Tales From A Hotel 3: Of Sex Toys, Crocs, and Socks

Hello everyone, been a while. 

Last week’s article took a hiatus due to a more pressing matter, but we’re back this week with Tales From A Hotel 3: Of Sex Toys and Crocs and Socks.  What do these strange things have in common?  No, they’re not some weird fetish of Azohez’s.  I mean they might be, but who knows?  No, dear reader, sadly these do have a commonality, one we will get to soon. 

So without further ado, I present

Tales From A Hotel 3: Of Sex Toys, Crocs, and Socks.

So this incident is a bit more recent than the others, and usually, I wouldn’t cover semi-recent events, but this was too good not to.  It all started one stormy night as I got a phone call, as usual, asking about our rates.

“That’s kind of high” the voice on the other end said.  

“Sorry, that’s the lowest rate right now.”

“Don’t you have anything cheaper?”

“That’s our lowest rate.”

“Fineeee…” the voice said with clear annoyance.  Sorry, I don’t make the prices buddy.

So we get through the reservation process, and the person is a bit snippy with me, but whatever.  The name they give is fairly neutral, much like “Riley” can easily be male, which is almost always assumed, or female.  So I go about my shift, forgetting this even exists until later.

Later finally rolls around, and a tall well-dressed man walks in.  He said the name on the reservation, and I sort of did a subtle double take without letting on, something I’ve almost perfected as much as my smiling at you while I’m mentally beating the shit out of you.  Or having fantasies in the rare care that happens, but moving on.  The man is well-dressed and clearly had a fantastic fashion sense.  But, as my favorite FFXIV streamer, Alice, @rompingfox on Twitter go follow her she’s awesome, would say, he was

“Mega gay”

Keep in mind I have zero problems with that at all, and the only reason I’m saying that is because it’s a vital piece of information later on.  Also, the man has a very nice leather backpack with him.  It’s small and compact, and I admire it and compliment him on it.  He thanks me and tells me where to order one, and highly praises this company, saying he can stuff a ton of things into it and it never seems to wear.  

This is important for later, remember this.

After chatting for a few minutes about his fashion sense, which was fantastic, the man heads upstairs to his room, and I only hear the obligatory “What’s the wifi password” phone call.  I think nothing of it until a few hours later, the man is checking out.  This surprised me, and I asked if everything was ok.

“Yep, something came up, gotta go.”  

At the same time I spot someone I don’t recognize leaving the back door.  I think nothing of it, sometimes people have other people come in and I don’t see them for one reason or another.  So I tell him he’ll still be charged a full night, and he agrees with the same obnoxious “Fineeeee” from the phone call earlier.

“Whiny little fucker” goes through my head, but instead “Have a great night!” comes out.  I often wonder how I’m able to do this.  I visually see and hear myself saying this, or see myself jumping the counter and beating someone’s face in with a pipe, but what comes out of my mouth surprises me.

One time someone was mouthing off being completely rude, and after I mentally thought of a dozen ways I could cave her face in, I found myself saying “Oh I’m so sorry to hear that, I’ll call the manager later and see what we can do.”  I’ve also learned to swear in other languages and make it sound like English.  My favorite is the Indian word, “Benchod.” which translates to “Sister fucker”, and is used more like “Mother fucker” in English.  But the way I can say it, they’ll go “Excuse me?” and I’ll go “Oh I said let me check, one moment!”  Fucking sheep.

Another great example was when one girl came up to the counter, and we were chatting.  As we were chatting and I was imagining about a thousand things we could do on the counter that would surely get me fired, and draw a crowd, I was able to keep my cool and just chat with her like nothing was amiss.  Nearly a year later and we’re still dating, so that worked out, somehow.  But you don’t want to hear about that, so let’s segue into hotel tips.

Riley’s Hotel Tips III


Stars matter in a hotel rating but never read online reviews.  Only angry people will leave a review, with the occasional customer who was very happy.  Just because a hotel has a one-star review and claims mold and bedbugs, I can tell you that 99% of that is a lie.  The customer was likely kicked out of the hotel for one reason or another, but those aren’t the stars I mean.

