It was 2 a.m. when we found ourselves at the hotel, lust boiling in our loins. Pedro had arrived after midnight on the bus from Cancun. We went dancing and then found the cheapest hotel in downtown Playa. It wasn’t bad for 400 pesos a night. The fan made an awful beating sound and seemed as if it would whir right out of the ceiling. Traffic blared, and the florescent glow of signs in the commercial area across the street cast a pallid aura throughout the stale room. The mattresses were uneven and the towels were rough. But we were alone, and unlike our last tryst in the language school apartment, we had at least a few hours to explore each other’s flesh without interruption (before he had to head back to Cancun to work early in the morning). We got to it right away. Although the setting was unromantically loud and moldy, the sordid atmosphere and compression of time allowed us the freedom to go forth with raw, unbridled passion. We couldn’t have had better sex in a five star luxury resort.

I’ve never had deliberate hotel sex before Mexico. I seriously considered it in New York when a committed relationship or living situation blocked my intimacy with a lover, but when the cheapest hotel is $100 a night, it’s not exactly practical. So I considered New Jersey as an alternative, but the idea of having sex in a Super 8 on the Turnpike is about as erotic as eating caviar off a dashboard.

My definition of hotel sex is unrelated to honeymoons or seasoned couples on vacation. The singular use of a hotel for a sexual encounter is wrapped around circumstances of limitation: cohabitation with someone other than your lover, kids, fear of disrespecting one’s host or family, or lack of privacy in one’s living space. In Playa Del Carmen, I was living with a Mexican host family with two small children. Although I had a private room, I felt uncomfortable about the possibility of having sex there, even if we were discreet enough not to disturb anyone’s slumber, even if my lover were to leave before anybody was awake. Pedro had no place in Playa, so what else could we do? 

In Mexico, I had sex with three Mexican guys on three separate occasions in three different hotels. Guy number two, a Mayan dancer, was sharing a room with other dancers in some kind of communal artist house, so sex at his place wasn’t an option. I was relieved that he didn’t bring me to the same hotel where Pedro had ravished me. (I would’ve made up excuses to go elsewhere if that had happened). After buying condoms and drinks at the Oxxo (Mexico’s version of 7-Eleven), we got in a taxi and he asked the driver to bring us to an inexpensive hotel … how obvious, especially since I was a gringa. It was even more obvious in the reception area, showing up after midnight with nothing but a plastic bag between the two of us. A security guard didn’t take his eyes off us as we climbed the outdoor stairs to our room. “El piensa que yo soy una … prostitute,” I remarked just a few minutes before I was sacrificed to the Mayan Gods. The guard’s likely suspicion wasn’t too far from the truth. Maya Man paid for my dinner and the room. But of course, the pleasure was mine and I wasn’t making any money.  

Even if the hotel is dirt cheap, it’s not really “hotel sex” if the stay lasts more than one night, or if you arrive before midnight with luggage. There’s something very intentional about hotel sex … you’re not there to admire the linens or enjoy the continental breakfast. It doesn’t matter if the TV doesn’t work or if the toilet doesn’t have a seat. You’re not even there to sleep; it may occur, naturally, but only as a byproduct of the motivation that brought you there: finding a place to fuck without infringing on other people’s space. 

None of the hotels in Mexico were romantic havens, but there was something thrilling about their purpose as a place of consummation. However, a thrilling purpose doesn’t always predicate a thrilling experience … the third hotel was the worst. My excitement waned at the sight of the musty room and its two narrow twin beds attached to the walls so that they couldn’t be pushed together. We turned off all the harsh lights except for the one in the bathroom, and left the door open to shed some feeble glow on our groping bodies. Besides the unpleasant ambiance, guy number three was erotically disappointing and I was too sleepy and stunted by our language barrier to give him adequate feedback. We did it again in the morning, but the hotel was under construction and workers had started whistling and singing along to their banging and drilling outside the door since 7 a.m. The banging and drilling inside the room was just as problematic; once again our bodies didn’t mesh and he came too soon. And I had no orgasm to compensate for this mess! That’s it, no more Mexican hotel sex for me, I thought, feeling dirty, groggy and unsatisfied. Not on this trip, at least. If there’s a next time, I’m settling for a five star luxury resort.