In the Mirror of the Bathroom of the Hotel Museum

Hotel rooms. This one has stucco walls. Maybe it’s imitation stucco. Is there such a thing? No prints or paintings. “We are not going to let you feel snobbish here, Mr. Twassel,” management seems to be saying. Actually I like those motel room prints. The abstract sloshes, always muted, though I typically see sharks devouring swimmers just beneath the surface. Ducks, sailboats, flowers frail or full. They offer no comfort to a traveler’s loneliness, but I put them in the hotel museum anyway, along with the Monets and Rembrandts and Van Goghs, the velvet ropes, and guards in gorilla outfits around the odd corner—heavy beasts with full-bodied penises swaying ... these aren’t outfits at all! Better be on best behavior in my museum.

Recently we’ve added the umbrella room. Our collection of umbrella stands circles the vestibule, and visitors are encouraged to select an umbrella—most of them come from lost and found. Then the guests enter the glass walled exhibit hall and mill around waiting for the rain. Downpours on the hour? Not exactly—we like to mimic nature: drizzles, mists, and sometimes cats and dogs spatter down from our porous ceiling.

“But is this art?” one patron asks another.

“Well, it doesn’t have any function,” the reply. “So I guess it is.”

“What about the umbrella?” the woman says, shaking it, now that the rain’s let up.

“What about it?”

“Umbrellas have function.”

“No one’s forcing you to open yours.” Just then another storm comes, torrents of wicked water pelting down.

Some of our customers do come in to get wet. And some couples come in to kiss. It’s permitted. I daresay it’s even encouraged. The gorilla guards seem to enjoy slow plays of soft affection.

The next hall over houses our antique bathtubs. Some of them are made of marble. Some have griffin claws for feet, and steep slick sides. The water is piping hot, and free. When all six hundred tubs are filling at once, the sound plunders the museum silence like a waterfall or a 19th century locomotive crossing the bridge at Argenteuil. Steam billows up. Six hundred beautiful women step into the tubs. We have a selection of the finest soaps, soft or rough enough to suit any taste, and ample bundles of big fluffy towels, and terry robes which feel like love and sunshine, and fleecy cats to rub against the ankles.

Here of course we have a private bath. Laura is soaking now. If you listen closely you can hear the drip—heavy water lifted, falling like molten light. Soon she will let me wash her. She loves to be washed. I wash her and then I touch her. I love the patterns of her pussy hair, dark wavelets willowing against the skim of my palm. Laura’s sex lips look so pretty exposed and fingered an inch or so underwater. They ride the slow slosh, so serene in their excitement; waves give way to wiggles, and when she comes her tummy clenches, and the water rocks urgently against my wrist.