Any hotel can be a love hotel with some imagination and a liberal application of oil-based lubricants.
The girl behind the concierge desk had been friendly and quiet when I purchased a room and a giant industrial-sized bottle of lubricant. I appreciated that. I'll have to be sure to give her a big tip when I check out. My hotel room smelled of stale cigarettes and the special kind of stink that a room can get when no one's been it in a while. Thus the need to exercise imagination.
My finger leaves a trail in the dust on my room's TV.
I'm Sonic the Hedgehog. You've heard of me. Everyone's heard of me. It gets tiring, see, having everyone know about me. All those peering eyes, invading my privacy. Sometimes a famous 'hog just needs a little 'me' time.
So sometimes I go on runs. Now, you might be thinking: "Sonic the Hedgehog runs around the block to unwind. How quaint." No, I mean, I go on runs. I outrun commercial planes to unwind. When I need 'privacy,' I break the sound barrier.
I ran up north—far up north—where the urban blight breaks up and it's rainy enough that moss and lichen drape off the telephone poles and evergreen rainforests. The curtains of morning rain had finally started to break up. A flash of a neon sign caught my eye: Motel of the Pines. And underneath it: Cable TV! Free XXX Films!
And, echoing what I said before, any time can be 'me' time with some imagination and a liberal application of oil-based lubricants.
The girl behind the concierge desk didn't tell me she knew who I was, and I appreciated that. Everybody knows who I am. I'm tired of it. Here, in this motel room, I can be anyone I want. I can watch anything I want.
After patting some of the dust off the bed, it's actually quite comfortable to lie on.
My selection begins to play. A circle appears on an otherwise white screen. "Circle," intones a voice. "Circle."
My toes curl. The tingling rush that floods my body almost feels like a small orgasm in itself. I open the jug of oil-based lubricant and begin working it into my chest, my nipples.
"Circle," the voice continues chanting. "Circle."
It's almost too much to bear. The cloaca between my legs floods itself, my fluids adding to the slick oil covering my body.
The circle disappears. A new shape replaces it. "Square," the voice says.
I let out a little moan. My fingers almost involuntarily find their way down to the velvety edges of my cloaca. Circular motions quickly bring me to an edge. Like the edge of a square, which is a polygon that has four edges.
"Square," the voice continues. "Square."
All of the nerves in my body activate at once, like the feeling of being underwater. My mind drowns in it. All I can feel is my body, and all I can focus on is the feeling emanating from between my legs and the salacious, dirty pornography I'm watching.
The square disappears, and in its place, another tantalizing shape appears. "Triangle," the voice says. The word TRIANGLE in all caps flashes underneath the shape. "Triangle. Triangle."
A choked groan rips itself from my throat as I have my first orgasm, shooting semen from my cloaca onto the bedspread. But this is only the first of many. I let more lube slough off my body onto my fingers, and move my hand faster—even faster. In my post-orgasmic haze, my hand is a blur.
The scent of stale cigarettes starts giving way to a fresher stink.
The triangle has been replaced with a pentagon. "Pentagon," the voice says.
My nose twitches, irritated. Without reducing the speed of my hand, I arch my back to see where the smoke might be coming from.
"Pentagon."
Fire, between my legs. My fur has lit on fire.
Too fast. I was going too fast. I stop, but it's too late.
"Pentagon."
In a flash, I ignite. Howling.
"Pentag—o—n," says the TV, sparking and catching on fire. Alarms begin blaring. The fire has spread off the bed and onto the carpet from where I was a little too liberal with the lube.
My whole lower body is aflame. And not in that cutesy, erotic way.
With all my strength, I wander out into the parking lot. The sky's gone dry now, which is rare. And unfortunate. I can hear the murmurs from the motel's other two guests—and from the prospective family of guests standing outside the concierge office as I walk in. I hear cameras flash. So much for privacy.
The concierge shrieks, begins dialing numbers. But I reach over the desk and hang up the line. She stares at me—the flames now billowing from my crotch to my nipples—blankly staring, holding a phone that spits out a bleak dial tone, and I say:
"Here's a big tip," I say. "Water-based is better."