Convention Hotel Sex
At a convention, Jack Daniels gets Tiffany drunk.
Warning: A woman cannot legitimately give consent for sex when drunk. This is just a story, even if it depicts a frequent reality.
I was exhausted by the day’s meetings, and luckily my hotel had a bar. It was depressing to sit alone in a New York hotel room, so I went down to the hotel bar. Normally I hate staying in convention hotels, even if they’re Marriott’s and I get my points, since they’re filled with mindless convention goers, and somehow that makes me feel all the more alone.
This time, however, I was proactive. I went to the conference check-in desk, which had all the badges laid out before it, saw one I liked, and I suddenly became Jack Daniels, Professor of Biostatistics at the University of North Carolina. Yes, I too couldn’t believe they had a badge made up for someone named Jack Daniels! It had to be a joke, or was some poor slob actually named Jack Daniels, maybe by a wino mother or something? I’ll tell you if my name were Jack Daniels, I’d go by my initials. I’d call myself J.B. Daniels, or something like that.
I went to the open bar, which was the entire point, at least for me, and I had some free drinks. Can you believe they were not serving Jack Daniels? I suffered the indignity of having a Balvenie Doublewood Scotch whisky, on the rocks, which, truth be told, I like a hell of a lot more than Jack Daniels.
Then I had a second, and then a third, and then I felt a hand on my shoulder. The small hand was straining to reach up to my shoulder, as I’m six feet, two inches tall, and the hand belonged to a little minx of around five feet, two or three inches.
“Jack Daniels! I’ve been wanting to meet you since forever!” said this cute little sexpot. “Your work on the hereditary eye disease, retinitis pigmentosa, is not only ground breaking, but seminal!”
I figured she was around five feet, plus four or five inches, in her heels, maybe in her late twenties/early thirties, pretty face, and she had a dynamite body. Things were looking up, except I couldn’t understand anything she said, as she blathered on in biospeak. She also had a huge diamond ring and a gold band on her left hand.
“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “I don’t, however, discuss work at these convention receptions. I just get drunk. Is that okay?”
“Sure! We can talk about something else. Anything you want!” she said. If she didn’t have on those damn rings, I would have thought she was a groupie, if groupies even exist for a scientist studying diseases! Wait a minute — could groupies be married?
A man, whose name tag said he was Stew, from Yale, came over to her and said, “Hi, Tiff,” and she talked with him briefly, but she held onto my coat, telling me in body language to stay around. The guy eventually left.
“Let’s start at the bar. Can I buy you a drink?” I asked, once I had her attention again, and making a joke, since it was an open bar. My Scotch seemed to evaporate at a rate science just could not explain.
“I’d better not. I have an alcohol problem,” my groupie said. I had learned her name from her badge, pinned right over her right breast. She was Tiffany Goode. Great name for a groupie, I thought, and it also explains that guy, whom she called Stew, calling her “Tiff.”
Trying to look like an educated scientist, I asked, “What happens when you drink?”
Being a scientist herself, she was disarmingly open in her answer. “I lose my inhibitions. Like totally. I do things I shouldn’t, and things I’d never do if I were sober,” she said.
“It sounds like it could be fun, you know?” I said.
“Well, it’s not. It’s shameful, is what it is. That guy Stew who just said hello? He got me drunk in college. It’s only by good luck that I didn’t get pregnant,” Tiffany said.
“Maybe I should get you drunk, then?” I teased, and in passing, broadcasted my dishonorable intentions.
“Dr. Daniels! Shame on you! Are you suggesting what I suspect you are?” she said, in mock outrage. In a more modulated tone of voice, she added, “The truth is, you’re right, in fact. It is indeed fun. Fun, though, sometimes has consequences, and I don’t just mean hangovers, you know?”
“Their bourbon selection is sad. How about a Scotch? The Balvenie is quite good,” I said.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” she said.
“Why don’t you try Drambuie? If you don’t know it, sometimes it’s called the Women’s Scotch,” I said, making that up. My lady friends do in fact tend to like it much more than Scotch, and if you want to get a girl drunk, wine will work, but it takes longer. Tiffany looked to be the kind of woman who would nurse a single glass of wine for hours.
“You’re quite politically incorrect,” Tiffany said. “Calling it the Women’s Scotch, and all.”
“I’m from Oklahoma,” I said, as if that would explain it. Tiffany seemed to accept my origin as an explanation. Probably she’s from the Northeast, I thought to myself. They tend to think Oklahoma is one big oil well. küçükçekmece escort Our Senator Jim Inhofe is a long-time climate change denier, too, which doesn’t help the state’s image. People from the Northeast kind of look down on Oklahoma, or at least, that’s my impression.
