My job requires me to travel the majority of the year.  New York to Los Angeles, Seattle to Miami and everywhere in between.  I have been married for about 5 years now and we are expecting our first child next very shortly. 

That being said...

Last night I was in the hotel lobby on the phone with my wife saying goodnight and finishing up my last beer.  Earlier in the evening I observed a very nice looking young lady heading to the pool area in a bathrobe.  This girl was probably a strong 7 if not an 8 (no it's not the beer talking, since i had only had about 4 beers the whole night).  She must have been about 24 years old, blonde and ready to party.  A few trips outside to smoke a cigarette reinforced my theory that she was in the partying mood. 

A few minutes after I hung up the phone with my wife I polished off my last beer of the evening and headed to the elevator.  right behind me was the "very nice looking" blonde, completely drunk.  Her bathrobe was hanging open showing off her turquois bikini and silky skin.  When I say she was drunk, I mean stumbling nearing fall down drunk.  As we walked into the elevator, she stands right next to me. 

The doors close and I hit the button for the 2nd floor.  As the doors close she turns to me and says in the sweetest most innocent voice, "what room are you in?"

I can't beging to describe the conflict that went on in my head for the next thiry seconds between the 1st and 2nd floor.  Do I take the chance, bang the shit out of her and betray my wife's trust and possibly ruin any relationship with my unborn son if my wife were to somehow find out?  Or, do I just take advantage of the situation and make this drunk chic do some fucked up shit and take pictures?  Or, do I play the good guy and tell her that I am married and simply walk away?

"What room are you in?" she said.

I turned to her and simply told her...room 230........

I was actually in room 227, but I left a note on 230’s door saying I got the room wrong. I don’t know what came over me, but I know what came over her...me baby, me.

Her ass took a pretty good pounding, so she had a five minute break while the three chic’s I’d invited over from room 230 played naked twister on my pole.

I fly home and tell my wife work was boring and uneventful.

Three months later I get a random phone call off that blonde girl I porked, saying she is pregnant and needs me to help support the baby, asking what my house number is; she has tracked me all the way down to what road I’m on.

I tell her its number 230....I actually live at 227.