“Hotel rooms inhabit a separate moral universe.” – Tom Stoppard
I have broken a mirror in a hotel room, the consequence of a hard, brutal fuck on a table. I have checked out of a hotel after two hours leaving the white bed sheets covered in chocolate after playing with a Cadbury’s Flake. I have conducted affairs in hotel rooms, I have met strangers for one off meetings, I have dominated submissive men away on business, beaten them, humiliated them, made them wank and rub their bellends on the wall to leave a come stain. I have picked up the telephone to reprt them to reception, enjoyed them grovelling at my feet, begging me not to. In short I have reached heights (depths?) of debauchery and perversion in hotel rooms that I don’t think would be possible in my home, or theirs.
Hotel rooms are a convenience of course, particularly when you are having an affair and you both have an unsuspecting partners at home. But the essence of the hotel room as a venue for sex and kink is that is that is a neutral space. Take someone home and every room contains clues as to who you really are. The hotel room is a blank canvas. I , and they, can be anyone I want. I can remake myself in any way I want for that brief time, revert to the real me when I have closed the door behind me, dropped the keycard in the box at reception, watched by bored receptionists who know exactly what we were doing but don’t care. They have seen it all before.
And cheap hotels are somehow best. The best sex I ever had was in a cheap hotel near the railway station in Wolverhampton. My lover and I had been out for a drink and a meal. We hadn’t actually planned to have sex but realised we were both horny. The hotel actually does rooms by the hour, enough said. It was perfect. We gave £30 to the gap toothed man sitting in thick clouds of cigarette smoke at the reception desk and went upstairs to a room with a dirty carpet with cigarette burns, a single naked bulb whose 40 watt dimness couldn’t hide the stains on the sheets, a bathroom with used soap by the washbasin and no towels. We had found a fleapit and couldn’t have been happier.
It has been nearly two years since I was last in a hotel room. Covid times have been times of not much sex. I can’t wait to step again outside my daily life, pop the keycard in the slot and open that heavy door into a brief world of debauchery, where those few square feet become a universe of pleasure.