Comfort Zones

Self-help gurus tell us we grow by "breaking out of our comfort zones" -- and yet few of us ever do.

After all, we are creatures of habit. We prefer the safety and comfort of what we know. Maybe this is why it is said that life repeats itself -- because we gravitate towards the familiar, over and over.

I've heard these clichés, of course, but was still surprised when my life really began repeating itself. It happened after I found myself trapped in a hotel -- a round, circular hotel at that, as if the very building itself were repeating.

Round hotels are rare, for many reasons -- the layout is odd, the round shape creates construction, acoustic, and repair issues. There are more reasons, like the room numbers go around in a circle and confuse the guests - and they are just a little weird to be in. That's probably why there are only a handful of round hotels.

There's that round hotel off the 405 freeway in Los Angeles, north of Westwood, below the Getty Center -- the Hotel Angeleno.

There's the Peachtree Westin in downtown Atlanta, a round 50-story building with a rotating restaurant on the top -- well, formerly rotating, as they turned off the rotation after a tragic accident you can read about online. Very sad.

And then there is the hotel where I was trapped, the Renaissance Center Marriott in Detroit. The "Ren-Cen," as it is called, is a round, soaring silver reflection over the Detroit River. Part GM offices, part hotel, the building sits sleek and tall, like a powerful spaceship on a launch pad waiting to explode.

I was in town on an unexpected consulting job when I became trapped there.

Sudden trips weren't unusual for me -- they are at the heart of my work, because I do odd jobs for corporations -- odd jobs that need a special touch.

Does your baby food company have a problem with broken glass in the strained peas?

Are you running a Pharma company with a drug that's developed an unforeseen side effect?

Are you an appliance manufacturer with a shocking safety problem?

Are the wheels coming off the bus?

If you find yourself in any of these situations you might be calling me.

Call me Corporate Handyman, Company Fixer -- call it what you will, but just call, because emails leave a trail and will get us both in trouble.

My work lives at the murky intersection of engineering, technology, law, public relations, and politics - an intersection that is never easy to slip through unscathed.

I don't claim to be an expert in everything -- I'm more like the navigator, plotting a course and relying upon a short list of expensive, discreet experts.

That's how I ended up in Detroit this past March.

I had been living quietly in my small apartment in New York when the phone rang. I was given the outline of the problem, I asked about a few particulars, and that afternoon was on a plane out of Newark Airport to Detroit, not sure when I'd be back -- my trips always lasted simply "as long as it takes."

This was one of the problems in my marriage -- my wife said she never knew when she'd see me again -- and she was right, leading to endless arguments until we both decided that "never" was probably the best answer for both of us. Then again, my trips were just one of many of the relationship issues we had, which together signaled that it was truly time to move on and strike out on my own.

By early March this year business travel was already slowing -- the plane to Detroit was three quarters empty, the Ren-Cen hotel lobby oddly quiet. The good news was that Marriott upgraded me to a suite on the top floor, putting me in a cluster of rooms three times the size of my apartment in New York, in a suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Detroit River and Windsor.

I didn't give any of this much thought, though -- I was immediately pulled into the client's problem -- starting at dinner that night with the company's top brass. My client was a major supplier to a car company, and had a messy safety-related issue.

That first night we worked until nearly midnight to pull documents, read multi-page lawsuits, and to quickly get up to speed, a working pattern that followed for weeks.

Every day we'd start over breakfast, and I'd end every evening at midnight, surrounded by stacks of paper in my hotel suite. I saw the headlines crawling by on the news channels, but was so busy that nothing really registered -- nor did I notice that the hotel crowd was thinning out day-by-day. In fact, I didn't notice much of anything until I got a note from the manager -- summoning me to appear in the Grand Ballroom at 8am the next morning.

I arrived at 7:55 am and saw about 20 other hotel guests already gathered -- sitting on chairs spaced widely apart in the enormous ballroom. It was now early April -- time had passed quickly by -- and Covid-19 had exploded while I was trying to salvage my client's business and reputation.

It wasn't just that the disease had taken over the country: New York was under a lockdown, and public health officials and companies were all scrambling to react.

The hotel manager informed us that they'd be closing this hotel in a matter of days. We all had to leave as soon as we could.

