My Sexual Journey

I am 51. I have lived in cheap hotels and motels the last five years. I heard it first at a hotel called Microtel in Morgan Hill, California. Microtel because the rooms were really micro, the kind you might find in Paris or Tokyo, not in America. Unlike Paris, where the buildings are made of concrete, in California they are mainly all wood. You can literally hear whispers from the room adjacent to yours.The room was about $100 a night. Ideal for a couple having an extra-marital affair or for college kids looking for a hump. Many Mexicans stayed there as well. The shrieking and the screaming went on and on. It could only be a Mexican couple, I thought. White people don't fuck like that. I got a hard-on, but there was nothing I could do, except stay in my room. I couldn't even complain to the front office clerk. I mean, what are hotels meant for if not for fucking? Give us a bed, a clean sheet, and we are in nirvana.Was he taking her in the arse? The action must have gone on for an hour. I wanted to be a fly on their wall. I daren't knock on their door. They were in heat and might pull a gun on me.Later on, in a different hotel, I encountered a similar but more subdued experience. Another guest too could hear it. He was waiting by the elevator until the fucking stopped. I too stayed outside my room.This was all new to me. Sonya never shrieked or screamed. She did not even moan and groan. She just shuddered.I was 29. It was March 2000. I had moved to Bell in Austin for a new job. Fresh out of grad school with a master's degree in electrical engineering from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. It was going to be my first real paycheck. I thought I would throw parties every weekend.Far from it. Almost everyone in my group was married with four children. There were two women though who had joined about my time. One was Connie, a skinny woman with skin parched as leather, but still attractive. The other was Sonya.Work was onerous. Connie came to my cubicle to give me a shoulder rub. I didn't know if it was a pass or not. I didn't have a car. She gave me a ride home. I didn't have a single piece of furniture in my apartment. I invited her in nevertheless. Perhaps we would have sex on the carpet. Fortunately, she cried off.Sonya's cubicle was right behind mine. She was a brunette with pale skin and jet-black frizzy hair that she wore as a tom boy. The minute I introduced myself to her, she started biting her lower lip.I had read that a woman biting her lower lip is a sign of invitation. Or her crossing and uncrossing her legs. But this was my first real job, and I was not getting too presumptuous. Before I rented the apartment, I had been staying about three miles from the office in a cheap hotel called Extended Stay America. Every evening after work I would call a cab to go home. Sonya was listening. She said that she would give me a ride home.