In Which We Texas, Just a Little

 

Yes indeedy, I have returned to the swampy embrace of Houston, my childhood home. I tell people I am originally from Houston, that is a lie; in reality, the nasty little suburb I grew up in is about 2 hours east of where I am now.  That's okay, it's all Houston.  I managed to escape the Gulf Coast of Texas 49 years ago, but my family still refers to my trips back here as "coming home".  Bitch, home is California, and 10 minutes on a Houston freeway makes me glad of it.

But I AM looking forward to Mexican food and some excellent barbecue. 

To be fair, there are moments when the old place can be charming.  It had been cloudy and rainy all day before I got here which helps ameliorate the hellish temps that are the norm in August.  I was in a good mood and prepared to be charmed so I walked over to a particularly fine donut shop and the air was soft, balmy in fact, with a little breeze. 

The particularly fine donuts are about a block away from my hotel.  I say "about" because the hotel is literally surrounded on all sides by parking lots.  There seems to be a nominal street that wanders through them, but it is very difficult to discern.  The easiest way to access the hotel is to just plow through some random parking lot.

I'm very fond of this hotel, it's attractively decorated with an actual sense of humor. And they have delicious deviled eggs in the dining room. 

The look is very plush with lots of velvet and marble and brass.  It's a design that says "I only employ the very finest hookers." 

The view from the balcony includes some of the ubiquitous parking lot, the lush green, perfectly flat landscape off in the distance, and of course, the freeway, all 18 lanes of it.  Eighteen.  Lanes.  Eighteen. Motherfucking. Lanes.

The bathroom is absolutely enormous, bigger than my bedroom at home, with the toilet discreetly enclosed in its own room.  What simply enchants me is:

A small room that opens off of the toilet.  It's finished with fancy tile work, attractive wallpaper,  and a small piece of art, but it has nothing else in it.  It has no apparent function, it's only about 8 feet wide and is, let me repeat, completely empty. I have no idea what's going on here.  Maybe it's where you send the hookers when they've been bad. 

I wish room service would send up some hookers that look like this:

I think he would look lovely in the little empty room.

The always welcome Nicolo Neri

How come some other grumpy old man gets to have this in his hotel room and all I get is the Mystery Chamber?

I have a nicer bathroom than that, even if it does not come equipped with muscle pussy.

I can already tell the Little Empty Room is going to weigh on my mind.

Where were these guys when I was a little baby gay trapped in Texas?