I quickly look down at my hands. The doorbell rings, saved.

I’m quick to answer the door; Billy finally lands a slap on my ass. The attendant sets up the champagne, ice and a dozen jumbo strawberries, half of them covered in chocolate. I lean on the heavy mahogany and gold desk, slipping my left heel off and on. Billy watches me for a little, then gets up to tip the bellboy. He pulls out a wad of hundreds from his back pocket, must’ve been like two grand, and gives the bellboy a crisp Benjamin. Big spender eh?

Billy shakes one of the bottles out the ice bucket and winks an eye to inspect the label. He then tries to uncork the thing, but his fat fingers twist up in the way. I slowly glide over and clasp my hands on top of his. 

“I’ll handle this. Why don’t you play some music?” I instruct. 

Billy fumbles to the couch. He’s looking for something, probably the remote. Poor guy can’t even think straight; all he’s got is sex on his mind. 

POP! I aim the cork to the chandelier, bang it hits like a bullet. Billy instinctively covers his head, then his ears, then tries to play cool by massaging the back of his neck. 

“Billy, come help me pour us a glass.” The caveman stumbles over. He holds out two flutes as I overspill the bubbles on his white sleeves. I start laughing so that he would laugh about it, he does. I spray more champagne on him, laughing hysterically, shaking the bottle like a super soaker. Embarrassed yet still attempting to assert control, he playfully grabs the bottle out of my hand, then shamelessly rips his shirt off, buttons flying and everything, standing proud in a wife beater.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. You couldn’t tell with his clothes on, but old Billy boy must go to the gym every day, I guess he has to at his age. Yea he was a little hairy, but I’ll take a fuzzy bear over a bald eagle any day. Plus, at least he doesn’t shave his chest like these new age metrosexual city guys; make you feel like you’re hugging a damn cactus. 

“Shall we make a toast?” he charms. “Here’s to looking at you kid.” Nice reference, I ignore it. 

“To opportunity” I raise my glass. 

“To opportunity!” we clink crystals, Billy downs the whole serving in one swallow. He refills his glass, eyeing the rest of the contents of the bottle and I can already read his mind. 

“Now, now Billy, play nice. If you spray me with champagne it wouldn’t be fair because I have nothing to change into.” I hawk eye him to let him know I’m serious. He rumbles again, that deep sort of bubbling from his belly. 

“You got me there. Smart girl.” He backs down. 

“Let me go change my shirt. You get comfortable.” He slugs to the bedroom. 

I try to get music playing off the smart TV. There are a million apps on the screen, Sirius Radio, Cable, Movies, Music, Plaza Picks, Room Service, Games, Adult Entertainment, TV China, TV Dubai, Netflix, Hulu, YouTube. I finally find a Billboard Hot 100 Music Video on one of the apps. Nikki Minage and Beyoncé twerk and sing “Flawless” on the screen. I follow their lead, dancing, feeling on myself like there’s no one around. 

Billy returns with a long white towel over his shoulders, undershirt is gone, showing off his tan muscles and furry six-pack.  

Ignore him, keep dancing. 

“Damn girl I can’t keep up with you.” He sits on the couch and stares ahead, alternating eyes between my ass and the asses on screen. “Come over here and sit with Billy for a little.” Third person? I can’t! Is that the ego or the super ego? Seriously I can’t even deal with his shit right now.

I hear him but I don’t listen. I catch my reflection on the full-length mirror opposite the TV. I turn to face myself, still copying the moves of Queen B, even attempting her facial expressions. I’ve transformed into Beyoncé. Left, left, pop that ass, twerk, twist, dip. I imagine myself on the stage with her and Nikki, dancing like the original Destiny’s Child.

 I miss the old Beyoncé, pre Jay-Z Beyoncé. This new bitch dresses and acts like she belongs at a Disney World theme park; a mute princess that smiles, blinks and waves. Have you ever heard Beyoncé say anything significant? Anything memorable? No, because she doesn’t speak at all. What she lacks in words she sure ass hell makes up in twerks. We move like strippers, grinding on erectile dysfunction dicks. 

