Awaken

He held his breath as the girls walked past. None of them peeked inside. He waited until he heard them unlock their door and go inside. He prepared to tiptoe out when the cleaning lady called "Housekeeping!" again and knocked on the next door. Count to 25, he told himself. She'll come back out for linens before staying inside for a while.

He sighed. He couldn't play hide and seek with her forever. Without his key, there wasn't even a reason to be up here. He considered snatching a towel, or even a bedsheet, from the cart and heading back downstairs. That would be a decent idea as long as he didn't get caught. Walking around with something you swiped from Housekeeping, and hey! What are you wearing underneath? Nothing?

He peeked outside. Was the cleaning lady moving closer? It looked like she was. He counted the doors between them, wishing he had done so earlier. Eight. After eight times however long it took to clean a room, she would pass by the ice room, maybe give it a quick dusting, and his hiding place would be no good.

He waited for the vacuum cleaner to run, then another stretch of quiet, then "Housekeeping!" and another knock. He waited for her to go inside and checked where she was. Seven doors away. Definitely moving in his direction. Seven rooms to clean...

Including his.

He shook his head and smiled. That was it. He didn't need a key, because she had one! All he needed to do was wait until she opened his door, and then sneak in behind her. Duck into the bathroom, turn on the light, hell, turn on the shower, and then claim he had been there all the time. Sure, it wouldn't be easy; but difficult was better than impossible.

His own room was two doors away from where she was now. Just wait for the third "Housekeeping!", he told himself, and go in. All you have to do is not get caught.

That was more important than ever, he realized. A naked guy down on the pool deck could be written off as a public nuisance, a fraternity prank. A naked guy sneaking around people's hotel rooms was a sex offender. The stakes were higher here.

A man left his room and strolled down the hall, whistling. Just walk on by, John thought. You don't need ice, you don't need an overpriced soda. Just keep going. The worst part was that he wouldn't know if the guy was coming in until his frame filled the doorway.

Keep going, John thought. The man grew nearer, and for a moment John saw him, at an angle through the doorway. Gym shorts, Laker jersey. Headphones. Fortunately, he kept walking and never peeked into the ice room.

There was little to do now but wait. He took deep, silent breaths. He felt his pulse begin to slow. He peered into the hallway, following the floral patterns in the wallpaper on the opposite side of the hall, framed by his oblique angle of view through the ice room doorway. The cleaning lady's "Housekeeping!" startled him, as he had calmed himself into nearly a meditative state. He stretched out his hands and fingers, and stood on the balls of his feet. One room to go.

When he heard "Housekeeping!" again, he counted to 25, looked both ways, and stepped into the hallway. The open door to his room beckoned like the gates of heaven.

She had parked the cart on his side of the door, so he'd have to sneak around it before slipping inside. That was a small drawback; he would have preferred staying against the wall instead of the middle of the hallway. He started tiptoeing toward his room before noticing his bare feet made no sound on the carpet anyway.

He had almost reached the cart, preparing to sidestep around it, when the advantage of having the cart on his side became clear. Without warning, the cleaning lady stepped out. He immediately dropped into a crouch behind the cart.

"Hello?" she said. She had seen something. "Is anyone there?"

Please, no, he thought. Go back inside. Behind the cart, and its small attached garbage bin, there was nowhere else for him to go. The cart was less than chest high to him, maybe shoulder height for her. Only the angle of sight kept him hidden. A taller person could have spotted him from where she stood. If she happened to walk around the cart, she would see him anyway.

"Hello?" she repeated. He didn't even dare peek in her direction. There was no way to check on her without revealing himself.

"Hmmph," she said, apparently giving up.

He kept still. He'd have to wait a while, not too long, and then hope she was back inside. Suppose she was standing there, silent, waiting in ambush? There was no way to know for sure. On his tiptoes, he was crouched down, legs apart. His quads and calves were starting to burn. His dick was having a fine old time, hard as ever, enjoying the situation and the adrenaline. This still irritated and baffled him, but something that he had never understood before was beginning to make some sense.

