Room Service

I encountered Republican strongman and former Ronald Reagan "Drug Czar" Bill Bennett in the early 1990s when he spoke to a group of my company's senior managers gathered in Chicago to discuss key human resources issues. Addressing the subject of workplace behavior--sex, drugs, theft, violence, etc.--he presented a decidedly tough law-and-order approach rooted in conservative religious doctrine. Basically, his message was to implement morally absolute, employer-favorable policies stricter than what is legally required, then enforce them with zero tolerance by terminating offenders and, in cases that did cross the legal line, prosecuting them to the fullest extent of the law. His delivery was commanding--practically intimidating--and so no one asked questions in the time reserved for them. I was seated at a table with my boss, a vice president, and neither of us felt comfortable asking questions or making comments. Bennett's positions were no surprise; after all, he was, at the time, one of the primary figureheads, along with Newt Gingrich, of the ultra-conservative wing of the Republican Party.

The interesting part is how I actually met him. Though I had reservations guaranteed late arrival at the upscale hotel near O'Hare, all standard rooms were sold when I arrived late due to flight delays, so they gave me an upgrade room—the posh Senator's Suite—at the regular room rate. That's standard operating procedure for hotels, as they regularly overbook rooms to compensate for the inevitable no-shows. The evening after Bennett spoke, I changed into my sweats and went down to the exercise room to work out. When finished, I stepped onto the express elevator alone to ride up to my top-floor suite when someone out of sight called out to hold the door, which I did. In stepped Mr. Bennett himself, perspiring profusely, and holding a mixed drink in each hand. The big man was wearing nothing but a much-too-small hotel bathrobe, tied so loosely that his dangling penis was exposed. Not wanting to embarrass him, and, frankly, a bit scared of the imposing man, I neither identified myself as having been in the audience that day nor indicated that I knew who he was. Apparently, he did not recognize me.

Obviously intoxicated, grinning ear to ear, and very booze-friendly, he chatted with me on the ride up--saying that he'd been in the hotel Jacuzzi too long, which "shrank my pee-pee and hoped that would not be a problem for my party plans later." Too much information! I just smiled and nodded agreeably at everything he said. Though the ride up was brief, he managed to down one of the mixed drinks before flinging the plastic glass and ice onto the floor of the elevator. "They've got people who take care of that, Sanitation Engineers, har, har, har!" he mused. Arriving at the top floor, the large man lumbered out the elevator to the Presidential Suite, its door immediately adjacent to mine, farting loudly and chuckling as he fumbled the key into the door. This Bill Bennett certainly contrasted dramatically from the one who had spoken earlier at our conference.

Tired and hungry, I decided to get dinner from room service, so I ordered and waited, listening attentively for a knock. In the mean time, I could not help but overhear the goings-on in the neighboring suite: the door opening and closing several times, men's voices, and, a short while later, what sounded like a poker game. "Raise you a thousand," I heard distinctly just before the door slammed shut. It would be years before Bennett's high stakes gambling became publicized. Expecting my room service delivery and famished, as soon as I heard a knock, I leapt up and snatched my door open. There stood four extremely attractive young women wearing slinky, revealing dresses. So, was this the way room service was delivered to top-floor guests? But where was the food? Then, the drop-dead gorgeous Asian said, "Heh-roh. We from Eregant Escort and here to prease you." I devoured this eye candy, and before I could say anything, the Presidential Suite door opened, and a man with a crew cut shot me a death-ray glare before quickly ushering the women in. I glimpsed a shoulder holster beneath his open suit jacket as he turned, and beyond, an array of high-end liquor bottles on the in-room bar. The foxy oriental girl said, "So solly," over her shoulder to me, and I heard Bennett's unmistakable voice call out, "The Chink's mine, as usual!" as the door slammed shut.

My food finally came, which I ate while listening to a myriad of moans, groans, bumps, knocks, slaps, and the occasional scream from next door. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to deduce what was happening in there. Would I ever have loved to be a fly on that wall! Full and sleepy, I inserted earplugs and crashed.

Having an early-morning flight out, I phoned the front desk as soon as I awoke the following morning to request express checkout, but I was told that all charges had already been taken care of, and that there was something there for me to pick up—which explained the blinking light on my phone. Now that was certainly puzzling, but the Front Desk Clerk had no other information. When I came down there in person with my luggage on the way out, she said there was no record of who had paid for my charges, only that it was by cash, then she handed me a sealed hotel-logo envelope. Afraid the considerable charges would turn up later on my credit card after it was too late to submit an expense reimbursement to my company, I asked to speak with the General Manager about this, but he was not immediately available. The airport shuttle bus was about to depart, and I had to catch my flight, so I dropped the matter when she gave me a copy of the zero-balance charge sheet, and rushed onto the van. I took a seat and opened the envelope, only to find inside twenty crisp one hundred dollar bills and a small package of cough drops called Silence Is Golden.

Although I cannot prove it, I am certain that it was Bennett or his people who paid for my hotel bill and provided the two thousand dollars accompanied by the clever keep-quiet message. Frankly, I was grateful for the hush money, as he had opted for it instead of an alternative, less pleasant way of keeping me quiet, and who can't use an extra two grand? I used the money to go to Skip Barber's high performance automobile driving school, a pretty Republican thing to do. I think Bill would have approved.