Billy grumbles from the couch “Come over here sweetheart I wanna tell you something.”

Playfully I take a seat next to him and throw my legs over his thigh, kicking off my bloody heels. Billy mechanically massages my feet. “Wow you’ve got some big feet.” he tries to jab. 

“Hey, not fair! My feet are proportionate to my body.” I pull my feet from his hands, folding them under me like a seat as I hand Billy his empty flute. My arm stretches across him, towards the bottle, to pour him another drink but he grabs the bottle and yanks me to his chest. He takes the champagne and mouths the top like a baby bottle, guzzling the bubbles till there was none left.

“You tryna black out?”

He doesn’t answer, tossing the empty bottle in the ice bucket. His backhand strokes my cheek as he flirts, “You’re beautiful, you know that?”  

He moves his hand towards my lips, lightly brushing my mouth with his fingers, then out of nowhere he shoves his whole thumb into my mouth. I obediently lick his stubby fat finger, twirling my tongue round the hard nail. Slowly I push the flaky flesh out, kissing the tip, ending this grueling foreplay and whatever fantasy he’s imagining of me sucking his dick. The bastard thrusts his thumb deeper into my mouth so I bite his thumb, right at the knuckle, first as a warning but when he doesn’t move I bite down on it hard, until my jaw and cheeks are shaking in rage hoping to snap the joint off. He finally pulls out before blood breaks. 

“Strong teeth” He spits with a sinister smile. Of all the fuckos in this town I end up with a biter.  I wonder what made him like that. Did his mom bite him when he was bad? I’m so sick of these rich fucks and their noxious fetishes. 

“You’ve got a nice mouth sweetie.” His eyelids drop and rise, up and down, head nods forward, and eyes blink deliberately three times. “Come here and let me taste it.” His neck wobbles, he snaps and shakes back into focus. His hands cover my ears, jaw, neck as he pulls me directly on top of him, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, hands on my ass, groin to groin. I wait for him to kiss me, but he doesn’t, he can’t. 

“Billy” I whisper on his mouth, “Billy” I breathe into his nose, “Billy baby” I move my mouth all over his face lightly tapping my lips on his skin. He tilts his head to the back of the couch, eyeing the ceiling plaster. I ride his lap, my legs squeezing his thighs. He lifts his heavy arms to try to hold onto my waist, his hands don’t work falling like bulldozers. 

“Billy baby, old Billy boy” I tease and taunt. 

Billy can’t hear me, eyes staring blankly to the beyond. I move my lips all over his neck, nibbling his ear, licking his neck, Adams apple. When the kisses are unresponsive, I bite down hard, just how he likes. Throwing the sweaty towel to the side, I start at his neck, then ears, down to his collarbones, nipples, biting hard, not enough to bleed, just enough to bruise. ‘AARRggghghgh’ he roars. 

“Billy?” I call out, snapping my fingers in front of his face, no answer. I slap him hard; face moves to the left. Another whack, face moves right. His eyes are shut, mouth mumbling something but I can’t make out what. He sighs loudly, heaving his chest to his chin, at least he’s still breathing. 

“Billy are you ok?” I’m answered by a deep snore. Time to move.  

I hop off him to the jolt of a vibrating phone. I walk over to the desk where the buzz is coming from. His iPhone 7 shakes the wallet, keys and cash. Incoming call from “Jimmy”, I ignore it. There are two missed calls from ‘Beaches’ and ‘RJ’, a text message from “Beaches’, a reminder to call back ‘Sandra’, a Bloomberg Stock alert and a Delta flight reminder.   

I swipe left to unlock it but there’s a code. I go over to Billy and observe him for a sec. He’s breathing heavy, chest hurting up and down, neck tilted to the back of the couch. That position is gone give him a damn strain in the morning, I leave him as is. I sit my ass on his limp dick, taking his right hand into mine, using his thumb to unlock the device. I get comfortable on his bulky lap and begin to private eye like the NSA.  