Of course, it wasn't that simple. Every hotel guest was in a different situation. Some of the guests lived "nearby" in Ohio and neighboring States, some were from places like Italy and China, and others were in the middle of business trips they were reluctant to cut short. The manager acknowledged that it would take a few days for all guests to "make arrangements," as he put it, so I knew I had some time.

It was nearly a week later when there was a knock on the door of my hotel suite -- the manager was back. His message was professional, courteous, yet unmistakable: "We're closing the hotel tomorrow and I'm sorry, you must leave now."

But it was too late.

The airlines had stopped flying, Hertz had stopped renting cars -- about to tumble into bankruptcy -- and New York had become a quarantine zone.

"As much as I'd like to leave, I can't. You wouldn't literally throw me out, would you?" I had been at this hotel a dozen times over the past two years, had earned millions of points with Marriott, and had met the manager before -- he had actually welcomed me as one of their "best customers" when I stayed at the hotel in January.

It turned out I wasn't the only one. There was another guest in the hotel, a Canadian parts supplier to American auto companies -- who had become stranded when the President closed the border. As I learned more I turned over the options in my head -- and proposed a solution.

"You'll need to keep the hotel ready to reopen" I told him. "Keep the lights on, run some of the machinery, secure the premises. We could do that -- no charge to you for taking care of things, and you don't charge us for staying here. Leave a task list, we can take turns, me and -- what's his name from Canada."

It took some convincing, but he agreed. They would drop food off at the hotel front door twice a week along with some fresh linens, and pick up the garbage and old sheets and towels. We'd be given a checklist -- things that had to be done daily, every other day, weekly. Once a week we'd have a conference call, give the manager the run-down, and report anything that was unusual.

Doug McKenzie was the name of the other stranded guest. He and I agreed on a system pretty quickly -- we divvied up the days, alternating, and we found that the "chores" didn't take more than a couple of hours a day. We agreed to meet in my hotel suite every night for dinner to compare notes about what we had found, what needed work, and any problems that had come up.

By early May it was clear that things in the outside world weren't getting better. In the meantime, our life in the hotel had become an oddly surreal kind of normal, the two of us living isolated in a giant hotel as if we were on an abandoned cruise ship, or a desert island. Every day was the same as the previous day, the hallways all looked the same, the food was pretty much the same, even our clothing was the same, washing and wearing the same few things we had traveled with over and over again.

The days were repeating, one identical to the day before. We were bored, and more than a little stir crazy.

"What do you miss most?" I asked Doug one night, as we ate a late dinner in front of the windows of my suite. "As far as myself, I never thought I'd say this, but I miss New York -- I mean, the City itself is a mess, the Mayor's a Putz, the streets are filthy, the homeless problem's out of control -- but the restaurants and museums and music, those I miss."

"What's a 'putz'?"

I had to laugh. "An insult. Yiddish. And I don't know, exactly, but whatever it is, that's the Mayor. So you? What are you missing?"

"I know it's a cliché -- but I miss hockey. And Tim Horton's coffee, and their little donuts, the Tim Bits. Oh yeah, and my wife."

Funny order, I thought to myself -- first hockey, then donuts and coffee, and last his wife -- but who was I to judge? He did seem sincere, anyway. "We could ask the hotel manager to send up some Tim Horton's coffee with the next food drop. You could watch reruns of great hockey games. As far as your wife, you are out of luck."

"Don't I know it" he said. "At least I know she misses me, too."

I didn't want to cause trouble by being a cynical New Yorker. "I'm sure she does miss you too" I agreed, trying to be supportive -- but he caught the lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

"No, seriously -- every night she reminds me how much."

"Uh-huh" I agreed again.

"Every night! Seriously. See?"

With that he turned his laptop around and there, filling the screen, was a wonderful picture of his wife, in a candy-apple red negligee, blowing a kiss at the screen.

Now maybe it was the tension of having been in virtual quarantine for months, or pent up desire from the same -- but she was sexy. Really sexy.

She wasn't cover-girl glamorous...she wasn't thin...she wasn't young...but there was a fire in her eyes, and an impish smile that made her come across as sultry, playful, and a bit wicked all at once. The negligee didn't hurt.

"That's your wife?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's my Tammy. Every night she sends a different shot." He swiped the screen, and there she was in a green negligee, with that same sultry look. He swiped again and there was another, and with the next swipe she came into a different view -- she was holding her breast up to her mouth and sucking on her own nipple, which was clearly taught and firm in her mouth, like a candy button.

