Opening the door of room 335, Bill thought it looked like any other Holiday Inn with its large, twin beds, separate bathrooms, and heavy curtains. The large TV and movie box sat in the corner by the window. As he observed his surroundings, Bill noticed the room had that scent which seemed to be a feature of all motel and hotel chains: dust, human sweat, and cleaning polish.
He threw his large--too large--carry on bag onto the surprisingly fluffy bed. It had been a long flight down from New York and coming the day after his arrival from London, he was tired and weary. Normally, this feeling would be compounded by thoughts of work the following day, but this trip to the Mid-West was different. He was there to meet a close friend, an intimate friend, a friend he had never met.
They had conversed often, always by email and mostly about their sexual fantasies. She had started to write to him after reading one of his stories, intrigued to know more about the man who wrote so knowingl...
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