There are 9 unread text messages. Three are from ‘Beaches’; the last message reads ‘now what??!’  Message from ‘Rodney Evergreen’: ‘Funds transferred’. Message from ‘Vick’: ‘I’m jealous’. Message from ‘Billy III’: ‘weed is legal’. Two messages from ‘Sandra’: ‘it’s ok, next time, kiss emoji’. Message from “Mister Mumps”: “Giants +3 Steelers -2, over under 39”. I don’t want him to know that I looked through his phone, so I don’t read any of the unreads. Hundreds of other messages don’t interest me. Where’s the juicy stuff?

I swipe to the home screen for his photo album. Pictures are a much better analysis of a person because text messages only detail convo’s and relationships, people talking to people. Photos on the other hand tell you about one’s whereabouts, their interests, their family, their obsessions, what they eat and what they see. Let’s see if the guy is married. I scroll through a ton of photos of building exteriors, roofs, basements, hallways, and huge empty rooms of office space. Maybe he’s a commercial real estate broker? Owner? Investor? 

Looks like Billy went to Burning Man this summer, must’ve been to network, ha! Better rethink that. The rich parvenu’s burn in efforts of reliving their squandered youth in a desert storm, drug-induced, STD infested euphoria. Don’t get me wrong, there are true burners; talented artists, DJ’s and futuristic benefactors of society who really want to experience a life different to the one we’ve been so generously served, but Billy ain’t one. Pictures of him and five other mid-life crisee’s are surrounded by a troop of gorgeous, fake blond, fake tit, botoxed, out of work models/dancers/stripper types dressed in The Fifth Element gear of Leeloo and Rhuby Rhode. I know they’re strippers because there’s a video of 3 of the same girls doing a rehearsed strip routine on a 30ft flagpole. 

Girls scissor midair on the pole like it was the biggest dick in the world. I find countless videos of sand orgies, art cars orals and RV fucks. 

Worst of all, Billy is dressed as Hugh Heffner with a long red velvet robe, a captain’s hat, and pipe. He wears the same costume all week in different variations. I hope he double layered on the tighty whiteys because all that dust up his ass would ruin any chance of getting his salad tossed. Judging from the photos he must be single, recently divorced or possibly a swinger if his wife lets him get away with this shit. 

There are a bunch of helicopter and airplane pics with Billy in the cockpit, paired with beautiful aerial sunsets or sunrises, it’s hard to tell the difference. Oooo a pic of Billy and Richard Branson, that’s pretty cool. Virgin Atlantic is the best airlines, hands down. I tell the comatose lazy boy my Richard Branson story. 

One Christmas I was traveling to Paris from NYC via Virgin Atlantic when they completely sold out of the flight and tried to force me out of my seat. Of course, I wasn’t having it. No, no, not me and I complained so politely, yet firmly. I told them if they don’t let me on that plane, I would sue Virgin for discrimination and racism being that I’m Arab. Actually, I’m North African but they don’t know that. When my hair is curly, I look Latina and when my hair is straight, I look Mediterranean, they had no idea where I was from, but this was post 9/11 and Arabs scared the shit out of the world. So much so that they upgraded me to first class. As soon as I got on the plane my immediate plan was to fall asleep, those babies recline at 180 degrees and I was equipped with a pillow, a blanket and a Percocet. I was out cold. A few hours later my slumber was interrupted by turbulence. 

It took me a second to realize where I was on account of the drugs, but I soon realized I was cozy in the luxury cabin. I even found a neon sign for a bar on the plane. Intrigued, I climb upstairs in my plush socks to the bar where I find a sexy bartender in red scrubs standing all by himself. Of course, I had to keep him company. 

Bartenders have the best stories and I was interested in his thoughts on the mile-high club, I was not a member yet, so you see. I climb up the plush red velvet stool in the four-person bar and order a Hennessey VSOP neat. So, I’m sitting there waiting for bartender to flirt with me when a pretty lady cozies up directly next to me. After an eternity of unbearable silence, she poses, “Miss Rafael?” 

