While my darling dearest refused to have sex with me due to her fear of cross-contamination from bed bugs, dried lube, crusted semen, or some kind of horrific amalgamation of the three, I couldn't have asked for better company. We swept the room for details like the crack squad of amateur reporters the hotel turned us into.
We were the Hardy Boys, but way cooler. Shelby Woo, but not Asian. Sherlock Holmes and Watson, except I was deeply attracted to Watson and wished she'd let me at least get to third base. We were just two people in love at a sex hotel. As we peered out the window across the Hudson, our view of Jersey gave us some semblance of normalcy that we deeply desired in such a strange place.
Comparatively speaking, a night at the Liberty Inn kicked ass compared to a night in Pyongyang or 1950s East Berlin. It wasn't until afterward, silently munching on a couple of burgers down the block, that we could finally reflect on the two hours we had just had in a hotel designed for sex.