So I'm at a hotel with an indoor pool and hot tub. Cool, right? Well....
I decide that a dip would be nice, so after a short stint in the swimming pool, which (come to find out) requires swimming, I arrive that my still-sore neck muscles from moshing and headbanging on New Year's Eve would benefit from a dunk in the adjacent hot tub.
Well (come to find out), they weren't kidding when they gave it that name. It's neither tepid tub, nor even super-warm tub. It's a holy-shit-this-could-cook-lasagna-noodles HOT tub. After ten minutes, I have made it down the steps and am wading waist deep in boiling water so searing that could render a live lobster edible. My feet are throbbing, my hands are pulsating, and my jewels are screaming for mercy. So I hop out and call the front desk to investigate.
See, the last time we were here, some dorky old guy was here every night when we got back from work in the evenings, in contrast to the sassy chubby milf (hotness!) who takes care of first shift here.
So, I call the dorky old guy. Instead, a sexy young female voice answers. I explain my predicament. She says the hot tub should be 104 degrees, so she'll check it out. Mind you, I'm a 280-pound hunk (of lard), so as a ridiculously hot young woman appears to check the temps, I'm struck pretty much motionless, mostly naked, man-tits dripping with sweat, waist-deep in a vat of water hot enough to make me wonder if maybe, given the cameras trained upon me, that I could quite possibly be the unwitting test subject (victim?) in some cannibalistic experiment in the slow braising of juicy fat guys.
She says the temp is a steady 104 degrees, so I assure her I'm just being sensitive, and it's ok. She counters that she'll add some fresh water to cool the tub. She disappears into the control closet and soothingly cool currents begin to swirl about my legs. A few minutes later she apologizes that 102 degrees is the lowest she can go, and I assure her that two degrees were enough to take the edge off my discomfort and sensitivity.
As proof, I dunk myself from waist-deep to chin-deep in one swoop. Were I alone, I'd most likely have screamed like a little girl, but playing macho man, I maintained the height of composure. Or at least I'd like to think so, but the inevitable agonized scowl (like that of when I bought and subsequently downed shots of Canadian whiskey for myself and a strange woman at The Brewery) most likely told a different story.
I manage to stay submerged for a surprisingly long time, maybe an entire six or seven minutes, before my vision begins to blur and my stomach starts wanting to violently reject everything I'd earlier eaten for dinner. Jumping out in only my trunks, I desperately search, hoping for a smoker's exit to the God-blessed outdoors. Instead, upon reaching the double glass doors leading out of the pool room, I am busted by said young hotness while 90% nude and dripping wet.
Any normal 32 year old man would posture and maybe even try to chat up said strumpet, but not me. I decide instead that the preferred choice of action would be to turn tail and jog over to my bath towel, which I wrap over my tits like a shawl while en route to my shirt. Desperately scrambling to don my polyester shirt over my damp and tacky skin, she walks in to replenish the towels. I keep my back turned. I couldn't bear to see her reaction to my flailing attempt to dress myself.
She having disappeared into the maintenance closet, I make my escape through the glass doors and sprint, skipping every other step, up the stairwell to the first floor where I burst through the front entrance gasping for fresh air, throw the towel on the sidewalk, and stand wearing only shirt and trunks in the 31 degree night, steam pouring off my skin.
What feels like forever later, the stiff breeze has abated the steam and my respiration returns to normal, even to the point of a minor shiver in my chest. I grab the towel off the ground and then go back into the lobby, where she has been standing for as long as I've been outside. Bare-footed with wet trunks and dripping hair long since having frozen solid, I walk past her and proclaim "Turns out I wasn't built for hot tubs!"
"Awwww!" she coos with an equal blend of nurturing, sarcasm, and pity.
I have the pimp skills of your average 12 year old boy.
I decide that a dip would be nice, so after a short stint in the swimming pool, which (come to find out) requires swimming, I arrive that my still-sore neck muscles from moshing and headbanging on New Year's Eve would benefit from a dunk in the adjacent hot tub.
Well (come to find out), they weren't kidding when they gave it that name. It's neither tepid tub, nor even super-warm tub. It's a holy-shit-this-could-cook-lasagna-noodles HOT tub. After ten minutes, I have made it down the steps and am wading waist deep in boiling water so searing that could render a live lobster edible. My feet are throbbing, my hands are pulsating, and my jewels are screaming for mercy. So I hop out and call the front desk to investigate.
See, the last time we were here, some dorky old guy was here every night when we got back from work in the evenings, in contrast to the sassy chubby milf (hotness!) who takes care of first shift here.
So, I call the dorky old guy. Instead, a sexy young female voice answers. I explain my predicament. She says the hot tub should be 104 degrees, so she'll check it out. Mind you, I'm a 280-pound hunk (of lard), so as a ridiculously hot young woman appears to check the temps, I'm struck pretty much motionless, mostly naked, man-tits dripping with sweat, waist-deep in a vat of water hot enough to make me wonder if maybe, given the cameras trained upon me, that I could quite possibly be the unwitting test subject (victim?) in some cannibalistic experiment in the slow braising of juicy fat guys.
She says the temp is a steady 104 degrees, so I assure her I'm just being sensitive, and it's ok. She counters that she'll add some fresh water to cool the tub. She disappears into the control closet and soothingly cool currents begin to swirl about my legs. A few minutes later she apologizes that 102 degrees is the lowest she can go, and I assure her that two degrees were enough to take the edge off my discomfort and sensitivity.
As proof, I dunk myself from waist-deep to chin-deep in one swoop. Were I alone, I'd most likely have screamed like a little girl, but playing macho man, I maintained the height of composure. Or at least I'd like to think so, but the inevitable agonized scowl (like that of when I bought and subsequently downed shots of Canadian whiskey for myself and a strange woman at The Brewery) most likely told a different story.
I manage to stay submerged for a surprisingly long time, maybe an entire six or seven minutes, before my vision begins to blur and my stomach starts wanting to violently reject everything I'd earlier eaten for dinner. Jumping out in only my trunks, I desperately search, hoping for a smoker's exit to the God-blessed outdoors. Instead, upon reaching the double glass doors leading out of the pool room, I am busted by said young hotness while 90% nude and dripping wet.
Any normal 32 year old man would posture and maybe even try to chat up said strumpet, but not me. I decide instead that the preferred choice of action would be to turn tail and jog over to my bath towel, which I wrap over my tits like a shawl while en route to my shirt. Desperately scrambling to don my polyester shirt over my damp and tacky skin, she walks in to replenish the towels. I keep my back turned. I couldn't bear to see her reaction to my flailing attempt to dress myself.
She having disappeared into the maintenance closet, I make my escape through the glass doors and sprint, skipping every other step, up the stairwell to the first floor where I burst through the front entrance gasping for fresh air, throw the towel on the sidewalk, and stand wearing only shirt and trunks in the 31 degree night, steam pouring off my skin.
What feels like forever later, the stiff breeze has abated the steam and my respiration returns to normal, even to the point of a minor shiver in my chest. I grab the towel off the ground and then go back into the lobby, where she has been standing for as long as I've been outside. Bare-footed with wet trunks and dripping hair long since having frozen solid, I walk past her and proclaim "Turns out I wasn't built for hot tubs!"
"Awwww!" she coos with an equal blend of nurturing, sarcasm, and pity.
I have the pimp skills of your average 12 year old boy.
posted by Grover at 1/03/2011 11:29:00 PM
1 Comments:
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