When Imelda opened the door, her eyes and nose gave her a quick judgment that Suite 502 was a total loss. Dust mask in place, she went through the due diligence, muffling her gag reflex as long as she could. Even with the furniture partly salvageable, she'd recommend that the guests' security deposit be claimed at once. Could one night of sex, she wondered, really be worth the loss of ten thousand dollars?
Fifteen minutes later she had determined that the damage was limited to this suite. None of the fluids had seeped through the floor, the mess on the balcony hadn't oozed down the outside wall, the blockage in the ventilator had not mangled the ductwork, and stress scanning showed that the load-bearing walls were secure. Thus, it wouldn't be necessary for the resort's ownership to file lawsuits against the pursuers of passion who did this to their rented surroundings and, to some extent, themselves.
Wearing two pairs of surgical gloves, Imelda took swabs from eight surfaces and had an app on her resort-supplied phone 'sniff' them. She then took still pictures of several parts of the room, clearly showing the broken chair legs, the shattered mirror, the snapped-off shower head, the odd objects that had been brought in and left scattered on the now-shredded carpet, and the sharp bend in the bed frame. She sent the pictures and the app's chemical analyses to the main office. Then she exited, hard-locking the door behind her, and savored the untainted air of the hallway. Next, she pushed her housekeeping cart past three unrented suites, to the door of Suite 510. There was no point in trying to tidy up 502. By now, the main office would have already summoned the hazmat team.
Imelda thought,
Why do people pursue such outlandish thrills?
The men made themselves into semen factories, erecting at a moment's notice. The women squirted voluminously from almost any arousal. Their 'dietary supplements' and 'energy drinks' stoked them to such high levels that they experienced projectile sweat. And then there were the totally illegal substances, which would prompt the main office to contact other agencies about Suite 502.
As she started to engage the digilock of Suite 510, she noted as always that this ridiculous trend worked very much in her favor. Maids were the highest-paid employees at Ecstatica Resort, and still there was constant turnover because most normal humans could stand only so much of this.
Steeled for the worst, Imelda was surprised at first glance to see nothing obviously wrong in 510. Knitting her brow, she checked her phone to see if 510 had been vacant. No, she found, the suite had been booked, and another look inside showed her that the bed had been slept in. Part of her was disappointed, because this room could be tidied and she'd have to do maid work, maybe for a long time if the couple had done the nasty quite a lot in the bed.
To her surprise, however, the bed sheets were simply wrinkled, and probably picked up only some sweat. In the bathroom she found four bath towels on the floor, two of which had the spoor of sex fluids. She smiled, concluding that this couple had taken the trouble to set the towels on the bed to confine their loving mess, leaving them a clean place to sleep. Imelda's work in 510 was thus a routine tidying and bathroom scrub, and an exchange of linens.
On the dresser below the television she found a note wrapped around money. The note read, 'We're sorry to have done so much damage in here, but we've waited a long time for our second honeymoon. Please take whichever one of these you can use best. Thank you very much, Donna and Richard Marcinkus.' Enclosed were an American twenty-dollar bill and two ten-Euro notes.
Imelda smiled even wider, and not just because she pocketed the U.S. twenty. She had never seen such consideration from guests at Ecstatica!
She scanned her phone to see if the Marcinkuses had checked out. They had not. Hoping to encourage their behavior, and perhaps spread it to others, she wrote a reply on the note: "I didn't find any 'damage!' I wish all of our guests were as thoughtful and nice as you are! I hope your second honeymoon is a wonderful experience! Thank you, Imelda Saraceno."
She left 510 with a smile that lasted through her next five stops, and was driven away only when she opened the door to 522. Shaking her head, she reached into the cart for fresh surgical gloves.
***
Imelda's salary was more than enough to support her entire family, and four months ago she had bought and moved into one of the off-resort vacation houses with electricity, air conditioning, clean water, nice furniture, internet access, and conveniences her grandparents had never known. Still, she spent a great deal of time there alone, because Hector insisted on keeping his job on an offshore oil platform. Their four children had grown up and moved out, and were doing well. Face time with her young grandchildren was nice, but didn't fill enough of her leisure moments.
Spending her workdays at a resort full of sex-crazed foreigners made her see such passions as silly and, in some cases, destructive—but nights without Hector made her worry that she was becoming as desperate as the tourists. He would return from the platform in five days. He couldn't use face time there, so she didn't have even that much access to him.
That night, she was lying in bed on her side, seeing out the window a crescent moon over the ocean. Her fingers began brushing against her cleft, doing what she had told her daughters never to do. She closed her eyes, imagining Hector's hands on her shoulders, their bellies pressing together. Moisture met her fingertips.
Her eyes snapped open. She remembered Suite 510, the brightest moment in her workday. With a chuckle, she got up and stepped into the bathroom, but not to finish her solitary passion there. She brought a fresh towel to the bedroom, spread it flat on the bed at hip-level, and removed her nightdress and underwear. Then she again lay on her side, gazing out at the ocean that surrounded her husband, and slowly moved two fingers deep into her vagina. Amazed at her shamelessness, stroking a small slack breast with her free hand, she soared to an intense and long-lasting orgasm.
When she calmed down, she was gratified to feel neither guilt nor sadness. She was delighted by the burst of pleasure, at the level of what she enjoyed with Hector. She no longer needed to maintain her strict-mother act, and her time with Hector in this empty nest had taken her towards happy freedom with her body, and his.
