Now that he thought of it, he _did_ remind himself not to pack so much this
time. At the curb, an army of bellpersons stormed him like so much smoke.
“I’m fine, really. I’ll handle it myself. Thanks.” In unison, the squadron
turned heel and scattered. Some of them didn’t speak any English, but they
all knew “fuck off” when they heard it.
He liked to dress for travel. His trademark beat-up sweatshirt and jeans
didn’t win him any compliments as he boarded in LA, but that was okay. But
this, this was different. Shlepping his (must be 200 pounds; did I pack an
anvil in here?) luggage across the threshold of the Grand Kempinski’s
entrance doors left him feeling very slovenly indeed. His back spasmed
briefly as he lowered his bags. Use your knees, stupid.
He shrugged off the sneer from the counter help as he checked in. Against
his objections, she rang for a bellhop. No avoiding it now. A uniformed
mule snapped-to and shouldered the bags. A slight rolling of the bellman’s
eyes said it all. Great. Now _everyone_ knows I brought too much shit. Continue reading Gay sex in the shower