“Do I know you?” I answer suspiciously.  

“I believe it’s time.” She’s really confusing me now and that English accent is making me feel like I’m guilty of something that I didn’t do. Is this the Ambien fucking with my head? Or worse, are they gonna move me back to economy? I knew it was too good to be true. She was grilling me hard. Maybe I’m sleepwalking?

“Time for what?” I whisper loudly enough not to look guilty though still assertively defensive with an obscurely threatening look on my face like I was ready to spit on her. I tried to stare back into her eyes, but it was so dark I couldn’t target the enemy. Still, I felt her eyes piercing me like a snipers red mark. 

“Time for your massage” she casually invites.  

“What? Indeed, haha! Oh wow. Yes, it is.” I laugh, half embarrassed at my paranoia.

 I kept my guards up as she led me in a room to the left of the bar, near the cockpit. A sliding door opened to a long red leather massage bed, clouded by heavy lavender incense and chanting Tibetan monks. She gave me the best massage I’ve ever had, and she wouldn’t even accept a tip, which was a relief cause I only had $100 bills so in an effort to display my generous wealth I avidly insisted that she accept gratuity in front of the bartender, whom I only tipped $10 via credit card, at her numeral refusals.  

“Isn’t that cooler than you picture?” I bitch to Billy. He snores. 

“Honestly, I’ve told that story so many times I’m not even sure if it happened to me or to someone I know. “I confess to the corpse.

Moving on, I scroll through endless photos of random girls, either topless or nude, set in backdrops of exotic private beaches, with vampire marks covering their tits and ass. Told you Billy was a biter; I lean back on him and nuzzle my head on his neck. “Don’t worry Billy your secret is safe with me.” He snores through his teeth. 

There’s a video of German shepherds doing tricks with a trainer, a bunch of flics from a car summit somewhere in a West Coast desert, dozens of international racecars, Astons, Lambos, Ferraris, Porsches, a McLaren, a BMW i8 and an Audi r8. Billy is driving a red Lamborghini Galato with a gorgeous brunette, followed by a video of the sun setting on the dessert interrupted by a head bobbing up and down on the steering wheel, you can’t see his dick or her face but sure enough the camera flips to his grill smiling ear to ear like it was his first blowjob without Viagra. Big boy toys. 

Good God, what a surprise! There are dozens of flics of different strains of weed flowers. Huge greenhouses blossomed with beautiful buds; white widow, platinum Kush, GSC, gorilla glue, cherry pie, gelato41. I’m no connoisseur, I barely smoke vape pens, but the plants are all labeled. Well I’ll be damned. Billy boy had me fooled talking the talk of finance guru. This is some serious high grade, top shelf shit. Wonder what he’s doing here in NYC? Probably diversifying his portfolio with his wealth manager. Or getting investors to cash in on the business. Maybe he’s one of those losers making CBD candies and hemp oil. Fucking kingpins. 

I scroll all the way back to Easter Sunday, nice photos of Billy with his nice family.  The wife looks between 45 and 50 with beautiful shoulder length, beach blond hair, sculpted arms like she hits the gym at least 3x a week, and a nice pair of brand-new tits that she shows off in a tight powder pink bondage dress. He has 3 kids, all boys, aged 16ish, 12ish and 7ish, all very handsome with dark hair and light eyes. They look like the perfect little family. 

What is perfect? I’m done with this. 

Next up, his calendar. It’s flooded with conference calls, flight confirmations, meetings, appointments, bill reminders, car maintenance dates, dinner dates, conferences etc. He’s supposed to leave NY to Miami tomorrow at 12pm via LGA. Three nights in MIA then he’s off to Houston for another five days before returning home to Denver. I accidentally scroll back a few weeks noticing something different, there are girls noted on the dates. Tamara and Sandra on Wed 11/31…. Lisa London 11/19…Candy Scores 11/7…Laura Vegas Hustler 11/3…Sandra San Fran 11/2…. I scroll forward to see if there are any names inputted in the future, nothing. Omg I know what this is. Does this calculating fuck record all of the bitches he sleeps with? Smart man, I don’t hold it past him. These gold diggers are probably tryna claim child support from his ass. 

