New (Clean) Moon

ELIAZABETH ROSE

“Yeah, kind of. Like these jeans are a few days old, but the top is probably fresh because it gets to the point where even I can’t stand the air around me. I don’t know, my personal hygiene – it’s so disgusting! Really it’s just that I have very few clothes that I like and I’m travelling all the time, so I can’t really get any more.” – New Moon‘s Robert Pattinson

On a recent trip to NYC, a young almost -starving artist and I caught up for drinks. Tess and I are friends from Toronto. She is a talented singer and songwriter, as well as a pint-sized femme fatale. Tess is also a serial dater in New York. The men there buy dinner, and she provides her smile and good conversation. This is how she manages to stay in fine wines and martinis.

So when Tess and I headed out onto the streets of the Big Apple for the evening, it was her intent that all our drinks be purchased by a willing male.

(Without deviating from the plot line, I do have to interject that Elizabeth Rose always stands her round. The desire to spend one’s time talking with horny morons for the cost of a house spirit and mixer is a part of Canadian culture that I have yet to embrace.)

During our evening out in the cocktail bar of the W hotel, we were joined at our table by a succession of would be suitors at varying levels of intoxication. As the morning drew near, one such gentleman became less than gentle in his attentions towards Tess, so we decided to take our leave and head off for eggs. While Tess tried to remove herself from the clingy gentleman who had closed out her tab, I made conversation with a handsome enough chap by the elevators. Beyond being handsome, he was charming, well spoken and I found myself enjoying his company.

As Tess approached, her stalker followed. My elevator hunk offered an escape route – the three of us could head up in the hotel lift to avoid Tess’ pursuer and share another drink in his suite.

There is always safety in numbers and neither Tess nor I have ever been known to turn down a glass of champagne, so off the three of us went. Our rescuer introduced himself as George, and he said he was in town on business from Washington.

When we got upstairs we realized that George had exaggerated about his “suite” when we were ushered into the standard W hotel room. There were clothes on the floor and the bed was unmade. We stood back and allowed George to straighten his room and order champagne from room service. Tess and I sat down on the chaise and accepted our glasses of champagne from George after it arrived. As we clinked our glasses he informed us that he had bought us Krystal because we deserved “Nothing but the best”. This was a boast similar to his previous “suite” statement, as our ‘Krystal’ was a bottle of VC Gold Label. A pleasant brand of bubbles that I prefer to Krystal, but apparently missing the stature he was hoping to impose.

At this point, George excused himself and went to the washroom. For those of you who haven’t stayed in a W hotel, the chaise faces the bed and provides an unobstructed view of the bathroom wall, which is made of opaque glass. This meant that when George entered the bathroom and switched on the lights – due to the most basic laws of physics – Tess and I were greeted by a clear image of him dropping his trousers and briefs before he settled onto the throne.

As Tess and I were sitting in the darker, “romantic” lighting of the bedroom, we could see George clearly in the brightly lit bathroom. Picture yourself standing in the dark, outside the window of a well lit room and you’ll get the picture.  I for one, have always enjoyed moments of voyeurism.

So while George was on the toilet, we sat, drank our champagne and looked on, amused.

When George had completed his business, he wiped, and then shuffled over to the sink with his trousers still down. We watched as he washed his hands, and then soaped up again to wash his cock rather thoroughly. To Tess and I this was a humourous enough spectacle, even though he was being a little presumptive in thinking that he could score with one or both of us based on a dirty hotel room and a bottle of VC.

George then went a step further than either of us expected. He picked up a flannel, soaped it up, and then turned away from the sink.

Tess and I sat aghast as we watched him bend forward and thoroughly scrub down his crack and asshole.

In retrospect, I have to give the man kudos – he performed a more thorough preparation than most women could ever expect. However, being a witness to the proceedings meant that I was certainly not likely to want to make a closer inspection.

As for George, when he had finished his ablutions, he pulled up his pants and came back into the bedroom. His face was hopeful as he looked across at Tess and I. He was clean, he was horny and he was hoping for a threesome. “Which of you girls is the better kisser?”

All I can do is sigh at this point in the story and urge any of my readers who are looking to instigate some group nudity to come up with a better opener than that!

I poured the last bit of my champagne down my throat and then stood up, ready to leave. Had the evening been different I might have been tempted to indulge just for some holiday fun – but while I was sure George was clean, I felt I knew a little too much.

However, the night didn’t end badly for our soapy stud. Tess’ stomach was made of sterner stuff than mine and she wasn’t put off by the earlier show. So while I headed back to my hotel room alone with the image of George mooning us through the bathroom wall stubbornly remaining in my head, Tess stayed behind to check his handiwork.

So gents – take heart! Even if you accidently allow your “aspiration” to watch you defecate, wash yourself thoroughly and the fact that you cleaned up will be enough to seal the deal 50% of the time.

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