2013-04-12. Being the Man-Maid (a male motel maid) is not as sexy as most people imagine. Or maybe I should say it is not sexy like they would imagine it to be. You know, the kind of running around up and down the halls, being chased around by big hairy truck drivers who want to have carnal relations with the beautiful young maid. It could happen someday, but it hasn't yet. No, being the Man Maid is more like being a matinee movie idol, except real movie stars don't have to clean up after truck drivers, or haul big bags of trash around.
Being a man dressed in a female housekeeping uniform--a skirt, blouse, and apron (no panties) is all the sexiness I will ever need from the job. I know it sounds crazy, but once I am wearing my maid's outfit--with its perfect fit in the bosom (with the help of some clean scrub rags) and its tight skirt cradling my derriere, I feel like a different person.
Once I put on my black wig (streaked with platinum) and my Mary Kay white lipstick, I get so hot looking at myself in the hotel room mirrors, that I have to take a break, and you know . . . get a little sumpfin sumpfin from that fine
motel maid. It makes a very manly man like me feel his pulsating manliness even more--because I don't recognize myself. When I look in the mirror all I see is a slut who will do anything I tell her--like, get on your knees and scrub that floor--and you can't feel too much more masculine than that.
That's when I wish I had a real vagina and beautiful breasts, but I have to make do with my butt and hotel rags.
I love to roll in the clients bed, and you'd be shocked at all the sex toys they keep in their suitcases. I always make a point of leaving my female guests' toys coated with a little something to remember the Man-Maid always and forever.
Also being a drag-cleaner has its hidden benefits which are infrequently discussed and almost never in front of civilians. This may be sole exception to that rule. One benefit is the unwritten property code of housekeeping and laundry services: leave it, lose it, lay it down and forget it--it becomes the property of those who find it. Housekeepers keepers, losers weepers.
This applies to single socks found under the bed, fifty-dollar bills tucked away in Gideon's Bible, lamb-chops stored in the fridge, and good-looking spouses left to languish in a motel room while Hubby goes out and gets shit-faced drunk with her detested in-laws. Such spouses do some remarkable things to get even. It's kind of funny, because they don't know they're making erotic overtures to the hotel maid that was in earlier in the day playing with her toys.
But its all done in fun.
Don't bother calling the front desk crying about your lost items. Suck it up and be glad for the maid's rapper boyfriend, the current owner of your Patek-Phillipe wrist watch. He's says it's the fishizzle. I'll bet he could get a fast bill for it at the right pawn shop.
Of course, the caliber of the clientele dictates the quality and nature of what they leave behind. Hotel guests make odd choices to avoid looking common. One long-term female guest showed great respect for the plumbing of her suite, never flushing her monthly hygiene items down the toilet. Apparently, she was far too modest to include them in the bath trash receptacle. Maybe she thought her Man-Maid would faint dead away at the sight of them, or sell them to other guests as souvenirs of her tourist-attraction cootch.
So what did this soul of delicacy do with the residuum of her monthly visitor? She pitched them all into a narrow access space between the bathroom wall and the shower enclosure--a nice, dark place--out-of-sight and out of mind. I'm surprised she forgot to take them with her, so I packed them up and had them forwarded to her office.
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