The reception house of The French Manor was a-frickin-dorable, but I barely noticed the stone work as I burst through the front door and frantically sought les toilettes. As I peed for what was easily fourteen minutes, I took note of the ancient radiator grill by my feet and the crown molding around me. I peeked behind the shower curtain to find a cast iron tub deeper than my infatuation with Twilight.
I daydreamed of the long hot bath in my future as I headed back towards the lobby. “Holy merde, that was close!” I shouted towards Rocco as I rounded the corner. I like to think the look on the receptionist’s face was one of amusement, but Rocco had other theories. Regardless, she was still willing to escort us to our boudoir.
The suite was schweet, y’all. That cute husband of mine does not mess when it comes to getting all romantical. As they wandered across the lush carpet, obscenely massive four poster bed, cafe table, and love seats, my eyes danced when they finally found the fireplace. “There’s fruit in the fridge and the champagne is chilling on the table,” the receptionist instructed. I kicked off my shoes and counted the seconds till she went away. Fortunately Rocco paid attention as she explained how to work the gas fireplace.
I was incredibly relieved as I realized there was no potential for exposing my exceedingly white naked ass in all its squishy glory as it smushed against the glass wall of one of those famed two story “novelty” hot tubs of the Poconos. Don’t be silly, Interwebz. Of course there was a tub, just not one of THOSE monstrosities. The bathroom had only a shower stall, but an entire corner of the bedroom was filled with a massive jacuzzi surrounded by a slate platform. I had the hot water pouring into the basin of goodness before Rocco could say thanks and get the receptionist out the front door.
At some point I probably should have paid attention to the temperature rather than focusing on opening the champagne and surrounding the tub with as many white fluffy towels as physically possible. I think the adjective “scalding” would be an understatement. Rocco has a much higher threshold for searing hot water apparently, because he was able to just pop right in and take a seat. I spent at least ten minutes frantically hopping around with only one leg in the water at a time and chanting “hot hot HOT hot hot hot hot hot hot.” Yeah, I know how to whip out the romantical, too.
Before I had fully lowered by boiling booty to the floor of the tub, Rocco was poking at the jacuzzi controls. As the maniacal bubbles churned the water in angry bursts, I felt disturbing empathy for the children who had fared poorly in the fairy tales of my youth. I had hoped for something a little less cauldron-like. I watched with detachment as the mounds of white fluffy towels slowly absorbed the water frantically leaping from the tub. I looked doubtfully across the tub at Rocco. “How’s this working out for you so far?” I asked. He shrugged in response.
I shrugged too and the movement startled Rocco. He was suddenly disturbed by the proximity of my big toe to his sphincter. “I don’t think we’re doing this right,” he said with some urgency.
We squirmed into different positions and toyed with the jacuzzi settings until the water gently effervesced rather than frenetically churned like boiling pasta water. Rocco visibly relaxed and we were able to enjoy our champagne. Then there was the problem of getting OUT of the tub.
Sure slate tile is just lovely, but it’s also cold and treacherous when wet. As I mentioned earlier, we’d easily lost two to three gallons of water as a result of the repeated underwater explosions produced by the jacuzzi. That water now coated the slate tiles in a shiny, slippery layer of death. Rocco suggested I sit on the slate platform and spin my legs around to the lower step. No way was I plopping my recently warmed posterior on some ice cold slate. Instead I somehow managed to totter to my feet within the tub, then fling one leg over the ledge and onto the step below. I’m sure I just looked exquisitely sexy while I straddled the foot-wide piece of cold tile, trying desperately to prevent any snatch to slate contact.
In hindsight, perhaps the champagne glass hot tub would have been more flattering after all. Nah, I doubt it. Those things seriously give me the willies. I just can’t stop picturing that “people aquarium” scene from Burglar – but with my ass playing the Bobcat Goldthwait role.
You know, I’m just going to leave you with that visual until tomorrow. You’re welcome.