Third Shift In A Hotel: My Life as a Pimp and Dope Dealer

By Nate Thayer

Shortly after college, I worked as a bellman and security guard at a once grand hotel in decline located in the theatre district adjacent to the red like district in a major U.S. city, known as the “combat zone” for the anarchy that prevailed in the area after dark fell.

As a bellman, I would make my money based on tips, carrying the luggage of new check-in customers, or bringing them room service, or addressing their complaints or needs.

It was endlessly fascinating to be a voyeur in the lives and conduct of those travelling to a city they are unknown in, and the things that they repressed at home which often find an outlet when they found themselves able to behave in the naughty luxury of anonymity.

Our clientele ranged from famous actors in the theatres nearby, to strippers staying for extended stays when featured at nearby clubs, to well-known musicians, to high-end “working women” who would rent a room long-term where they would entertain their regular clientele.

Oh the stories.

The WWF wrestlers used to stay there, their luggage filled with barbells I was unable to physically lift; from Andre the Giant to Killer Kowalski to Chief Strongbow. Muddy Waters gave me a 20 dollar tip for carrying one bag up to his room. As did Muhammad Ali. The Grateful Dead stayed there as did actors from Donald Sutherland to Barbara Streisand.

But it was the obscure and unknown who were the most fascinating.

The elevator was an old manual that required me to accompany the guests up from the lobby, and I was privy to the illicit requests of many, sexually propositioned by untold numbers of travelers of both genders who were free to pursue their unmet desires, in a new city, far from anyone who might snitch, leading to their clandestine activities finding their way back to the virginal ears of friends, family, or colleagues.

Many people think the hotel bellhop, like bartenders, are a fountain of knowledge. Sometimes, we all need an ear to vent upon, a lust quenched, or a connection to be pointed in the direction of where we can find forbidden pleasure.

Drugs and girls were the most common theme.

At a salary of $1.77 per hour, a bellhop’s tips were what I lived on. And I developed a system. In a back room, I kept a bar, and, in full disclosure, a supply of illicit drugs. I also controlled the ice machine. I charged 50 cents for a bucket of ice to be delivered to a room.

I kept a supply of cocaine, marijuana, and several liquors, along with snacks and sandwiches I brought from home, to service the every need of the customer.

It was not unusual for me to clear $500 a night. All in the consensual interests of free trade, open markets, and servicing the every happiness of Free People.

Oh my, I can’t count the times I got a request for ice and was met at the door by a half-clad woman (or women or a woman and a man or a combination of all of the above) who wanted nothing involving ice.

A night never passed, mostly in the wee hours, when I wasn’t asked if I knew where forbidden fruits might be acquired, after the bars had closed.

And, so, as it developed, technically, I became, by strict definition, a pimp.

Never a night passed when a customer wouldn’t inquire where they might find “a girl to party with” or where a valued customer might find recreational chemicals to enhance their hotel experience.

The characters that frequented the hotel included a number of freelance ‘working girls’. They were no different from you and me in most ways, though disproportionately had drug habits that needed financing.

But the ones I became friendly with adamantly refused to be controlled by a pimp–a species with few to no redeeming qualities. Often violent, manipulative and physically and emotionally abusive, they would prey on runaways and the vulnerable and lure them into a situation which left little opportunity to escape with ought bad consequences.

The independent girls were different. Often educated and holding day jobs, they would service a regular clientele, often with skills catering to particular fetishes. These specialists would often keep a long-term room at my hotel. I got friendly with a number of these gals. It was soon that I was told if “you ever have requests from guests” that if I passed them their way I would get remunerated a percentage of the financial benefits.

As all was consensual, I did so without reservation. So began my career as a pimp.

“Do you know where I might find a girl around here who wants to have fun tonight,” was a constant request as I took a new guest up the elevator to his room. I would reply that perhaps I might be able to assist and “I will be back in touch”. I would promptly inform ‘my girls’ and they would do the rest. My only role was to shuttle the client and customer up and down the elevator to the hotel room and back.

Well not always.

One young woman, who had leased a room at the hotel for many months “while my apartment is being redecorated” called down stairs one night and asked for me.

“One of my regular clients is coming in a few minutes. Usually I have someone here for him, but he couldn’t show tonight. Do you think you can come up for half an hour. He likes to suck on my tits and have a rubber band put around his balls while a guy jerks him off. I will give you fifty bucks,” she told me, matter of factly, in a tone as if she was requesting I retrieve a ham and cheese sandwich for her.

I make no judgments and refuse to restrict anyone else’s erotic fetishes, but this wasn’t one I had considered or found enticing.

I declined.

“Why not?” she responded,  genuinely confused. “ It will only take a few minutes and it is 50 dollars!”

I think she was missing my point.

“Tell you what. I will ask Jimmy at the front desk,” I said, begging off. “I think Jimmy might be inclined to be available.”

Another time, an attractive two young ladies who had been spending a number of days as hotel guests for unknown reasons and up to God knows what. We had nightly friendly exchanges, often flirtatious, as they came and went at suspicious hours.

Late one night, the two gals called downstairs and asked for a bucket of ice. I proceeded toward their room and knocked. When the door opened, both stood stark buck neckid, looking luscious to my very confused 19-year-old self, and beckoned me in.

“We really didn’t need the ice. We wanted you,” purred one. I am sure I said something incoherent.

It was then I noticed the huge black Dildo strapped onto one of the gals, as the other began to unzip my pants. The sight of that thing frightened the bejesus out of me, visions of it being forced up my butt. I stammered and begged off, citing some false work obligations, and fled as transparently ridiculously nonchalantly as I could muster.

Numerous other times, I fended off the aggressive, stupid drunk advances of men trying to force themselves on me as we rode up the lift. This made me realize what women must regularly encounter from the dark, pathetic side my gender too often descends into.

But there were the erotic and welcome moments. There was one long-term guest, a woman of a certain age, who would daily call down for ice-cube room service delivery and meet me naked when she opened the door. I did not resist. It was mutual desire and lust unleashed, uncomplicated by the dance and energy of seduction.

Oh, I have many more stories from both the dark corners of human desires unleashed and delicious teenage fantasies that came true.

Hotels are a world of secrets, protected and encouraged by the anonymity of new cities, far from the prying eyes that inhibit the release of people’s desires.

Perhaps one day I will share the titillating, intriguing, more sordid details and memories of my misguided youth.