Night Moves

My old man and I had a coupon for a free room at the Indian casino, so when his shift ended yesterday he asked me if I wanted to go do some gamblin’. I like the Indian casino; nobody bitches about my smoking (not even the older folks with their fancy oxygen tanks) and Tuesday  is crab leg night at the buffet. So Randall didn’t have to ask me twice. I clipped my player’s club card on my Reba Denim Diamond Jacket, grabbed my $10 in free slot play coupon and we were out the door.

I don’t believe in bullshittin' around in a casino. I mean, who wants to fight all the Vietnamese coming from the all-you-can-eat seafood bar? So I head straight for my lucky Village People penny machine, get comfortable and order a glass of their finest pink Chablis. When my drink arrives, I light up my Capri Menthol Light 120, rub my lucky rabbit’s foot, and it’s time to play!

Let me tell you….Lady Luck was smilin’ on me last night! I played my free slots for an hour before having to dip into my disability money. I probably had 12 glasses of that pink greatness, too. By the time we got back to our room, I was too tipsy and wore out for my usual game of hide the sausage with Randall and, to tell you the truth, I think he was, too. We got butt naked and passed out.

Well, that would’ve been that, if that god damn hotel room hadn’t been designed by a bunch of fucking Indians. I mean, Jesus Christ. What sane person puts the bathroom door right beside the room door? It’s like a damn game of Let’s Make a Deal. Needless to say, when I woke up for my usual 3am urination, I picked the door with a Mexican sitting on a donkey.  

As I stepped out of the door I tripped over a room service tray and sprawled into the floor naked as the day I was born. I was drunk as hell so I couldn't pick my ass up off the floor. So here I am, a 50-something-year-old woman laying there naked as a jaybird, locked out of my room while my old man is passed clean the hell out inside the room. It’s not like I could crawl down to the lobby and ask for another key, and I knew there was no way Randall was waking his drunk ass up. So I did the only thing I could think of – I starting banging on the door like the devil himself was after me. I was all excited when I finally heard the click of a lock and the turn of a knob. But I immediately realized it wasn't Randall. I hear Bob Seger's "Night Moves" blaring in the background and see a hot piece of ass from the room across the hall. Shit!

So this dude comes out, with a Camel hangin’ from his handsome lips. He has a pair of cutoffs on and no t-shirt.  I believe that his nut sack was hangin out on the left. He didn't seem to care about this. In fact, he acted as if it was completely natural  and says, "Hey darlin'...Why don't you quit bangin that door and come on over and bang me." Ha! I know I look good, but this boy was young enough to be my grandkid. I told him so, too. I did take a drag off his cig, though, and properly introduced myself. He told me his name was Traylor. I let out a whoop when I realized he lives in the same park where me and Randall stay. Glad I didn’t end up bangin’ him….that would’ve made for some awkward moments in the community laundry room.

So Traylor helps me bust into my room, I thanked him, then went back to sleep. I told Randall the next mornin’ that he’s lucky I didn’t kick his ass for not wakin’ up when I was hittin’ on that god damn door!

And wouldn’t you know it…I ended up running into Traylor today when we got home. He told me about this blog where he writes about all the shit he gets himself into. Jesus! After reading about what he did with Twila…I’m real glad I didn’t give in to his sweet ass. That Jezebel has been with most of the guys in this place…and their daddies! But anyway, Traylor asked if I’d like to write on his blog from time to time and share some of the wisdom that comes with living in a place like this for 30 years. So here I am. And here’s my first piece of advice and it’s for Traylor (and any of the rest of you who are so inclined.): If you do decide your #1 Titty Inspector mug is worth more butt sex with Twila, double bag next time. One studded condom ain’t enough of a barrier against the shit she’s been rumored to have goin’ on down there.