We stood near the open bar and talked and drank. I managed to get Tiffany to drink three hefty glasses of Drambuie. It wasn’t easy to do, either. Before each drink she said no, she really shouldn’t, and we discussed the way the human body processes alcohol, and even how much a moose can drink. (Maybe Tiffany hails from Montana?).
By her third drink we were discussing the pen-tailed tree shrew of Malaysia, who apparently is a real lush. (I was positive Tiffany was not from Malaysia!) Good to know, I thought, if I ever go to Malaysia and meet a pen-tailed tree shrew in a bar. Did you know that the pen-tailed tree shrew drinks the fermented nectar of the flower buds of the bertam palm plant, which is 3.8% alcohol? Basically, it drinks the stuff all the livelong day, and yet it doesn’t get drunk. Yeah, I didn’t know that, either. Tiffany sure knew it. Oh, yeah, she knew.
I didn’t dare to ask her about why he’s called pen-tailed, but if I had, I’m sure she would have known, and maybe sketched a picture of one on a cocktail napkin. She did, eventually, out-drink the pen-tailed tree shrew. The shrew is a small animal, after all, and while Tiffany is a small human, she’s a hell of a lot bigger than a pen-tailed tree shrew. Also, and maybe this is just me, but I found her to be a hell of a lot sexier than a tree shrew, pen-tailed or not.
A nice feature of open bars is that they pour stiff drinks, since they want to unload as much booze as possible, as it increases the profits of the company supplying the open bar. Both Tiffany and I were getting sloshed.
“It’s time for the big plenary talk of Dr. Watkins. Are you going?” Tiffany asked. I had noticed everyone seemed to be filtering out of the room, heading no doubt to some big room where the plenary talks were to be held.
“I hate those big plenary talks. I think I’ll go to my room and watch a movie on television. They have a nice selection of movies to rent,” I said, grabbing another Balvenie and another Drambuie from the now slowly closing open bar. A closed open bar sounded like a good conundrum for a scientist, I idly thought to myself.
“That does sound like more fun,” Tiffany said. Maybe she actually was a wannabe groupie? “It’s too bad I want to go to the first plenary so much. Eugene Watkins is speaking, as you probably know. He gives great talks, doesn’t he? Walk me over to it, will you, please?”
I walked her over to it. Basically, we just followed the crowd leaving the rapidly closing open bar. We got there, and Tiffany paused.
“Damn,” she said. “There’s no empty seats next to a woman. I always sit next to a woman. Or, to be safe, we could sit together? Damn — there aren’t even two seats together left!”
“Sorry, Tiff,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“That’s okay. I was late. Those drinks and your company was worth it, though. I guess I’ll head back to my Airbnb. See you tomorrow at your talk, Jack Daniels,” she said. “Oh, by the way, please don’t call me Tiff. Only my intimates call me Tiff. Call me Tiffany, please.”
“Your intimates?” I asked.
“You know, my husband, and my former lovers from the time before I met Bill. There’s a few who might be at this convention, like Stew who we saw earlier, remember? I don’t let anyone else call me Tiff. Sorry, JB. Damn it all, though, there’s no good seats for this plenary. I enjoyed talking with you too much, and now I’m too late to snag a good seat,” Tiffany said.
“Why not just take a single seat?” I asked.
“Oh, I never do that; not since the incident. As inebriated as I am, it could be a disaster!” she said.
“What was the incident?” I innocently asked.
“Oh, well I don’t like to speak of it,” she said.
“Maybe this one time you can make an exception? I’m quite curious,” I said.
“Well, … okay. I was still a graduate student, you see, kind of naive, and I took a seat at random, and the man next to me molested me during the talk. I was kind of trapped and didn’t know what to do. It was horrible!” she said.
“How far did he get, if I may ask?” I bravely said, preparing to have my face slapped.
“Much too far, I’m afraid. You know how it is,” Tiffany said, “You know, when you’re young, and naive. I just didn’t know what to do, so I just sat there, while he…”
She stopped. “While he what?” I asked. I was enjoying this.
“Well, JB, he snaked his hand up my skirt, which was pretty short anyway, and he pushed my panties aside, and got his finger inside me,” Tiffany said. She wasn’t even blushing.
“Yeah. I had an orgasm. Right in the middle of the plenary talk. Do you know how embarrassing that is?” Tiffany asked.