What was the point of guys flashing or streaking? Now an attractive woman showing off her body in skimpy clothes (or no clothes at all) was a noble undertaking. Nearly all guys favored such things, and the women in European beaches and so on seemed to at least tolerate it. But a guy running around naked was a supply for which there was no demand. Guys were not interested, of course; but most women didn't appreciate it either. They got offended, or repulsed, or spooked. They called the cops.

But John was beginning to understand the appeal of male exhibitionism. It was mainly for the man himself. He knew this now. Part of him even exulted in the thrill of what had happened downstairs, completely naked in public, people staring at him, his ass and cock and balls in plain view. If he was erect, that was even better; a situation that fed on itself. And if others had seen him come...

He replayed the incident on the couch, like a highlight reel. He embellished its details, and he imagined the situation including the girl's point of view. Her looks were unchanged; she had been quite appetizing enough in real life. But in his replay, her bikini became much more precariously held together. Instead of a conventional bikini top, she now wore a bandeau, strapless and bare shoulders, with a single knot in the back. Side ties also kept her bikini bottom from falling off. She had walked carefully from her room, daring herself to wear the bikini in public, afraid of causing the ties to loosen.

When she fell back, he fell on top of her, and his hands inadvertently fumbled at her breasts, the back knot unraveled. To her horror, the top was now completely loose and easily slid off entirely. She was now bare from shoulders to waist, with this naked stranger on top of her. She squirmed away in the only direction she could: headfirst, along the couch cushion. She found out this was a bad idea; now his face was between her breasts. Worse, the knots holding her bikini bottom up had come undone; she had felt the material slipping down, and her bare bottom sliding along the cushion. Her bikini bottom slipped between her legs and off. Suddenly, before she could even imagine such a thing happening, she was also naked.

He tried to get up, but only found himself falling further forward, so he was face to face with her again. His dick probed between her thighs, then at her pubic mound as she struggled beneath him. He lifted his hips up a moment, but slipped again, and his cock slid inside her. Her eyes widened like dinner plates and she struggled more vigorously; but he was in for good.

John interrupted his reverie. I've got to stop thinking about that, about her, he thought as he hid behind the cleaning cart. His dick was pulsing almost painfully, and a spot of heat on the tip felt like he had pissed too close to a campfire. He tried to think about something else, anything else, but his mind returned to one more vision of the naked girl moaning in ecstasy as he fucked her. He had just enough time to cup one hand over the end of his dick before it started pumping out hot streams of come. He gritted his teeth as his entire body seemed to spasm, to squeeze more out.

Shit, I'm in big fucking trouble now, he thought. He stood up, and the cleaning lady wasn't there, but it might not have made a difference anyway. With his clean hand, he grabbed a set of drink napkins, tipping a stack of them onto a box of teabags. He wiped as much off as he could and tossed the sticky napkins in the trash bag. The smell seemed to fill the hallway. How could he hide now?

The elevator chimed again. Alternatives were being shut off one by one as the world closed in around him. He stepped around the cart and peeked into his room. The cleaning lady was placing the pillows back on the bed, and drawing the bedspread. She was facing away, for the moment. There wasn't much time.

He tiptoed into his entryway. The closet was to the right, and the door to the darkened bathroom to the left. She tucked the bedspread under each pillow. He nudged the door open and backed inside, easing it shut. In the dark, he reached for the lower switch that would turn on the light but not the fan. Good so far.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It was freezing cold, almost too cold to stand, but he felt exhilarated now; he was home free. If anyone asked, he had been here all the time. Just taking a shower in his own hotel room.

The hot water came up, like a sunrise, and he turned it all the way up. The scalding water and lather cleansed his skin of the sweat and dirt and worse. He scrubbed and shampooed, spending about twenty minutes by his estimate, his fingertips shriveling, long enough for the cleaning lady to have left the room. The next step was easy: in the safety of his locked hotel room, get dressed. Confident, he toweled off, wrapped it around his waist, and stepped outside.

The cleaning lady was still there. So was a guy from hotel security, in a suit not quite his size. A silver nameplate identified him as S. Grath, hotel security. Shit.

"What's going on?" John said.

