The Art of Erotica

The Last Room

It wasn’t as if I went to extraordinary lengths to watch a football game on TV, but my sister was having a Super Bowl party at her house in Rochester — New York — not Rochester, Michigan, which was only a twenty-minute drive from my house.

My sister moved out there a few months ago, and it seemed as if it were a good excuse as any to take a road trip out there to spend some time with her and her family provided that the weather was fine and the roads were clear along the route, which they were expected to be through the next few days.

But lake effect snows could be sudden and tricky if cold northern winds decided to blow across the warm and shallow water of Lake Erie between Cleveland and Buffalo. This past winter, it rarely happened. Most days this winter usually hit somewhere in the mid ‘30’s in the region and left what little snow that fell to melt and evaporate by one in the afternoon on those days. That was fine, very fine with me. I hated the cold and snow. If it wasn’t for my work, I would have moved to someplace more temperate years ago.

Of course, just outside of Buffalo Mother Nature decided to turn into a nasty frigid bitch and started to go on a rampage whipping winds and flakes of snow all over the place. I figured she would let up, but as the sky grew darker, the snow got deeper and the roads got icier. My sister called to warn me, “Don’t come out. Get to a hotel as soon as you can. We’re getting hammered out here. They’re calling for ten to twelve inches and we already have five.”

“Great. Just great,” I thought as my car started to slide on the pavement.

I pulled into the first hotel I saw off the freeway. It looked big enough and figured they’d have a room.

I couldn’t have been more wrong. As I waited in line at the front desk, I heard the clerk tell a man he had gotten the last room.

“Oh fuck,” I said out loud, thinking I had kept that epithet to myself.

The man who checked into the last room heard me as he turned around.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He wasn’t only pleasant and polite, but he was gorgeous in a Marlboro Man kind of way with thick and wavy chestnut brown hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and a hint of a Boston accent. The combination didn’t seem to make sense, but it made him interesting.

“That’s OK,” I said. “I got this far. It shouldn’t be a problem finding another hotel nearby.”

“It’s not worth the trouble,” he said. “There’s already six inches outside, maybe seven and it’s not letting up anytime soon. Tell you what. I have two beds in my …

Read the rest of this story in my eBook, Taking Flight, Taking Rides, available at Smashwords.