His safari web browser has 12 tabs open. The first is for an X Fold Rigs Dragon X12 drone worth $30K. Why the hell would anyone need a drone worth $30K? Duh dummy, he has grass that he needs to transport or farms that need bird eye surveillance. That or he’s stalking an ex-wife.

Next tab is the Formula 1 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. Why would anyone want to go to Abu Dhabi? The oppressive regime is just a glass desert with super tall towers built by Indian and Bangladeshi slaves. Is alcohol even legal there? I hear the guys in Saudi Arabia drink perfume get drunk. And what’s the difference between Abu Dhabi and Dubai? It’s fascinating how a sexually oppressed, religiously fanatic country is known for their erect, stiff, mega towers, fast cars, prostitutes and nightclubs. Money has no religion huh?  

ESPN NFL scoreboard is tabbed along with the KITCO Gold Price Today, a Reuters Article: Shell considering selling it’s Iraq oil Assets, a flight search to Moscow in June, a search on nightclubs in Hong Kong, tickets to the next World Cup, a pair of ugly nude suede Vetements cowboy boots $2K, News headlined “Texas Oil Widow Millionaire at 23”, Zagat 20 Hottest Restaurants in LA, Wikipedia definition of Bitcoins, a Vacheron Constantine Patrimony Traditonelle Watch bid on eBay, Billy is the highest bidder at $101,999 and lastly a Chanel Alligator & Ruthenium Metal Blue Trolley. Priced Upon Request.

That means it’s too damn expensive to even list. How can I be mad at the Chanel bag when he’s bidding over $100K for a watch that he’ll wear once? And they say women are addicted to shopping. 

Billy is snoring so loud I have to get off his lap. He sounds like a coke head bear with a deviated septum. I slide to the right of the couch and lie back, parking my legs on top of his thighs. 

I almost forget to look in his private browsing. It’s not private when the tab reads Private now does it? Good job Jobs. Yesss here’s the juice.

The pervert has 5 porn videos saved:  Pornhub: The Biggest Whore in School, Youporn: Slut gets Gangbanged by Prison Thugs, Redtube: Triple Penetration Hardcore Action, Porndrake: Ten Dicks, One Chick, FuQ: Twins Fuck Dildo Ass to Ass. I just don’t get it. Why would a guy watch porn on his phone? There’s a time and a place for everything and watching DP on the plane ain’t one of them. Look there’s nothing wrong with porn; I watch it all the time. My favorite genre is girl on girl action, you know, cute lesbo, femme shit. There’s something so beautiful about seeing girls kiss and caress like lovers.

Most girls these days are conniving, envious, slanderous little cunts, playing each other with passive aggressive smirks and heart emoji’s before revealing their backstabbing, boyfriend stealing, trash talking, gossip spreading, fucking Brutus bitch-ass intentions. I’ve lost countless “best friends” due to jealousy. See jealousy knows no bounds, influencing your friends, coworkers, family, yes even your own mother. It’s a deadly disease that cripples a human into desiring another’s looks, talents, accomplishments, clothes, cars and most especially, their partners. The ego’s weapon of choice is jealousy. See ego lies to you, making you feel inferior and insignificant, thus forever waging competitive warfare on anyone and everything.  Jealousy then forces you to cheat; cheat your friends, cheat a job, an opportunity, a ring, even a mate. In the end, not only do you cheat your friends or foes (one and the same to the ego) you cheat yourself of a lifetime of unlimited blessings. You rob yourself of your very own future, opting instead for the destiny of others, thus imprisoned to a life sentence in solitary confinement in a web of lies and false future’s that you’ve sought after.  Jealousy is a weakness and I choose to love myself rather than choose to be weak and jealous of anyone, especially not another woman. What’s she got that I don’t?  I’m many things, but never a hater, my momma raised me better. And when the hate happens to me, revenge is not even a thought. I’m too tall to act so small. 