"We need to see some ID," Grath said. The cleaning lady was silent, but fixed him with an accusing stare.

"What's this about?"

"Let's just see the ID."

"Can I get dressed first?"

"This should only take a minute." Grath's affable smile didn't match the situation.

John's heart sunk, as he guessed everything had been found out while he was showering. But: if all Grath wanted to see was if he belonged in the room, then the facts were on his side. This was his room.

"It's in the safe," John said, stepping past them to open the closet, one hand keeping his towel from slipping off. He typed the combination and the in-room safe clicked open. He fetched his wallet and opened it to show his driver's license. Grath looked at the license, looked at him, and checked the name he had written on a notepad. This satisfied him and his gruff demeanor softened.

"We're sorry, Mr. O'Brien. Housekeeping reported someone had entered the room while she was cleaning it, and we always check those reports out."

"That's okay," said John. He looked for the right combination of words to end the conversation as quickly as possible without appearing to do so. The less Grath saw of him, the better. Word had to have gotten to him about the incidents in the lobby. If he started looking for any connections between down there and up here, John would still be in trouble.

"When would be a good time for her to return and finish cleaning the room?" Grath said.

"How about an hour from now? I have to get dressed and make a few phone calls. Then I'll be out." This was true.

"Okay. Our apologies, Mr. O'Brien."

"Not a problem."

John watched them leave. The cleaning lady gave him a glance which he had no problem reading. She had seen white guys cover for each other before, and she would see it again. But she knew. She knew the room was empty when she entered it, and for some reason he had snuck in afterward, and even if it was his own room, something was fishy. He was probably the guy she heard out in the hallway earlier, but never caught sight of. He was hiding something, and she knew.

John felt gratitude for a hotel management that took the word of its guests over its employees; and relieved, instead of contrite, for having taken advantage. Grath hadn't even mentioned the cleaning lady by name. She was just one of the staff, and her report didn't pan out. Case closed.

He locked and bolted the door, and exhaled, relieved. "I've got to get hold of myself," he said. "Right now." He collapsed backward on the bed, still in his towel, facing the ceiling.

The same thing had happened twice today, ten minutes apart. The girl on the sofa didn't really count, that was different, because it really happened. Besides, she wasn't Asian.

That was the trigger, he realized, for his waking erotic daydreams: pretty Asian women. He'd known for a long time he had a preference. Something about April and the elevator lady had set him off. Now, just two episodes was not enough to establish a pattern; but it dawned on him that there had been more than two. Many more. He had forgotten them all, until today's events close together had unlocked memories of them.

Scenes his mind had hidden away now came back. It had happened at least a dozen times, maybe twenty. Late night at the gym, or at a dance club. Tennis court, beach, others. After each episode, he would somehow forget completely what happened, as if the incident were simply snipped out, and the rest of his life's memory pulled and stitched together. But now they were coming back.

Waking dreams. Somehow he would slip from the real world into the erotic daydream, a transition so smooth he never noticed he was dreaming, until it was too late. It always ended with his jerking himself off, usually in public, and waking with the shock of something he had never experienced before. Each time was like the first.

And now, that he had the presence of mind and the memory to actually analyze this, he knew the cause, or at least the catalyst: Asian women. It seemed almost every pretty one he saw made him think about sex, and everyone he got close to triggered these waking wet dreams. He had no idea why, and it seemed preposterous on the whole, but there was plenty of evidence. Cause and effect.

It would be best to stay away from them until he figured out a cure.

He cleaned himself with a soapy washcloth, put on a fresh pair of boxers, and sat on the side of the bed. If he could figure this much out, a professional ought to be able to do better. If he could get his head straightened out now, this afternoon, he might be able to enjoy his last two days here. Waiting until next Monday to see someone back in town didn't seem like a good idea. He opened the phone book and looked for Psychiatric Counseling. When he saw the list of names, he reached for a pen.

He crossed out Elaine Chen, Jessy Fong, Kumi Harada, Amy Lee, Jennifer Nguyen, Iris Park, and Angelica Wu. Too dangerous. To be safe, he crossed out every other woman's name too, leaving a dozen men to call.

