If It Walks Like a Duck

Last night I left the hotel where I was seeing a client and as I left, I smiled and sashayed past the attendants and bellhops as I always do. And as always, they (always men, never women) smiled effusively and kow-towed to me on my way out, grabbing doors, bowing and tipping hats, generally falling over themselves to help me.

This particular hotel is one that I have visited multiple times, and it is not the only one where I make a semi-regular appearance.

Becuase I do not book hotels -- I merely visit my clients wherever they are staying -- I do not have much say in where I show my face, or how often it happens. Though it is relatively unlikely that I will run into the same employees every time I visit a given location, I do often feel that they are smiling, or perhaps smirking, behind their little white gloves.

Let's face it: I am an attractive young woman, who walks into a five-star hotel alone, dressed to the nines, with impeccable hair and makeup. I am not carrying any luggage, only a large tote, and I smile and greet the attendants on my way in while my stiletto heels mark my passage down to the elevator bank. I almost always meet a gentleman in the hotel lounge (which is usually near the entrance) and accompany him up to his room.

One or two, sometimes three or four, hours later, I click-clack my way back down the hall; put-together but perhaps not quite as impeccably as I was on my way in. As I make my way towards the door, the procession of attendants begins again. Often, I give them a sly smirk -- I cannot help it, I feel as though they are in on the secret, and they probably are -- as I wait for them to open the door. I am ever so pleasant, occasionally jovial, and they are like little boys, eager to please me as I head off into the night. Sometimes I catch them nudging each other with their elbows when they think it is outside my field of vision.

I know they can't help but notice my slightly-tousled hair, or the simple fact that I spent only a couple hours in the hotel, visiting a room, before I leave again. Or, in some cases, the fact that I was at the very same hotel only a few days earlier, or last week, playing the same game.

Sometimes I wonder how many of us the hotel workers must see in any given day, week, or weekend. I do not know if they suspect anything at all, if they suspect but wonder about whether it is possible, or if they just know flat out what is going on beneath their noses. Does it amuse them? I cannot imagine that they are clueless as to what the girls like us are doing. I play coy and hope that they are on my side, which they appear to be.