Anyway, back to this porn topic. I’m not here to sex shame anyone but wtf?? This isn’t kiddie porn; this is hardcore, fucked up shit. Ten dicks, one chick? Like where do all those dicks fit and isn’t that kind of homo for a grown ass man to jerk off to 10 penises’ rubbing on each other? Where is the beauty? Where is the art? That shit has profound negative psychological effects on how men view women right? This one guy I dated was so obsessed with porn I was forced to leave him to his virtual entertainment. Long story short, he would jerk off to porn in front of me while I was naked on the bed, rather than fuck me. Imagine that. 

I can’t compare to those girls. They have perfect fake tits, no self-respect and they’ll let guys choke them out, slap ‘em up, all while spitting in her face before they cum in her eye. I’m not gonna do that, I can’t compete with that shit.

All this thinking hurts my head. I don’t even know why I allow my mind to wander with random theories. Maybe because it’s better than what I’m doing right now. Damn it’s already 7:15pm. I’ve got to get the fuck outa here. I put the phone back on the dresser and reach for Billy’s black leather Damier Louis Vuitton wallet, scanning through the contents. There’s a Driver’s License from Colorado, Name, William Riley, Jr, Address, 233 E 16th Ave. PH, Denver, Colorado, DOB: 12-29-67, fucking liar said he’s 43, he’s past 50, Sex: M Eyes: BL HT: 6’1. He has an American Express Black Card, a Chase Private Client Card, a Bank of America Debit Card, a Mercedes Benz of Denver Star Elite Member Card, a SoHo House Membership Card, a Cherry Creek Country Club Card an Aetna Health Insurance Card, a Rolling Stones 1995 Voodoo Lounge ticket stub, and three thick white business cards labeled, Riley Wealth Fund, International Investments, William Riley, Jr., Founder, billy@rileywealth.com, 303-243-8913. 

On to the bedroom. A mirror silver Rimowa suitcase lays open by the foot of the bed. Inside are two dress pants, black and chocolate brown, three Ralph Lauren cashmere sweaters, black, brown and grey, two Brooks Brothers button downs, white and light blue, a pair of light blue Levi’s, four Calvin Klein black boxers (clean?), three white CK under shirts, a pair of Nike Frees, a pair of Armani black lace up loafers, Adidas black shorts, a long sleeved Under armor black workout shirt, one pair of Nike socks and two pairs of blue cashmere shocks, all folded nice and neat. There’s a box of Trojan Magnums, opened at the seal, with three unused condoms inside, a toiletry bag with an electric razor, KY Jelly, deodorant, electric toothbrush, mini Sensodyne toothpaste, Kiel’s face wash and face cream, a lint brush, a pocket steamer, a small blue hair comb, Bumble and Bumble hair gel, CarMax lip balm, a prescription bottle of Viagra, a prescription bottle of Bumetanide, Prozac, Xanax, caffeine pills, sleeping pills, Excedrin and Human Growth Hormone, that’s a bad combo man. Lifestyles of the overmedicated, and they say our generation is sick. His briefcase has an Acer laptop, some files, GQ magazine and a bottle of Chanel Blue for men. I’m not gonna lie, that my favorite scent on a man. I detest Tom Fords musky, forest, dirty oud smell. All the Arabs wear that shit cause its $595 a bottle. Just because it’s expensive doesn’t mean it’s good. You smell like a deer. 

Well, well, looky hear, a stack of hundreds wrapped in a $10K note. Why is he traveling with so much money? That’s not normal nowadays with Venmo, Bitcoin and Cashapp. Maybe he’s paying a hit man to kill his wife. I return the cash to the briefcase.

In a green garment bag hangs a sports coat and a Prada navy blue, striped suit. Jackpot! Inside the suit pocket is a wedding ring and another iPhone 6. I knew he was fucking married, little creep. I don’t even bother turning on the wife’s phone.