Perhaps I'm all the way there now,
she thought.
She brought the towel up to her crotch and found that it was sufficient for her basic cleanup. After another brief trip to the bathroom she was able to settle into her clean bed. With a smile she murmured, "Thank you again, Mr. and Mrs. Marcinkus."
***
There was an e-mail on her phone the next morning, from Phoebe Grant, the manager of Housekeeping: 'Two guests, Richard and Donna Marcinkus, were very happy with your work yesterday, and say they would like to meet you in person, perhaps for dinner tonight. Of course, you don't have to respond at all. You're not obligated to fraternize with guests. How would you like to proceed?'
Imelda was still at home, eating breakfast, as she read this. She honestly couldn't decide how to proceed. She sent back, 'I don't know. Can I come in and talk about this before my shift?'
Soon Imelda was in a small office next to the utility area where three vacuum cleaners were being repaired, noisily. Phoebe was corporate-pretty, with ash-blonde hair nicely styled. She wore a summery floral-patterned suit that seemed at a glance to go with the resort's casual vibe, but was meticulously tailored to fit a form that had to be kept in top condition. Imelda suppressed a smile at the comfort of her frumpy blue coveralls and white maid's apron.
"The Marcinkuses aren't regulars," said Phoebe, scrolling her phone. "I honestly don't know why they picked this place, they're way outside our demographic."
"I'd like to see many more just like them," said Imelda. "If there are any more."
"Tell me about it," grumbled Phoebe. "Unfortunately, we're stuck with the crowd that goes to any lengths to get their rocks off." She looked up. "I can send them a polite note that you appreciate the offer but aren't comfortable with fraternizing."
By this time, Imelda had been able to give the matter more thought. "No, I think I'll reply. I'll accept their dinner invitation, but make it clear that we're going Dutch."
Phoebe cocked an eyebrow. "Even with the employee discount, that'll be a big tab."
Imelda smiled. "I can afford it."
Phoebe laughed. "Yeah, and tell me about
that!
I'll need to get three more rungs up on the corporate ladder to make what you're bringing down."
"You saw Suite 515 yesterday," Imelda returned. It was an awful mess, but within what a maid could clean up. It took her an hour and twenty minutes. The actual damage, shown in pix Imelda had sent, would probably cost the guests more than four hundred dollars. It was repaired that same day by Maintenance.
"I never said you didn't earn it," said Phoebe, picking up an emery board. As part of a standing joke between the two women, the chief smirked as she touched up nails that were never endangered by manual labor.
***
Imelda had time to shower and put on a nice dress and a little jewelry. Freed from her work's need to have her hair tied and coiled, she let her mane loose and brushed it until it filled out and shone, drifting to her shoulder blades, with the scattered strands of gray providing highlights to the thick blackness.
Hector's fondness for her hair verged on worship.
She still looked like what she was, a short, dark-skinned, plain-faced woman with a body that had borne four children. Being around dozens of dazzling, sculpted, energetic physical specimens in the restaurant (which was curiously named Rip Tide, not a pleasant occurrence if one were in the water) would wear her down, but at least the Marcinkuses had scheduled their dinner for 6 p.m., before the crowd would become too rowdy and raunchy.
They had exchanged social media profiles, so they recognized each other at once. Among all the youngish hard-bodies, it probably would have been easy in any case. Donna and Richard, already seated at a table on the open terrace, were well into middle age and making no attempt to appear otherwise.
The terrace had three levels. As Imelda ascended a ramp, the westering sun's warmth and the sea breeze's touch on her skin made her a bit susceptible to the silliness around her. She let her hips sway more than usual, trying to convince herself that her walk up the ramp made this happen, and that the breeze made her toss her head a bit to see past her hair's flutter. She chuckled at herself nonetheless.
The Marcinkuses stood as she arrived. Richard reached to shake her hand, then Donna squeezed both of Imelda's hands.
Richard was medium-height for an American, dark gray hair retreating from the temples but not the crown. He wore a blue polo shirt and tan Bermuda shorts. His jawline and abdomen were rounded, but behind his glasses the dark eyes were alert, and his movements were quick and sure.
Sandal heels brought Donna to about his height, and her thick wavy brown hair and wide hat took her a bit beyond. Her orange-and-white sundress caught the breeze as Imelda's hair did. Donna's legs were shapely but showed veins, and there was some excess in her arms. The blue eyes were large and widely spaced, giving her an exotic look.
Both still had the pallor of upstate New York, and (like most other tourists here) they smelled of sunscreen.
"Thank you so much for joining us," said Richard with a smile. "It's a relief to see that we're not the only people here over 40."
"You may be the only guests who are," Imelda said as she settled into her chair.
"It's been great so far, just the two of us," said Donna, glancing around at the growing swarm of younger tourists. "That's why we're here, for each other. But when we read your note, we realized how alone we are here. I thought it would be nice to meet somebody new, and have a conversation."
Richard had a serious look. "I have to say that, all my life, I've taken hotel staff for granted. I just assumed the maids and bellhops would do my bidding and then go away. That's not how people should be treated."
Imelda smiled. She leaned a bit towards Richard so she could say in a low voice, "We know that we'll always be overlooked. My mother was a maid here also, before it became...the kind of place it is now. But things are so much better for me. I'm paid very well, and to be honest, I prefer that most of the guests here ignore me."