In a few weeks, I was back in the Second City at the same hotel on business again, and I just could not put the Bill Bennett incident out of my mind. I flipped through the Yellow Pages to "Escort Service." I was frankly surprised at how many there were, but, sure enough, there was one called Elegant Escort, so I called, pretending to be interested in a lady of the evening. Learning that it accepted cash and all major credit cards, I was given a price run-down for each of the levels and told that "Our most beautiful, top-tier girls are two thousand, which is ALL-inclusive (emphasis on 'ALL'). A gratuity is neither required nor expected but does ensure her availability should you subsequently request that particular escort." Well, this was enormously interesting information, but, they never mentioned anything specific about the escort "work" itself. Since they were so forthcoming, and I am the ever-inquisitive one, I pressed on. Saying I preferred Asian women and then describing to a tee what Bennett's "chink" looked like—detail below--I was told that they had a girl with the amusing and surely pseudonymous name Sucki-Fucki that fit my criteria exactly. Had to be the same girl.

Though my encounter with her had been brief, because she was so striking and close and I got views of her from front, side, and rear, I had stored sharp images of Sucki-Fucki in my mental file cabinet Women/Sizzling Hot/Chicago. Tall for a Japanese girl, she had straight, super-shiny jet-black hair hanging all the way down to an incredibly narrow waist. On her clear Miss Universe face were thin brows arching high over almond-shaped eyes nearly as dark as her hair, high cheekbones, and sensuous wet lips surrounding a bright, friendly smile. Her teeth were so perfect any orthodontist would have been proud to hang a photo of her in his office. She had a look that was at once exotic and familiar.

The night I saw her she had on a thin satin wrap-around dress, jade green, pulled tightly against an awesome physique with a sash tied in front, the fringed ends of which swished and dangled against her crotch in a seemingly come-hither gesture. Below the short hem emerged long, stalky legs, silky smooth like her slender arms, terminating in small, sexy feet inside open-toe high-heeled pumps the same jade color as her barely-there dress. In back, the flesh of muscular, round buns flexed alluringly beneath the glossy satin, as if to say, "Squeeze me, spank me, pull 'em apart and please me."

Now, if she had been like most girls from the Land of the Rising Sun, she would have had small breasts, but Sucki-Fucki was not at all typical. Baseball-size and, of course, bra-less, they stuck straight out and then turned a bit up toward hard, prominent nipples that strained against the thin satin dress, the plunging neck line of which barely covered them. So firm one might initially think they were implants, her orbs jiggled with every move and assumed countless pleasing shapes with each gesture of her arms, leaving no doubt they were natural wonders. Mouth-watering in their own right, they were also very close together, making for deep cleavage that veritably begged for a man's face--or other body part--to nestle between. Situated on a jutting rib cage over that tiny waist, her boobs appeared quite large, though they were actually in the medium range.

In her prime at about 25, Sucki-Fucki was, basically, a sexy young beauty with absolutely no room for improvement. Elegant Escort had certainly categorized her correctly as a "most beautiful, top-tier girl."

Curious, I asked the escort service representative just what "ALL-inclusive" meant with regard to Sucki-Fucki, and the friendly but careful answer was that her only limitations were "activities involving intense pain and serious corporal injury." Well, this was all extremely provocative to a good ol' boy from the Bible Belt like me, and my mental wheels began to spin ever faster.

From my recent, previous hotel stay, I remembered the access code that took the elevator up to the restricted top floor. I could go up there during our seminar's mid-morning break--when housekeeping was cleaning rooms and the doors would be wide open—and duck into one of the suites to phone from there Elegant Escort for an afternoon date with Sucki-Fucki. This would not only give me a chance to scope out the entire floor, but, if the escort service had caller ID, they could see that I was phoning from their customer's regular Chicago place of lodging. I'd heard enough of Bennett's voice and practiced it telling this story that I could impersonate him well, and, knowing that he was a regular from his overheard "usual" comment, convincingly have the charges put on his standing account. I'd employ the old tape-across-the-striker trick as I left the suite to make sure I could get back in the room later. The seminar was over at lunch, and my flight didn't depart until late afternoon, so I would return to the room and have several hours up close and personal with the gorgeous Japanese escort.

The top-floor suites in swanky hotels are seldom fully occupied on weekdays—that's why they put me in the Senator's Suite before. Even in the highly unlikely event they were fully booked, chances are very probable the guests are businessmen who would not be checking in until early evening, anyway. So I felt extremely confident that it would be no problem finding an unoccupied suite. When Sucki-Fucki showed up, I'd open the door in dark suite and tie, present myself as part of Bennett's party, and simply tell her that he had suddenly been called away on urgent government business. Already compensated whether she serviced him or someone else, she was unlikely to be suspicious since I was in a top-floor suite of his usual hotel. There was always the chance that she might recognize me from our brief meeting a few weeks before, but that I could use to my advantage by reinforcing the ruse and saying that I was with Bennett's entourage then, as well. Finally, with all loose ends tied up, I'd rip my and her clothes off, and we would get down to "business." She would probably appreciate that I did not suffer from Shrunken Jacuzzi Pee-Pee Syndrome.

But I was happily married and not about to do anything like that. The fact that I COULD made it a titillating fantasy, though.

Besides, the agency rep. said she was tied up and would not be available until the following day. Hmmm. Perhaps Bill Bennett was back in town up there on the top floor right then with Sucki-Fucki tied to his hotel bed. I wondered if it was just coincidence that the price of a top-notch Chicago prostitute was the same amount he thought it would take to keep me quiet. Given that the sums were equal, had he considered sending one directly to my room as a "silence-is-golden girl?" Now that's what I'd call room service!