Hotels range from 1 star to 5 stars.  A one-star is like a Motel 6.  Yeah, they’ll leave the light on for you, but that’s about it.  No breakfast, nothing.  A bed, maybe a TV, a fridge if you’re lucky.

On the other hand, a 5-star will give you everything.  Pillow service, concierge, daily housekeeping, room service, likely a massage parlor, basically everything.  Some more popular hotels, such as Super 8 and most of Comfort Inn’s lines are two-stars.  You get a bed and a breakfast, and it’s indoors.  You won’t get room service or anything like that, and that’s why Super 8 is Wyndham’s cheaper hotel, while most of Comfort, which now includes Ramada, is cheap as well.  However, recently Comfort bought Ramada hotels, which were Wyndham three to the four-star line, so we’ll see what happens, likely they’ll be Choice Hotels’ higher-end line.

So always check the “Stars” of the hotel, it matters, but never, ever read the reviews, because they’re likely lying.

Now Back To The Story

So I get a call a few hours later, and the man who was in the room that left called me telling me he left his satchel in the room and asked if I could “be a good girl and fetch it.” 



“I’ll check!”

“Thank you!”

So I go up to the said room, and as soon as I open the door, the stench of sex, axe body spray, and shame hit me.  The room was paid for with a credit card so I didn’t have to check after he left, but oh my god was it trashed.  The sheets were makeshift ropes, tied to the feet of the bed frame, and as I approached the bed, something else caught my eye.

NKMfochnu zfllTIDvAe q4PfQvN1RO7oqKWBLDfIyWNqQPn1NYoJc ny2yEBotwl4yCd9iEK3VaJLusftc01PXPzT1AfFovF0Lkq6x0998y0BwkT yEC0dmzZM3a4ixHKfno bMR20hUsLpon ncTMtmB45U J57VBjzXSdio9qeVFjWsFGr90Hrw

“No.  Fucking.  Way.” I muttered.  I had already gone back and gotten gloves, no way I was touching anything in this room, good god.  I needed a fucking biohazard suit.  Used condoms all over the place, Jesus Christ.  I pick up a mask.  Not just any mask.  A leather sex fetish mask.

This exact mask.  I couldn’t believe my eyes as I gingerly picked it up.  It was at this point, I spotted it.  The satchel.  The leather satchel.  It was so cute looking.  As I looked at it, it shone like a beacon in the room, a ray of light in this disgusting mess.  

As I approached this lovely satchel, thinking maybe I’d try it on, after all, it can’t be affected by this…biohazard could it?  I noticed it was unzipped.  Oh god no.

There were condoms hanging out of it.

The top was open slightly.

I didn’t want to, but I had to pick it up.

Inside was….well

Stuffed to the brim, literally

With sex toys.

I almost threw up as I gingerly picked it up and carried it downstairs and put it in the office.  Dear god why me?  Why not the first shift?  He’s probably into this shit!

It sat there for a bit, and Monday rolled around, and the first shifter we all hate came in.  Oh was he in for a surprise.  The other people working here had come up with a plan.  

When I came in the next day, I was like

“Oh hey, Jack (the owner, name changed) said you can have that leather satchel in the back, no ones coming in for it.”

Bob as we’ll call him, said “Oh thanks!” and went back there and grabbed it.  I kid you not, this sick freak with his bare hands opened it and pulled the toys out one by one examining them.  

“Look if you’re going to test them do that at home…”

“Oh no thanks, I don’t need these,” he said with a serious look and set the bag down.

Bare.  Hands.  On these toys.  Disgusting.

The next day, some very oddly dressed guy came in and asked for the satchel.  I recognized him as the man I saw running out the back door the other night.  He was dressed in a shirt that cut off right below his ribs, painted nails, jean shorts, and fishnets.  Ok, nothing wrong with that.  But this is where the atrocity came in.  The sin.  The worst thing I’ve ever seen.  

The guy had socks…and fucking crocs on.  With the rest of his outfit.


“Sir I need you to get out right now,” I said to him.

“Well I was leaving but…why?”

I looked at him and very seriously said “That outfit is fire, but the socks and crocs.  Seriously?  Get out of here.”

He laughed and said something about his other shoes being broken, thanked me, and left.

I went and vomited and bleached my eyeballs while smiling and telling him to have a nice day.

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