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It would really stink if, upon driving away from a hotel a couple minutes after midnight, you reached for your cell phone to call your lover and tell him what a marvelous time you had…

…and…

…you realized that your phone was not in your purse.

You’d probably feel the first surge of adrenaline-laced panic as your hand fumbled across the seat in the vague hope that the phone had only fallen from your purse.

Might you fish around in your toy bag? You might. Your hand would encounter one vibe, still slightly warm; one bottle of lube, still slightly slippery; one very large glass toy; one squishy silicone dong; a pair of stray condoms; a crumpled washcloth; and a pair of panties which you were too tired to replace on your body.

But a phone? There would be no phone.

The panic would continue to rise in your chest as you pulled into the parking lot of a darkened fast food restaurant so as to make a more thorough search. Alas, the phone would not be found.

You might consider practicing the old trick of mentally retracing your steps. If you did so, you’d recall lying naked on the bed some half-hour ago and reaching out with your toes to grab the phone from its perch on the headboard. You’d recall flipping open the phone, groaning as you saw the time displayed in the lower left corner, then dropping the evil piece of gadgetry into the sheets as you raced for the shower.

Sitting in the parking lot, you’d consider your options. It would be ever so much worse to have to return to the hotel in the morning with your children in tow.

So you head back to the hotel. You wearily park the car. You trudge to the lobby and find it locked up tight at this hour. You peek into the lobby window and find the clerk reading a magazine. He sighs before coming over to the window.

From the look on his face as you relate the story of the missing phone, you can tell there will be trouble. He begins shaking his head before you even stop talking. “Sorry miss, I can’t let you back into the room. I can only give the person who originally rented the room a key.”

“But he’s not here!” you point out, with a bit of panic in your voice. “He’s already on his way home!”

“Have him come back. I’d have to see his ID in order to open the room.”

You ask the question, already dreading what’s coming next. “Can I use your phone to call him? Since, you know, my phone is in the room?”

With a withering look of scorn, the clerk pushes the phone receiver under the window. “What’s his number?” he asks, his blunt finger held above the numbers.

You sigh. This is what you were dreading. “I don’t know it. It’s programmed into my phone. I never dial it. Do you have it?”

The clerk looks at you like you’ve got a chicken roosting on your head. He clicks open a screen on his computer and slowly dials the number. You put the phone to your ear.

You pray to all the gods and goddesses above that the number your lover provided the hotel is his cell number and not his home number, because no matter how lovely his spouse has been to you in the past, you cannot imagine that she’d enjoy hearing from you at a quarter past midnight.

You promise God that if it is indeed his cell phone number, you will clean up your act—for real this time! No more naughtiness! No more cock-sucking! No more buttsex! No more screaming “Harder, Daddy!” Nope, you’ll only behave, if only you hear your lover’s voice and not…

Oh thank God. You say a silent prayer of thanks and then sheepishly explain the predicament to your friend. You thank God again that your friend takes it all in stride.

You wait anxiously under the baleful gaze of the clerk for your lover to return. ID is shown, a new key is given, you march down the ridiculously long hallway to your room—and there beneath the sheets is the errant phone.

“I’m sorry for making you come back baby,” you whisper to your friend while hugging him. “I’m an idiot.”

“It’s not a problem. Not at all. Now let’s go home.”

Suddenly you are feeling much better. “What, don’t you want to use the room one more time? Now that we’re here and all?”

He smacks you on the ass and marches you out the door.

Yep, that sure would stink, wouldn’t it? I’m so pleased that I’ve never been fuck-addled enough to have done something so very goofy.

Nope.

Not me.

Nuh-uh.

And even if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have promised to give up buttsex and cocksucking and screaming “Harder, Daddy!”

So consider this to be a warning to you. Don’t you ever do something so foolish, ’cause I’d hate for you to make promises in the heat of the moment that you’d be completely unable to keep.

Ok?