You probably recognize the name Donna George Storey, from her guest post “Love Hotel Madness.” Well, here’s more from her about hotel sex and the inspiration for her story “Room Service” (excerpt at the end).
How did you come up with the idea for your story in Do Not Disturb? Were you inspired by any particular hotels?
I wrote “Room Service” around the time I stayed in the Mayflower Hotel in Washington DC. The décor of the Atlanta hotel in my story is lifted from my room in this Washington grande dame. And yes, we did order room service. I think Washington hotels have their own special eroticism. All of those diplomats and power-hungry politicians running around the city—and no doubt trysting in rented rooms–make for a heady sex-and-power cocktail.
Is there a part of a hotel that you think is the sexiest?
I like the bathroom vanity area with the big mirrors and the conveniently roomy countertop. It’s a great place for parents to sneak off to when the kids are sleeping. The woman can shimmy up on the counter while her partner stands or kneels before her at her pleasure.
What’s been your favorite hotel experience (x-rated or not)?
I love Chojukan at Hoshi Hot Springs in the Japan Alps. The inn dates from the nineteenth century and the beautiful cedar grand bath allows men and women to bathe together, a practice that used to be common in Japan, but is now very rare. I’ve used that bath as setting for about four sexy stories—after midnight things get quiet and I’ve heard stories about interesting encounters with strangers in the steaming water. A stay in a traditional Japanese inn is a complete experience. You shed your regular clothes for a cotton robe, take lots of baths, eat a huge feast in your room, take more baths, have sex, and fall into a soft, sweet slumber.
What do you think a hotel needs to make it a “sexy hotel?”
The sexiest hotel rooms transport me from ordinary life into another world, another self, which for me means either the height of luxury like castle hotel Schloss Durnstein on the Danube or a dilapidated pension where we stayed in La Spezia, Italy that looked out over a courtyard with laundry hanging out the windows. In such settings, I can become a duchess tipsy on Grüner Veltliner or a young wife heedless of the creaking bedstead as she couples with her muscular, workingman husband. In that sense hotels are like a stage set, the stagier the better.
<a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/rachelkramerbussel/3305115196/” title=”Donna George Storey for Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories by Rachel Kramer Bussel, on Flickr”>
Is there a specific hotel you’ve stayed in which you recommend, and/or a hotel you want to stay in, and why?
On my recent book tour for my novel, Amorous Woman, I stayed at the Beverly Hills Hotel (subsidized by a generous relative). The photo above is of my very sex-worthy bed, but the whole room was luxurious and hushed, quiet enough to hear the Hollywood ghosts whispering their secrets. As I walked around the place, to the Fountain Grill for breakfast or the Polo Lounge for a $40 hamburger, everyone seemed to study me. Clearly I wasn’t an obvious celebrity, but their gaze lingered as if they were trying to figure out which behind-the-scenes important person I might be! And important people do come there for sex. One person in my party stepped onto the elevator with a well-known producer and his companion, a younger and very attractive woman. They didn’t seem happy to have the company as they headed up to the suite floor.
What’s next for you?
I’m working on recording podcasts of some of my stories. My recent readings at In the Flesh and for X: The Erotic Treasury made me realize how much I enjoy purring dirty words into a microphone, so I’m indulging my appetite for more.
Catch up with Donna daily at her blog.
Below is an excerpt from Donna George Storey’s “Room Service” (incidentally, that was my original title for the book!). Read the entire story in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories.
I’m restless tonight, too. Maybe it’s the splayed legs on the brocade armchair, or the thick wooden knobs on the drawers. Or maybe it’s that my coworker Kevin has the next room, the one right through that door by the closet.
Ah, Kevin. My sales engineer, and the perfect nice guy. He’s not bad looking either, with his gold-green eyes and size 32 pants (I checked the label on his jeans). His hands are his best feature, though, thick fingered and tireless. I sat across the aisle from him on the flight out and watched him working on his laptop. The regional sales manager told Kevin just this morning he wanted tomorrow’s presentation rewritten so it matches the customer’s RFP, and he was none too happy about it. I expressed my sympathy, but secretly I enjoyed his scowl of concentration, the steady tap of his index finger on the touchpad. It reminded me of the way I masturbate.
Kevin’s married, of course. I met his wife. I like her. As far as I’m concerned, his marital status is one of his many attractive qualities. I’m still recovering from a nasty breakup and see no reason to waste my ambivalent, on-the-rebound lust on someone I could actually have.
Without really thinking, I smooth my pin-striped skirt over my belly and let my fingers wander lower to press the rough cloth up between my thighs. With a quick shake of my head, I snatch my hand away and pull the curtain closed. Hardly proper behavior for a newly promoted product manager: playing with herself in front of a hotel window.
The only thing to do now is get ready for bed. Flossing my teeth always puts me back in a wholesome frame of mind. On my way to the bathroom, I resist the urge to try the door to Kevin’s room. What if it opened and he were undressing or even jacking off to one of those pay-per-view videos? I’ve never had the nerve to rent one, especially on a business trip. I’ve heard the women in accounting laughing over the hotel receipts. They know.
Not that I need a video. It’s enough to put on my nightgown and slip under the sheets, breathing in the fragrance of hotel linen. When I close my eyes, I can see them. I smell them, too, beneath the semen-scented tang of bleach, all the people who’ve sought their pleasure on this bed.