I haven’t actually scored there, mind you.
But whenever I go to such a place, I can smell the desperation and can sense the sexual urgency pulsing through the room along with the two-for-one margaritas and over-touched bar nuts.
I’m talking about a …
Any hotel bar.
First of all, most of the people there are far away from home.
They’re on expense accounts.
They’re feeling randy and mischievous.
And they’re really horny!
All those upper-crustie hotels on Fifth Avenue attract desirable men on a spree, but even the Marriott Marquis gets acceptable menfolk who are needy and available, increasingly so as the night goes on and their champagne gets bluer along with their nibbly bits.
The loneliness is such that you can easily go up to any stranger on a bar stool and strike up a conversation that will lead to a marriage — or at least a three-hour romp in the presidential suite — that you’ll never forget.
And they do happen to have a room right upstairs, so it’s terribly convenient, after all.
I really believe this, people.
Go to a hotel bar — any hotel bar — now and please name the kids after me.