That hung in the küçükyalı escort air while we both scanned the room for a solution to her seating issue, and finding none, she gave an exasperated sigh. “I guess I’m skipping Professor Watkins’ talk.”
“I’d be pleased if you wanted to join me in my room?” I offered. “I’m sure we could find a film we both want to see, if that interests you? It might help you get over missing the first talk?”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, Dr. Daniels, but I’m a married woman and I couldn’t possibly join a man in his hotel room. Especially after drinking. Appearances, you know,” she said.
“Nobody’s about. They’re all at the plenary. I won’t tell if you won’t,” I said.
“Can I trust you? I mean, no funny business. I’m married,” she said, and I thought it strange how often she was mentioning she was married. Did she think I was a masher, some kind of a rake?
I could tell Tiffany was already drunk. Five large glasses of Drambuie would get most any woman drunk, and maybe also most men. Luckily, Tiffany was both a happy and a flirtatious drunk. We plopped down on the love seat in my spacious hotel room, along with the TV remote.
“Your room is spectacular!” Tiffany exclaimed. “You have this all to yourself?”
“Yes,” I said, and I didn’t explain that my company paid for the room. The actual Jack Daniels whose name badge I had stolen, was a professor, and he would therefore almost certainly be on a smaller travel budget than the generous one I was on.
“Wow. I’ve always dreamed of staying in a room like this one. I’ll bet you can sleep sideways on the bed?” she asked.
“You could, I’m sure. I’m a bit too tall. Where are you staying?” I asked.
“An Airbnb in the South Bronx. It was all I could afford. The neighborhood is a little sketchy, but I’ll be fine.”
“You can stay here with me tonight. After all, I got you drunk, and going back to a sketchy neighborhood, dressed as you are, at night, and drunk, is probably not a good idea,” I said.
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?” Tiffany said, in what I hoped was only mock outrage.
“You look lovely, my dear, and maybe this is the booze talking, but any healthy man seeing you, dressed so fetchingly, would think that he’d like to…”
“Rip off my clothes and make passionate love to me?” Tiffany offered.
“Yes, something like that,” I said.
“Would it begin with kisses, or with just ripping off my clothes?” Tiffany asked, nervously giggling at the same time. “Would he spank me, too? Would it be vaginal, or anal, or both?”
“That would depend on the man, I’d guess, and of course how you reacted to the different approaches,” I said, trying to be politically correct, for once.
“I like kisses, if it has to happen. But I hope you know it’s not in the cards for us tonight. I’m attracted to you, yes, I admit it, but I’m married, and I don’t cheat. Sorry,” Tiffany said, and before I could move to kiss her anyway, she got up, saying, “Let’s look at the movie selections.”
We found nothing Tiffany wanted to watch, which was surprising, since there was a wide selection. “Do they have porn?” she said, actually surprising the shit out of me.
“All hotels have porn. It’s an extra charge, put discreetly on one’s bill,” I replied. “Do you like porn?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never watched porn. I mean, I’ve never watched a real pornographic movie, as opposed to a ten-minute clip on YouPorn, or something like that,” she said.
“They have Debbie Does Dallas. It’s a classic from the 1970s, the heyday of pornographic movies, and before my time. Long before your time, too, obviously. I’ve never seen it,” I said. “They also have Deep Throat.”
“Let’s watch it. Debbie was the name of a friend of mine back in high school,” she said.
“Was she blonde?”
“Yes, but why do you ask?”
“The star of the movie, Bambi Woods, is a fetching little blonde,” I explained.
We ordered more drinks via room service, and some desserts to put something in our stomachs, since neither of us had eaten dinner. Tiffany was beginning to slur her words, and she was leaning into me during the movie. I didn’t want to blow it, and freak her out, her being both young and married and all, so I hadn’t even tried to kiss her yet.
Finally, when she was practically melting her body into mine, I gently lifted up her chin, looked into her eyes, and went to kiss her. She adroitly moved her head away.
“I’m sorry, JB, but we can’t kiss. Whenever I’ve ever been drunk and kissed a guy, we ended up having sex. That’s why I told you that I don’t drink. I can’t control myself if I drink. I hope you understand?” Tiffany said. She looked as if she felt guilty, or something.
“I’m sure that’s not true, Tiffany. Wasn’t all that long ago, before you were married?” I asked.
“Yes, it was in college, and the first two years of graduate school. Then I met Bill and it was just Bill and only Bill, maltepe escort and I never drank unless Bill was right there, with me,” she said.