I move to the insane asylum all-white tiled bathroom and take a piss in the sterilized toilet. The floor is cold under my bare feet. When I buy a house, I’m going to have heated floors in the bathroom I think to myself. I pull some toilette paper and let the paper fly off the roll. After I wipe myself, I let more paper roll onto the floor. I wash my hands and look up at my pretty face for a second, a case for beauty, with the ability to kill. If he only knew what he would wake up to. 

It’s show time. I unhook a fresh robe and wrap it over my clothes, grabbing two towels with me towards the kitchenette. I empty the mini bar of two Grey Gooses, two Kettle Ones, two Bombay Sapphires, two Tanqueray’s, all mini bottles, one half bottle of Patron, two cans of Red Bull, one can of ginger ale, a can of seltzer water, a bottle of tonic, a bottle of Perrier, a jar of olives, and a box of Godiva chocolates. I remove glasses from the shelves, two martini and two crystal rocks glasses. I fill the ice bucket with cold water and place it on the coffee table opposite our sleeping prince. Most of the Patron goes down the drain, the remaining half empty bottle rests in the ice bucket. Or is it half full? What a stupid assessment of personality. A half glass is a half glass. I shouldn’t be labeled angry if it’s half empty because at one time it was completely full and if that’s the case then if you drink half my cup now its half empty. But if I only filled it halfway then it’s half full. It has nothing to do with my pessimistic view on life. Ask me how my day is and I’ll answer, different, that’s how you’ll know I’m a realist. If I tell you I’m fine, you’ll know I’m paranoid and delusional. 

As I ramble, everything around me takes on a life of its own. Five mini bottles dive into the drain like Olympic gold medalists, flinging their glass shells frantically around the suite. The mini Tanqueray bottles spit all over the carpeted floor near the TV. A martini glass wraps itself around a towel like a bathrobe and twirls onto a wall, sprinkling its shards over the soaked Tanqueray vomit. The unopened bottle of Dom P moves like a black mamba, slowly at first out of the ice, then quickly shaking like a rattle snake before it bangs, exploding all over the room, venom spraying the ceiling and raining down like chem-trails. The snake retreats back to its ice bath, nose down into the bucket. The snack bar shakes in excitement. Jars of mixed nuts, sweet potato chips, yogurt pretzels, candied pecans, jelly worms and spiders, gourmet M&Ms, cookie dough bites and chocolate covered espresso beans pop open and tango on the kitchen counter, adrenalin junkies sky diving onto the floor.  

The remaining mini bottles somersault off the ceiling fan in unisons, looking like a damn Bellagio fountain show. The TV comes alive to DJ the mess of a party. Drake sings “Hotline Bling” and the receiver of the hotel phone jumps into the air shrieking, “Drake is singing to me!!” Yea, yea you and every other phone in the world. It tangles its own cord from all the twisting and trips onto the floor. Dead noise comes out of the receiver, poor phone is a goner. Billy’s socks fly in the air and do a nice one two step, begging Billy’s pants to join the party. They’re tugging at the hem trying to form a tango line. The pants are reluctantly stubborn; their only caveat is that the belt has to join the tango too. The cowhide leather strap snaps back like a whip and unzips the pants. The Calvin Klein blue boxers sit snugly on the couch, they don’t know how to dance. Billy bellyaches in disapproval before resuming his dreams of sodomy. 

The heavy glass coffee table spazzes, turning over on its side. Demi Lovato gets on the TV singing “Sorry, Not Sorry”, I feel you babe.  Lamps fall drunk, chairs dance dizzy, towels swing on the chandeliers; the scene is too crowded for me. 

Before the room gets trashed, I snatch Billy’s black Amex, the hotel room key and his business card, as a souvenir of course, and stuff them in my bra. The robe falls to the floor and I slip on my leather trench, flip it inside out so the emerald and eggplant mink fur is on the outside, pop up the collar, tie my hair up into a bun, wrap a silk black paisley Hermes scarf around my head, grab my Chanel purse and make a French exit out the party.