Cookie Saga part two April 21, 2018 8:01 p.m. The Old Chalet

The motel was sold out. I showed up at 6 p.m. No rooms. I was pissed. I immediately got on the horn to nearby motels. One was cheaper but we’d have to drive to drink…I really wanted to walk so I went with the higher priced place across the street from one of my old haunts, Colombo’s. I’ve seen it forever and have always been curious about the interior. The exterior is far more interesting than the interior, I soon found out. The carpet was old and the bathroom floor was sticky, but all in all, a clean room with no bugs. I forgot my Bluetooth speaker, which I was bummed about but I did manage to remember candles. A godsend because the ceiling lights were a menace. I prayed the satellite dish TV had a music station; no such luck. And no radio. I messaged him; he said he didn’t own a Bluetooth speaker. I guess it’s a travel-often/photo shoot thing. Ah, well. I even checked to see if a movie like The Doors was playing later on HBO, nope. I detest fucking strangers in silence, but my hands were tied.

 

I was under the impression we were gonna party tonight—drugs, the whole nine—he’d made comments early into our messaging last year about being holed-up in a motel with a bag of blow and a hooker, but he said he couldn’t due to an engagement the following day. Fuckit, as long as I get paid. I’m certainly doing a little partying of my own. He won’t need to know. Speaking of money, I messaged him two minutes ago to request that he drop the cash, hopefully in an envelope, in my purse first thing when he arrives. Aka, don’t make me ask for it and don’t wait. He waited until the end of our paid drinks in December and it’s not my favorite. Pay first, fun after. He just sent a thumbs up. Phew! Hurdle one: check. I can’t believe I forgot my speaker! Amature. I’m so used to porn in the background or clock radios at the Hyatt. Please lord, if you love me, let this be fun. No crickets and bumping teeth. 

 

This bar is dark and dead. High five! I rarely go out on weekend nights. Sadly, Colombo’s was a zoo. Shit, I just realized this bar has a door guy tonight. I hope Cookie doesn’t get turned away for not having his ID. Who doesn’t have a backup or a passport? That’s his moniker: Cookie. There’s a reason behind it but I ain’t tellin’ ya. Cookie doesn’t seem to know this city very well even though he’s lived here over ten years. I hate bars on weekend nights. A 40thbirthday party just came in and one of the idiots has a loud-as-fuck clown horn he thinks is hilarious. He honks it one more time I’m gonna swipe it and bust it over my knee

 

I just unbuttoned my jeans. My followers know I’m a top button undone kind of gal. Get this, I’m wearing a tank top. I never wear tanks in public. Not since I grew these lazy forty-something arms. However, it’s muggy outside and I just hoofed it to the bar. I’m glistening with sweat. Comfort over style. Not to mention trying to avoid a fucking hot flash. Menopausal call girl, what’s next, denture whore, I guess. I smell good and the whole thing is a bit on the pheromone/sexual side. Not a damn thing wrong with that. I warned him about my dewy state—he said it made his dick move. Good. I was always in higher demand at the club after I had been giving lots of lap dances.

 

 

 

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