Bears, Porridge, and Honey:
A Pair of Goldilocks by The Preve
Story Two---The Honey Trap: Part One
'Trinity Bridge Motel-Vacancy'
"Good!" gasped Phil. "A life saver."
Phillip Locke, college sophomore, returning to Midwestern after the worst spring break ever, pushed the hunk of shit, formerly his rented car, into the parking lot. All-in-all, the climax of a bad week. "And one week to go. At least I'm out of Florida." And away from his weasel ex-best friend, currently back in Miami, balling the girl Phillip crushed on.
Phillip looked around. "This place is a shithole." Worse, the parking lot was deserted, "Guess I'm the only guest."
The motel consisted of one large house ("Not quite the Bates Motel.") and ten small cabins. Phil stepped onto the porch, hoping his bad luck streak was at an end: a series of disasters, beginning with the thing in Miami, continuing to the wrong turn on the highway, and ending with the simultaneous demise of his car and cell phone; road signs pointed to the motel.
"Get to the motel," he thought. "Charge the battery, spend the night, call the tow truck in the morning, and maybe I can be out of this dump by tomorrow."
Phillip's bad luck, however, extended to the house. 'Back in an hour!'
"Fuck!" he shouted after seeing the sign in the window. The sun was down and Phil didn't want to wait in a darkened parking lot. He thumped the door in frustration...and was surprised when it creaked open. The manager forgot to lock the door. Phillip smiled, "Bad security, good for me."
The light switch was next to the door; a flip illuminated the lobby. Phil expected a classically seedy motel. The tidy, well kept living room, with a desk for reception, startled him. The furniture was larger than normal, but Phil felt a twinge of homesickness. "They have to be nice people. Please God, let them be nice."
The name on the desk was Brunhilde Gudrunsdottir, Manager. A large ledger, spread open, and a wall of keys, behind an oversized chair, completed the simple set up.
Phil looked in the ledger. The date of the last signature clued him to the rarity of guests. He went behind the desk and selected three keys. "These motels have shitty rooms. I better take three just in case."
He wrote his name in the ledger and left a note: 'Dear Ms. Gudrunsdottir. You weren't here so I checked myself in. I hope you don't mind. I can pay in the morning. Phillip Locke.'
He returned to the car, got his gym bag and went to the cabins. The first two cabins confirmed the motel's shitholiness. Cabin one seemed to be a storage room for old mattresses, blankets, and pillows. Phillip saw a few piles of old clothing. The place reeked of mildew. "Nope," Phillip said.
Cabin two had nothing; spare hard walls, a concrete floor, no furniture, not even a toilet. "Double nope," said Phillip.
Cabin three was just right: a typical motel room with a bed, desk, closet, alarm, TV, and furnished bathroom. "Yes!" cried Phillip. Everything worked: the TV aired the local news, the alarm set to nine a.m., and the desk had a working coffee maker.
Phil wore a coat of dirt, sweat, and grime from the five mile car push. He set the coffee maker and made straight for the shower. The shower worked perfectly. "My luck has changed," he thought.
Phil stripped while the water warmed. A large mirror sat above the sink. Phillip glanced at himself. Memories of the past week oozed like pus from a festering wound. A wrecked friendship, public humiliation, and shattered self esteem, all because of his one great handicap: "Short, short, short."
Phillip inherited a lot of attributes from his mother: a snub nose, blue eyes, and slender figure, but he wished she hadn't given him her short stature. Phillip's big brother, Will, got all the height, his Dad's gift. The only thing Phil got from his Dad was blonde hair.
Will tormented Phil from childhood through adolescence, and grew into the kind of frat boy jock Phil despised. Phil's Dad made it clear he preferred his athletic older son to his younger delicate son. Phil, naturally, was far closer to his mother.
A miserable 'sigh!' escaped Phil's lips. In a different world Phil would be considered cute. He was slender but not boney; stubborn lingering baby fat softened his features and gave him a youthful appearance; his body hair never got past peach fuzz, save in the pubic region (and barely at that).
He tried to grow a beard once, but only managed a few whiskers. It looked terrible and, as if his face added insult to injury, didn't grow back after he shaved.
Phil often wondered if his parents lied about his birthday. His mother reassured him; cops nearly arrested his Dad twice when they were dating because they thought she was underage. Phil understood; he always had to show ID for R-rated movies. Even then, many ushers thought the ID was a fake.
Worse, Phil knew, he'd probably look this way for awhile. His mother was in her late forties but could easily pass for thirty. Phil figured if he inherited his mother's genes, a long period of youthfulness was in his future. It did not bode well for his social life; high school, college, and the catastrophic spring break illustrated the point.
Were he an actor or singer, Phil knew, he might be swimming in babe flesh. He wasn't bad looking by any means. He had a nice sized dick, not too big, not too short; but Phil had no talent and, when most of the hot babes in high school and college were taller by at least a half foot, guys like Phil were instantly consigned to Geek hell. Miami was supposed to change that.
Phil wasn't alone in his geekdom. Jamie Polonsky was his best friend. Jamie was fat until his high school sophomore year. Phil and Jamie were best buds from elementary. The short one and the fat one endured the slings and arrows of the 'Ins' from elementary through high school.