"Doug, wow, she is hot, but I really don't think she sent those for you to share -- as much as I'm enjoying them."

"No, it's OK, she wouldn't mind." He swiped again, and there she was posed on her bed, naked, a shot she took in the mirror, her legs up against her chest, hiding her breasts, her ass and more visible on the sheets.

I didn't really want him to stop -- but it seemed like I was invading her privacy without her permission, and it felt a bit weird.

"Listen Doug, this is great, but she wouldn't want you showing these in public. To a stranger." I half-heartedly turned the laptop -- not out of view, but back towards him.

"No, it's really OK. She actually likes the idea. She's always asking me if she's still sexy, if I think men are looking at her. I'll show you." He picked up his phone from the table, hit the "redial" key, and let it ring on the speaker. When she answered her voice sounded just like her picture, smoky and liquid.

"Hello?"

"Hi darling, it's me."

"Doug honey, I wondered when you were going to call."

"Sorry, we got a late start tonight, and we're just finishing dinner now."

"That's ok, I just worry about you in that big empty hotel."

"I'm fine, just missing you."

"Aww honey...I thought the pictures were helping a little bit."

"Oh they are...in fact, I was just showing them to Bob. You remember, he's the other guest trapped in this hotel with me."

"Oooooooo...yes, of course I remember. You showed him my pictures?"

"Yes, I did."

There was a long pause.

"Did he like them?"

"He's right here looking at some now -- why don't you ask him?"

"Bob? Hi. Doug tells me he showed you some of my pictures. What do you think?"

Doug was right. Not only did she not "seem to mind" -- she seemed eager to hear what I thought.

"Tammy, Doug's a lucky man. Your pictures are very...nice."

"'Nice' Bob? That's all? Why don't you like how I look?"

I think she was playing a bit -- fishing for more, so I obliged. "Hot, Tammy, you are hot. Very hot."

I could hear her giggle the tiniest bit. "That's better. Which was your favorite?"

Talk about a loaded question. "I liked them all."

"But which did you like best?"

Doug jumped in. "He liked the one of you in the red negligee...where you have your breast in your mouth."

It was her turn now. "You liked seeing me suck my own breast?"

"Well, I liked that picture."

"I liked taking it, although it wasn't the same as when Doug sucks my breasts -- I like that much, much better. It is almost like tickling -- you know, you can't tickle yourself. It works better when someone else does it to you. I bet you'd like to suck my boobs, wouldn't you Bob?"

Well, duh.

I looked over at Doug. He was smiling, nodding, and gestured -- as you might when inviting a guest to eat dinner -- his hand, palm up, pointing at me -- and then he interrupted us.

"Tammy, maybe we should remind Bob how sexy you are. Do you have the laptop handy? Why don't we video chat so we can see you? Like you and I do sometimes at night."

"Ooooo honey, I'd like that" she said.

Doug turned the laptop keyboard so he could type easier, clicked, tapped a few keys, and up came the video chat application. The blank box sat empty, flashing mindlessly, and then she connected and swum into view. She was sitting on the bed wearing a shiny-satin, dark blue negligee trimmed in lace, her breasts shimmering as they rested on a push-up demi-bra sewn into the negligee. Doug clicked to maximize the webcam. She instantly filled the screen, and I could see that her nipples were pushing up against the fabric inside her top.

"So let's see" she said..."would you like me to pose like in one of the pictures?"

Doug jumped in before I could respond. "He wants to see you suck your own boob, darling."

That was her cue. She pulled down the cup of her negligee, held her breast in two hands, bent over, licked her nipple...and then started sucking. Hot didn't begin to describe this, and I was mesmerized.

She released and looked up at the camera. I could see her nipple hard and shiny, begging for more.

"Can you see OK?" she asked, with a smile.

"Definitely."

"Too bad you aren't here" she said -- "I bet you'd like a taste."

She was right about that -- and yet her husband was still sitting there, right next to me. "Of course, but I don't know how Doug would feel about that."

"Duggie, didn't you tell him?"

I looked at him. "Tell me what?"

"Doug told me one night...when we were making love...that he wanted to watch me have another man. I think his exact words were 'I want to see another man's cock in my beautiful wife.' Isn't that right Duggie?"

