The Tale of the Missing Cell Phone

Woman Searching Through Her Purse


This story was told to me by a friend; admittedly, it could very well have happened to me, in fact probably has happened to me, on several occasions, but I am also the type that when I have a screaming fight on the phone, I throw said phone out the window. Of a moving vehicle. But no, for once this is not my dumb-assery on display.

…Back to our story. My friend, a very pretty lass, was out on the town one night, as was her wont to do. She met a very nice bloke, a very fine bloke, with nice juicy muscles. And a cute bum. From what she could recall.

One drink turned into several, and as they stumbled out of the bar, the pact was made that they would not end the night alone. So where to go? “I’m staying at the _____ Hotel, just down the street.”

“Oh! You don’t live here? Where do you live?”

“In ______. I just came up for the day for a business meeting, I’m going back tomorrow.” (I know, all the ______ is annoying, but she begged me not to give real names, places, etc. You know, because of  all the…tens of people who read our blog.)

“Well! That sounds perfect!” So off they toddled, back to his lovely, anonymous hotel room with a king sized bed and hopefully other king-sized items. (Like pillows! And towels! And, oh yeah, COCK!)

They did the deed, in fact, did it several times. She thinks. She’s not sure. They were both quite shitfaced. In fact, she couldn’t quite remember if they did have sex. Did they? Yes, yes they did. She’s sure. Almost.

She wakes up with a start (which we all do, because when you drink and then pass out, “the clearance of alcohol from your body probably triggered a rebound effect, ripping you right out of the deepest period of your sleep cycle.” But it’s also because, duh, you’re in a strange bed in a strange room with a stranger, naked, as are you, and chances are in that split second in which you awake from slumber and shoot straight up like a Mexican jumping bean, you do not recall who/what/when/where/WHY.

So, it comes to her, in bits and pieces, and fits and starts, and then she realizes it’s a week day, which means that she better get the hell out of there and get the hell home because not only are the circumstances of her current situation coming to light, she also remembers her boss lives 3 blocks away from _____ Hotel. And he does like his morning walks, doesn’t he? With the wife. And the dog.

She gets out of there. Yes, the walk of shame, with too-high stilettos that scream hussy and the too tight, bizarro combination of sheer and shiny top that looked so! cute! the night before, and of course the fake eyelashes and heavy coating of eyeliner that now looks vaguely like Buffalo Bill’s first victim, remember, the head in the jar?!?!? OK maybe not that bad. But yeah, drag queen gone horribly, horribly wrong. Can’t twerk it, gurl.

She gets outside, starts walking briskly, because she is not a slutty street performer, she is a busy, accomplished woman who has places to be and things to do, and to emphasize her point she reaches into her purse to smartly pull out her smartphone and start checking email and texting things and researching things on Google. But…the phone, like Mr. West, is GONE.

Aggghhhhhhhackackack run back inside the hotel, the quiet, carpeted lobby where the morning staff is just straightening up and no, they’re not staring, or smirking, these are professionals, just doing our jobs, madam. I mean, ma’am. Huffing up the stairs, four floors, rather than take the elevator and risk being silently castigated by geriatrics who have been up since 5AM and are going out for lunch. Huffing and puffing, up to…what room was it? WHAT ROOM WAS IT?!?!?!? DEAR GOD! PLEASE! IF THERE IS A GOD, GIVE ME THE ROOM NUMBER, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE OH PLEASE–416! That’s it, 416!

She knocks on the door–nay, BANGS at the door, with a mixture of joyful relief and super tweaky anxiety, please just let this whole goddamn experience be over and done with, just gimme my phone, come on, come on, come ON ANSWER THE MUTHAFUCKIN DOOR!!!

Nothing. The door behind her opens, tsks loudly, then closes. FUCKKKKK OK breathe, just breathe, what is it they do in the movies? Ah yes, housekeeping! And there’s–there’s–a HOUSEKEEPER! She gallops over like a giddy prancing pony, hello, hello! I was locked out of my room, hee hee ha ha can you imagine? Hee hee! Ha ha! So can you please let me in? Please?

The housekeeper eyes her suspiciously, shakes her head.

Oh, you don’t speak English? Anglais? Uh, hablo, habla Angla? letta me inn-a? Pour favore?

The housekeeper gives her the stink eye. “You need to go to the front desk,” She says, in the Queen’s English.

Huffing-puffing back downstairs, oh God this is just getting waay out of control, all for like, what, maybe 5 seconds of sex? Was all this horseshit really, truly worth it? Why the FUCK don’t I just get that cell phone, like, handcuffed to my wrist or embedded in my arm?

She skulks up to the front desk. A brightly-dressed, possibly German family is checking in. They all give her big smiles. Americans are funny! The woman behind the counter is everything she fears: well dressed. Professional. Looks like she hasn’t had sex in 5 years.

“I’m–I’m locked out of my room, it’s, it’s uh, 416–can I please get a key card?”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “What’s the last name?”

“It’s not under my last name, it’s under my, uh, the guest’s last name.”

“OK, their last name?”

My friend’s brain has literally started dribbling out of her left ear. That is how she feels. As if she is having a stroke, a very slow one, or some sort of catastrophic brain injury that causes you to die a slow, crushing death consisting of humiliation, guilt and shame, not necessarily in that order.

She hangs her head, giving up at last. “I don’t know.”

The woman begins. “Well, there’s no way I can possibly let you in that room. We have security measures in place–”

My friend has no defenses left, and certainly no more fucks to give. “It was a one-night stand. We hooked up. We passed out. I snuck out early. I must have dropped my cell phone. He’s not answering the door, I think he’s still passed out. I just want to get my cell phone and leave. I promise I’ll never come back.”

The woman looks at her, saying nothing. Then sighs, shakes her head. “Come on,” she says, leading my friend towards the elevators.

“So,” I ask, “then what happened?”

“The front desk lady let me in, he was still asleep, I grabbed my phone, and I got the fuck outta Dodge.”

“And the guy?”

“Oh yeah! I almost forgot – we’re going out next Saturday. He seems super cool!”

Well, it’ll be quite a tale to tell the grandkids, won’t it.

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