Random neuron firing, lame philosophy, literary pontificating, movies, sex, clothes & other femme stuff

Saturday, April 03, 2004

Airport Hilton

Here I am in my room at the Philadelphia Airport Hilton, a bit overhung. Since Thursday I've been attending the annual convention of the International Foundation for Gender Education. This is the fourth hotel room I've occupied in two weeks-- Wyndham Orlando, Sugarloaf Grand Summit, Millennium Bostonian, and Airport Hilton. And this is the only one with unencumbered high speed internet access.

Why did I stay at the Bostonian, when I live in Boston? Greta & I went to see David Bowie on Tuesday; afterwards we hiked to the Bostonian bar for a drink. They have really spectacular martinis. I mean really spectacular. It's hard to make what is, after all, merely a glass of cold gin really spectacular, but trust me, they've got it down. After a couple of them, staying at the hotel seemed much more appealing than trudging back to the car.

Bowie's penis (an article in which I take some interest) was still in evidence, I can report, having studied his jeans carefully through my binoculars.

Greta & I were even more desperately over-in-love (isn't that a phrase from somewhere? noel coward?) than usual in recent days. Marissa was visiting Greta while I was away with the kids last weekend, and the night after I got back we stayed up all night making out with her. She is one of the world's greatest kissers. It's like you're strolling casually along a tropical beach, letting warm waves wash over your toes, when suddenly a rogue wave big as a house overwhelms you and rips you far out to sea.

We took her to the bus station in the morning and basically started having sex in the car on the way home. When we got there, we put on a porn dvd and were deliriously drowning in each other for what seemed like a year. I had these weird extended orgasms or chains of orgasms or something that kept exploding on and on and felt like the universe had turned completely inside out several times like a windsock in a cyclone.

We didn't want to stop touching each other for the next two days. My first night here, Greta left ten messages on my cell phone, saying how much she loved and missed me. We talked into early hours of the morning. She said she'd try to get a flight here the next morning.

I didn't hear from her the next day. I figured she probably had a hangover and slept all day. After my sessions were over I called her cell. She was at an art opening with the lovely Bart, whom, you may remember, she had sex with not too long ago. I called her later and they were at a restaurant. I was drunk and unhappy. She said she'd call me when she got home. She didn't call. She may well not have made it home. I really do hope they didn't have sex again. I used to like him fine until he started having this big crush on her.

Now she's calling.
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