I looked at Doug. He face was the color of a tomato, maybe closer to purple, with embarrassment -- but he was nodding up and down, and said "yes I do."

"So why haven't you?" I asked.

"We've never found the right person" she said. I looked at Doug and he shrugged, a non-verbal "I dunno" gesture.

Tammy didn't stop. "It's too bad we aren't all together right now - Bob -- tell me, if I let you suck my boobs would you fuck me, too, and let Duggie watch?"

I looked over at Doug again. I'm not sure he realized it -- or, maybe couldn't help himself, or didn't care -- but he was rubbing himself through his sweatpants, his eyes big. He really, really wanted to see his wife get fucked by another man.

I didn't answer her directly. "Tammy, why don't you take that negligee off and show me everything, and I'll answer your question."

She did. She reached back, unclasped the built-in bra, and then pulled the blue satin fabric up slowly, over her head, and tossed it on the floor. She shook her hair to untangle it a bit, then pulled up her legs and reached down to tease me, her fingers dancing lightly on her pussy lips.

"You didn't answer me" she said. "I'm guessing the answer is yes. Why don't you show me and Duggie the cock you'd put inside me."

And so I did. I stood up, unbuckled my pants, and pushed down my slacks and then my boxers. I was hard -- really hard -- jutting out, pointing at the screen, and I wrapped my hand around the shaft and started stroking slowly.

"Oh, that's so nice" she purred, as her fingers massaged her swelling lips. "I bet it would feel so good filling me up. Duggie, would you like to see him inside me -- his hard cock?"

"Oh yeah."

"Duggie" she whispered, "you know how you rub your cock on my clit before we fuck...I'd want you to rub his cock up and down my pussy, and on my clit...would you do that for me honey, please?"

"Yes" he whispered back.

Her fingers were now sliding in and out of her pussy, wet and shiny, and I could hear the squishy noises she made as she fucked herself. There was no other sound in the room except for our breathing and her wetness, until she told him what she wanted next: "Honey, show me how you'd do that, how you'd fuck me with his cock."

He squeaked out a small "ok" and reached over to me. I let go of my cock to make room for his hand, and he wrapped his fingers around my throbbing penis. His hand was warm and felt like mine but different. And felt good, very good. He moved my cock up and down, like he was rubbing it on her pussy lips, as he squeezed me.

"I am so wet, can you tell" she said, her eyes growing bigger as she watched her husband start to jerk me off. "Bob, if you were fucking me right now I'd be dripping even more...Duggie, rub his balls, right where my juices would be dripping." And with his other hand he did, making me groan for a second.

She stopped talking and seemed to focus on herself, her hand moving faster, almost in a blur. I could hear her whimpering every couple of seconds, as if she were getting ready to cum. She was driving me crazy -- or maybe it was Doug's hand as he kept stroking me and rubbing my balls - or both.

And then she directed him again - her breathing more and more labored, as if she had trouble thinking of words. "Duggie, I'd want you to make sure he was extra hard for my pussy...go ahead honey, help out some more. Suck his cock with your wet mouth so he can think about how tight and soft I am..."

It was as if he had been waiting for permission. He dropped to his knees, his hands on my hips, turning us in profile so his wife could better see him sucking my cock, and swallowed me down. His mouth was wet, warm, eager, and -- yes, felt very, very good. He held his shaft in my hand, rubbed my balls, and pulled me in and out of his mouth like he was trying to milk me while she urged him on.

"Yes Duggie, my little cocksucker, I want him...I want you to suck him, use your mouth like a pussy, and swallow his cum, just like you'd eat it from my soaked pussy, let him fuck your mouth like you've always wanted" -- she was almost breathless.

And then, with one more spasm, she started to cum -- she couldn't talk sense anymore, and just kept crying out "Oh god, so fucking hot, oh god, suck his cock baby..." and one spasm after another shook her body, her breasts quivered back and forth, and I warned him with a groan that I was about to cum in his mouth.

I half wondered if he'd pull back, but didn't really care about anything more than my boiling orgasm. He didn't retreat -- he wanted this, in fact, as I later learned, had been waiting for it for years. He reached behind me to grab my ass, pulled me deeper into his pussy-mouth, and I started to spurt -- I pumped like I was fucking his wife, driving my cock home over and over, shooting over his tongue and down his throat.