In the second year Jamie discovered that, unlike Phil, who couldn't help his height, he could do something about his weight. Jamie started working out, running, watching his diet; fat turned to muscle. It helped when he grew another foot, distributing the rest of the fat across his body. Short, fat Jamie became tall, handsome Jamie. Phil grew two inches.
Jamie became popular with the girls and joined the football team. Phil was rejected by the chess club. In spite of the change in cliques Phil and Jamie remained friends, or so Phil thought.
Sophomore year, college: Phil and Jamie tried to join the local fraternity. Jamie got in; the frat boys played with Phil for a month or so before saying no. Phil was crushed but he and Jamie stayed friends, or so Phil thought.
Spring break, Miami: Jamie invited Phil to come to Miami. Phil was reluctant, fearing how his bad luck with girls would fare against the bikini crowd. Besides, the beach would be crawling with frat boys. Then Jamie mentioned Julie Bonet, a sorority girl, and Phil's crush. Jamie, cool with the girls, promised a Phil/Julie hook-up. Phil took the bait.
Phil asked questions about Julie during the drive. Jamie was uncharacteristically evasive; that should have raised Phil's suspicions, but he and Jamie were friends, or so Phil thought.
The Miami Hilton, third day of spring break: Jamie was rich enough to spring for the room. The hook-up went as promised. Phil and beautiful Julie were alone, getting hot and heavy, when Julie suggested a kinky game: a swim in the pool. Julie would wear Phil's Speedos while Phil wore her bikini.
"'A stupid, silly, fucking dangerous idea, I'll do it!'" lust-blinded Phil thought. Phil gave her his Speedos; Julie went on ahead. He put on the bikini, common sense and survival instincts erased by visions of a Speedo-clad Julie in nothing else.
He went to the pool expecting Julie. Instead he got flash bulbs and "Whooo! Ha! Ha! Ha!..." His eyes cleared and there they were: frat boys, sorority girls, invitees; Julie in a long t-shirt, cruel smirk on her face; Jamie standing next to her, a guilty look on his own.
Jamie whispered to the man standing next to him. Phil recognized him; Chuck Dugan, head of the fraternity, A-one asshole. Phillip knew the score now: he was the 'goat'; the designated punk for spring break. Julie was the bait, Jamie, the fisherman.
Chuck whispered something to Jamie. Jamie's face was pensive, until Julie wrapped her arm around his and whispered in his ear. Jamie blushed and smiled and, with a final guilty glance, left Phil to his fate.
The fact that most of the partiers carried cameras and I-phones, compounded Phil's torture. Two football players blocked the way back, so Phil had to make his stiff way through, 'Way to go Philly!'s,' backslaps, whistles, and laughter. Phil was goosed a couple of times.
He managed to stagger to his hotel room, ripped off the bikini, and sat on the bed, quivering with rage and humiliation. Then he curled up and cried.
It got worse in the morning. Phil woke, got out of bed, and immediately packed his bags. He flipped on the TV out of habit. The news got his attention. Stephanopoulos was talking about the latest YouTube sensation. The video showed it all: Phil was officially 'Bikini Boy'.
"Awww fuck!" It was everywhere. "I'm fucked!"
Phil crammed his clothes into the bags and squirreled out of the hotel, barely pausing to check out. The front desk clerk's mouth suspiciously twitched. Phil swore he heard a faint snicker as he left.
He made a quick trip to UPS to ship most of his clothes ahead. Phil heard the shipping clerk whisper "Bikini Boy" to his assistant.
A trip to a car rental got him the hunk of shit. Now Phil was in a fleabag motel, staring at a mirror, contemplating a bleak future.
In the shower Phil thought, "I can't go back to college." He was a 'national celebrity', a laughingstock; and the prospect of facing the frat, Jamie, and Her...too much.
"And I can't go home." Phil had enough problems with his father. If Bill senior felt disdain for his younger son, imagine what he would think of 'Bikini Boy'. Phil's mother would support him but she deferred to her husband.
The one consolation was his brother no longer lived at home. Will left for fame and fortune as a pro football player. "Face it Phil, you have no place to go."
After stepping out and drying off, Phil found a final piece of bad luck: dirty clothes in his gym bag. In his rush to get out of Miami, Phil had shipped his clean clothes through UPS.
"Motherfucker! That's it! I'm done! Fuck!" Phil cried. He never slept naked before, but Phil was too tired, frustrated, and pissed to care. Throwing himself on the bed, Phil sandwiched his head between two pillows and embraced oblivion.
He slept through the alarm. When he finally woke, his clothes were gone...and so was the car.
"What the fuck?!" he exclaimed, looking out the window. "Where's the car?!" Bad enough to oversleep and find it was late morning, the alarm clock off, and his gym bag (which, along with his dirty clothes, had his cell phone and wallet, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!") missing, but now Phil was effectively stranded in the middle of nowhere, incommunicado, broke, and not even the clothes on his back. "What's the matter, God?" he sighed. "You hate short people?"
Phil sat on the bed, found the remote, and turned on the TV. The first image was his father, "!"
