Working Third Shift In A Hotel: My Life as a Pimp and Dope Dealer

18 Jan

Third Shift In A Hotel: My Life as a Pimp and Dope Dealer

By Nate Thayer

Shortly after college  , I worked as a bellman and security guard at a once grand hotel in decline located in the theatre district adjacent to the red like district in  an major U.S. city, known as the “combat zone” for the anarchy that prevailed in the area after dark fell.

As a bellman, I would make my money based on tips, carrying the luggage of new check-in customers, or bringing them room service or addressing their complaints or needs. It was endlessly fascinating to be a voyeur in the lives and conduct of those travelling to a city they are unknown in and the things that their sides repressed at home which often find an outlet when they find themselves able to behave in the luxury of anonymity.

Our clientele ranged from famous actors in the theatres nearby, to strippers staying for extended stays when featured at nearby clubs, to well known musicians, to  high end “working women” who would rent a room long term where they would entertain their regular clientele.

Oh the stories.

The WWF wrestlers used to stay there, their luggage filled with barbells I was unable to literally lift. From Andre the Giant to Killer Kowalski to “Chief Strongbow.” Muddy Waters gave me a 20 dollar tip for carrying one bag up to his room. As did Muhammad Ali. The Grateful Dead stayed there as did actors from Donald Sutherland to Barbara Streisand.

But it was the obscure and unknown who were the most fascinating. The elevator was an old manual that required me to accompany the guest up from the lobby, and I was privy to the illicit requests of many, sexually propositioned by untold numbers of travelers of both genders,  free to pursue unmet desires in a new city far from anyone who might lead to their clandestine activities finding its way back to the ears of friends family or colleagues.

People think bellmen, like bartenders, are a fountain of knowledge. Sometimes they need an ear to vent, sometimes a lust quenched, or sometimes a connection to point them where they can find forbidden pleasure. Drugs and girls were the most common theme.

At a salary of $1.77 per hour, tips were what I lived on. And I developed a system. In a back room, I kept a bar, and in full disclosure, a supply of illicit drugs. I also controlled the ice machine and we charged 50 cents a bucket to be delivered to a room.

Oh my, I can’t count the times I got a request for ice and was met at the door by a half clad women who wanted nothing involving  ice.

A night never passed in the wee hours when I wasn’t asked if I knew where forbidden fruits might be acquired, after the bars closed.

And, technically, I was, i suppose, by strict definition, a pimp.

Never a night passed when a customer wouldn’t inquire where they might find ‘a girl to party with.” The characters that frequented the hotel included a number of freelance ‘working girls’. They were no different than you and me in most ways, though disproportionately had a drug habit that needed financing. But they adamantly refused to be controlled by a pimp—a species with few to no redeeming qualities. Often violent, manipulative and physically and emotionally abusive, they would prey on runaways and the vulnerable and lure them into a situation which left little opportunity to escape.

The independent girls were different. Often educated, holding day jobs, they would service a regular clientele, often with skills of particular fetishes, and keep a room long term at my hotel. I got to know a number and soon was asked if I ever had requests from guests to pass them their way and I would get remunerated a percentage. I did so without reservation as all was consensual.

So constituted my career as a pimp.

“Do you know where i might find a girl around here who wants to have fun tonight,” was a constant request I was asked as I took a new guest up the elevator to his room. I would say I would get back in touch, inform ‘my girls’ and they would do the rest. My only role was to shuttle them up the elevator to the room and back. Well not always….

One young woman, who had leased a room at the hotel for many months ‘while her apartment was being renovated’ called down stairs one night and asked for me.

“My client is coming in a few minutes. Usually I have someone here for him, but he couldn’t show tonight. Do you think you can come up for half an hour. He likes to suck on my tits and have a rubber band put around his balls while a guy jerks him off. I will give you fifty bucks,” she said matter of factly, in a tone as if she was requesting I bring a ham and cheese sandwich.

I make no judgments and refuse to restrict anyone else’s erotic fetishes, but this wasn’t one I had considered or found enticing. I declined. “Why not?” she responded,  genuinely confused. “ It will only take a few minutes and it is 50 dollars.” I think she was missing my point. “I will ask Jimmy at the front desk,” I said, begging off.

Another time, an attractive couple of young ladies had been spending a number of days as guests, and we had several friendly exchanges, often flirtatious. Late one night, they called down and asked for a bucket of ice. I proceeded toward their room and knocked. When the door opened, both stood nude and looking luscious in the room and beckoned me in. “We really didn’t need the ice. We wanted you,” purred one. It was then I noticed the huge black strap-on Dildo on one woman as the other began to unzip my pants. The honest answer was the sight of that thing frightened the bejesus out of me, visions of it being forced up my ass. I stammered and begged off on work obligations and fled as nonchalantly as I could muster.

I fended off the aggressive drunken advances of men trying to force themselves on me as we rode up the lift numerous times, making me realize what women must regularly encounter from the dark, pathetic side my gender too often descends too.

But there were the erotic and welcome moments. A long term guest, a woman of a certain age, would daily call down for ice cube room service delivery and meet me naked when she opened the door, requesting I get on my knees as she lay back on the bed her legs parted and my mouth and tongue reveling in her wet warm luscious pussy, her hands on my head as she fucked my mouth to explosive climax. Sometimes she just wanted to suck my cock and did so with a tender but determined skill and desire. It was mutual desire and lust unleashed, uncomplicated by the dance and energy of seduction.

Oh I have many more stories of both the dark corners of the human capacity and the delicious fantasies that came true in the world of a hotels secret night life protected and encouraged by the anonymity of a new city far from the prying eyes that inhibit the release of our inner desires. Perhaps one day I will share the more intriguing details and memories.


One Response to “Working Third Shift In A Hotel: My Life as a Pimp and Dope Dealer”

  1. gabfrab January 20, 2013 at 4:59 am #

    Yep, that was great, dude. You need to hit us with more stories from the hotel.


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