If I Were A Naked Woman, Where Would I Be?

Not too long ago, I was in the middle of an eight-hour shift at the hotel where I work, and the front desk got a call from one of the guests saying they couldn't figure out how to use the jacuzzi tub. That's not an unusual complaint, as it appears most people really are too stupid to get water from a faucet. I walked down the hall, wondering to myself (out loud- whenever I'm angry or stressed I talk to myself) if they simply hadn't found the big white button that activates the jets, or perhaps they never tried rotating the nob to get hotter water. It always amazes me how simple the solution to a guest's problem usually is.

Anyway, I got to the guest's door, and I knocked and announced myself ("Bell Service! Can I shine ya shoes, Massa?"). It took the guy about forty seconds to answer the door, so I assumed he had been naked and was putting on a robe or something. When he opened the door, I instantly remembered which guest it was. I'd checked him and his wife into the hotel earlier that day. I remembered him so easily because he had a wicked lateral lisp. I love people with lateral lisps. It's funny to me that they seem not to realize that they sound like partially-unconscious Down syndrome burn victims. He let me into the room, and being the nosey jerk I am, I couldn't help but look around the room to see where his wife was. When you've been a bellman for decades like I have, you naturally develop an uncontrollable urge to look in on the private lives of your guests whenever you enter their rooms. Maybe it's because most people don't clean themselves up AT ALL to answer the door for a bellman. I think they think we're not really humans, but rather some sort of hyper-realistic androids. The fact that I actively avoid eye contact may contribute to that assumption.

After I showed him that blue means "cold" and red means "hot," he thanked me profusely for my superhuman problem solving skills, and he offered to kiss my feet. Having just polished my shoes, I politely declined. As I left the room, assuming I'd simply missed his wife during my admittedly cursory inspection of the room, I looked around for her again. Still nothin'. I walked out of the room, and as soon as he shut the door, I heard his voice, followed immediately by his wife's. Confused, I wondered where the heck she could have been. Then I realized she was probably in the closet. I have a fairly active imagination, so I kept thinking about what had just happened, trying to figure out why she'd been hiding. Then, in a cringe-inducing moment of clarity, I realized exactly what had been going on. When I knocked on the door, I had interrupted some sort of... I don't even want to write it.

I threw up in a potted plant. Don't tell my boss.