“Well, now you’re married and more mature. I’m sure you can control your impulses,” I said.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with the consequences!” Tiffany replied.
“True, very true. We could do an experiment, if you want to take a small risk? We could kiss, and see if you can resist me after a kiss or two?” I proposed.
Tiffany giggled. “Nice try, JB, but I already want to make love with you. Alcohol makes me horny and, quite frankly, I find you attractive.”
I figured she was 22 when she graduated college, add four or five years of graduate school, one or two years at a college teaching, or whatever, and she was at least 28 or 29 years old. Her badge said she worked for Eli Lilly, a pharmaceutical company. Even though she looked to be around 21 to my eyes, she was certainly old enough to know what she was doing. My age is 38, so I was around ten years her senior.
“What shall we do about this situation?” I asked.
“Watch Debbie Does Dallas? Is it gross?” Tiffany replied.
“For a pornographic movie, it’s in fairly good taste. Debbie is an innocent, dumb blonde, trying to earn money to go to Dallas to try out to be a Dallas Cheerleader. The sex can get explicit, though. I guess you know about sex already, being married and all,” I replied.
“You have no idea how much I know about sex! My alcohol problem got me into some pretty outrageous situations in college,” she said.
“Want to tell me about them?” I asked, hoping to hear some salacious, true stories.
“No, thank you,” Tiffany said.
We watched the movie, and once again, Tiffany melted her body into mine as we watched. Her perfume was intoxicating.
After a while, Tiffany spoke. “You know, this movie’s kind of boring. Debbie hasn’t even fucked yet. Let’s change the movie.”
Tiffany added, “I’ve changed my mind, too. You’re being the perfect gentleman. I feel like I can trust you. Let’s try kissing, and we’ll see if I can kiss a sexy guy without getting carried away. Are you game?”
We kissed. We kissed some more, and some more, and some more. I didn’t want to freak her out, so I took my time before I caressed her boobs, over her blouse. She groaned happily as soon as I touched them. I slipped a hand under her blouse, and caressed her boobs through her bra. I got even louder moans, so I unhooked her bra.
“Raise your arms, please,” I said, breaking the kiss, and she did! Up and off went her blouse and her bra, and her magnificent tits were before my hungry eyes. They were a French meal, those tits.
“You have beautiful boobs, Tiffany,” I said. She nervously giggled in response. She pulled my head down and we resumed kissing, as I played with her nipples. They became erect in response.
Later I removed her slacks, which hugged her ass fetchingly, and she even raised her hips to facilitate their removal. She was down to her panties. Maybe she was right about the booze making her easy? She certainly was a sexpot. She is the idea behind the phrase ‘hourglass figure.’
“I know what you’re thinking, JB. My panties stay on. Enjoy my near nudity, and kiss me wherever you want, but sex, real sex, is off the table. You got me drunk, but happily, not drunk enough!”
We resumed kissing, with me enjoying all of her body except what her panties hid from my prying eyes. I was still fully dressed, and Tiffany was making no move to change that situation. Still, it was fun, and I had no complaints.
Tiffany’s phone dinged, and she read the text. I tried to read her face, and mostly I saw anger. She put the phone down, stood up, went to the room’s huge mirror and gazed at herself. “Do you think I’m pretty, even without clothes? Be honest, JB.”
“I think you’re very pretty. To get the full effect, you should remove your panties,” I said.
“Surely you don’t need to see those parts of me to decide if I’m pretty, you rake,” she replied.
“All those artists who painted nudes, over the centuries? How many of their models were wearing panties, Tiffany?” I asked.
Tiffany just looked at me.
“The female body, naked, with its wondrous and smooth curves, is a thing of beauty, pure and simple. Having it jarringly interrupted with panties lessens the impact. Artists instinctively understood that,” I said.
“Didn’t they also fuck their models?” Tiffany offered.
“Often yes, I suspect,” I said.
“The panties stay on. Do you think I’m pretty anyway, with the panties on?”
“Yes, definitely. Here, let me take a picture so you can see yourself. We’ll delete it after, if you like,” I said.
“I can see myself fine in the mirror,” she replied.
“It’s different in a picture. I once had a girlfriend who often looked in the mirror, but she would never look at a picture of herself. She hated the way she looked in pictures. Somehow, it’s different,” I said.
“I don’t know about that,” she said.
“We’ll fire up my laptop, google naked women, and compare yourself to the others. You’ll see how you compare,” I said.
“You’re right. None of the women are wearing panties. Here, take another picture,” Tiffany said, as she slipped her panties off, just like that! “Pose me like this one, here.”