Dr. Chris Wesley, the second-to-last name, had an opening at one in the afternoon, just ninety minutes away. Perfect. John thanked the receptionist and hung up.

He knew he'd be famished by two o'clock or so, and needed some lunch before his appointment. Yet going to a restaurant, or even a supermarket, or especially ordering room service, seemed too risky. It would be best to avoid all human contact until he met Dr. Wesley. He grabbed a laundry bag and opened the minibar, sweeping out candy bars, chips, and a can of Coke. It was expensive and unhealthy, yet the best choice for now.

He got dressed and followed the stairway down to the parking lot, judging it better to wait in his car, parked at Dr. Wesley's office, than in his room. The cleaning lady would be coming back. If she had questions, better for no one being there to answer.

Wesley's office was only two exits down the freeway, in a three-story building of similar offices. John parked in the back corner, underneath a drooping tree. In silence, he ate his lunch and waited for one o'clock before walking up to the office.

The receptionist, whose voice he recognized from the phone call, was a prim, well-groomed middle-aged woman, a couple dozen pounds overweight. And white. Safe. The only other person in the waiting room was a gray-haired executive reading a financial journal.

"Dr. Wesley will see you now." The receptionist escorted him through a side door into an empty office. Degree certificates in glass frames decorated the wall above a shelf of identical hardcover tomes. A leather chair sat next to a matching couch. So they really do use couches, he thought.

"She'll be here in a moment," the receptionist said, and left.

She? John thought as the door shut. Chris Wesley is a she?

He was even more alarmed when Dr. Chris Wesley walked in. She looked Chinese, maybe Korean. Just what he was intending to avoid. For all the care he had taken selecting a doctor, he might as well have chosen at random.

She was smartly dressed in an above-the-knee black skirt, which showed off shapely legs in pale hose, and a white blouse giving the barest hint of a white bra underneath. The open top button exposed a slim triangle of skin leading down from the neck, pointing to what he imagined were a very nice pair of breasts. Her stylish haircut, just off the shoulder, framed a beautiful face with captivating almond eyes and immaculate brows.

John's heart sunk. "Chris" was probably short for "Christine", and "Wesley" was one of those stealth surnames that hot Asian women adopted to conceal themselves. It was completely unfair. No way I could have guessed, he protested. I should have asked when I called.

"I'm Chris Wesley," she said, extending a hand. "You seem a little dismayed to see me. Were you expecting someone else?"

John sighed. "I saw your name and I thought... well, I didn't expect you."

"If you don't feel comfortable, I can take you to the front desk and reschedule," she said. "You might not get in until next week, though."

"I'm on business. I fly back in three days." John chewed his lip, pondering. "No, let's keep the appointment. I have to face this head-on."

"Okay!" Chris led him to the couch and sat in the adjoining chair. "Shall we start?"

"Yeah."

She opened her notebook, checked something, then put it aside. She leaned slightly toward him. "My receptionist said you reported having nightmares, is that correct?"

"No, not nightmares. More like daydreams, during the day. And not scary, either. At least until I wake up."

"How does it happen?"

He was silent for a while, hoping to put together the right words. "It starts whenever I'm near a pretty Asian woman." He noticed her eyebrows raise slightly. "At some point I slip into the daydream state, and it's very erotic, what goes on in this dream. But it's so vivid that I can't tell it isn't real. So the dream goes on, she's taking off her clothes, we move together, having sex and so on, I come, and then I wake up."

He paused for a while, and she prodded him to go on.

"And I find out what I've really been doing is taking off my clothes and, uh, whacking off in public. When I come in the dream, I also come for real. The woman's still got her clothes on. None of the daydream stuff really happened."

"My god," Chris said, concerned. "I can't imagine what that must feel like."

"Paranoid. Discouraged. Mortified. Angry. Take your pick."

Chris leaned forward, laid a hand on his shoulder. "The good news is, there have been people before going through experiences similar to what you are having to endure. It's not some moral failing, and it's not unique to you. There's even a term for it -- somnonanism -- though I'm not happy with the word. But it's better than the slang term. In any case, we should be able to cure what's causing the problem."