Every Window in Alcatraz Has A View of San Francisco

Opening at Palihouse isn’t exactly grueling. Flip on the lights. Make coffee. Grab some ice. Set up the patio. Nothing too intense. The real challenge? Being there at 6 a.m. to do it—especially when you were out until 5.

Working a job like this while also trying to live life to the fullest. It’s like being a prisoner on furlow. Like every moment spent outside the confines of ‘work’ is borrowed time.

After setting up, I make my way to the bar to spike my latte with whiskey. I grab an already open bottle of Maker’s Mark, unscrew the cap, and pour a generous—but still socially acceptable—splash into my four-shot oat milk vanilla latte. One sip in, and my nervous system stops screaming. I can finally breathe.

There’s a specific emotional journey that comes with working an opening shift after a night of absolute debauchery. First, sheer panic. You have to get to work on time, look like a functioning member of society, and somehow string together sentences like you didn’t just crawl out of the trenches. The anxiety is real, and honestly? Valid. Then comes the regret. You start questioning every choice that led you to this moment. The hangover kicks in. Your body turns sluggish. If you’re lucky—like I am today—you have access to a little “hair of the dog.” After that, it’s a game of cat, mouse, and whatever the hell hunts a cat. You’re the cat, the mouse is the euphoric high you had just a few hours ago, and your hangover is the inevitable beast coming to collect its debt.

“Hi!” says a voice to my right.

I turn to see a woman—early fifties, dressed in sleek all-black business attire. She has the polished, no-nonsense energy of a New Yorker in town for work.

“Hi, good morning,” I reply effortlessly, customer-service smile fully engaged.

“Can I get a cappuccino and a menu, please?” she asks.

What is it with New Yorkers and cappuccinos? What is it about the foam that has them in a chokehold?

“Of course! What kind of milk would you like?”

“Just regular.”

Disgusting.

“Sounds great,” I say, handing her a menu. “Grab a seat anywhere, I’ll bring your coffee right over.”

“Thank you!” she says, flashing a surprisingly genuine smile.

I turn to make Business Woman’s nasty cow milk cappuccino when a family of four settles into the dining room to the right of the bar—my designated home base for the morning.

“I’ll be over in just a moment!” I call out, already bracing myself.

Before dealing with them, I throw back a quick shot of Maker’s, drop off Business Woman’s coffee, and mentally log her order—traditional breakfast, eggs over easy, sausage instead of bacon. Respectable.

Then, I head over to greet the family.

The parents look like the type who have their lives together, and their twin daughters—maybe seven or eight—sit quietly, well-behaved, not a single crumb of chaos between them. A rare breed.

Thankfully, their order is just as pleasant—black coffees for mom and dad, grapefruit juice for the girls, and French toast all around.

I could almost cry at how simple and easy taking that order was. In fact I felt a tear forming in my right duct.

“How are you doing this morning?” the mother asks, her face a striking resemblance to Carrie Coon.

I pause, debating how honest I can be. People don’t actually want a real answer to this question. They want the socially acceptable “I’m great, thanks!” so they can pat themselves on the back for acknowledging their server before moving on with their day.

I could say, “I haven’t slept, I’m a little drunk, and I’m desperately craving a big fat bump of cocaine.” But something tells me that wouldn’t land well.

So instead, I just smile and say, “I’m doing well, thank you,” before getting back to work.

Over the next hour, I get my five guests’ breakfasts out, make polite conversation with Business Woman, take three more shots of Maker’s, and craft an oat milk latte for a man from Boston who’s in town to visit his newborn grandson. Through all of this, I remain the picture of professionalism. I don’t even make fun of the Boston guy’s accent. That’s how committed I am to my craft.

And then, the inevitable happens. Something that happens to all of us after a few drinks.

I get horny.

There are simple solutions to this problem.

Obvious solutions.

So, I open Grindr.

I start scrolling through the usual lineup of faceless torsos, setting my expectations low. It’s literally 9:30 in the morning—who in their right mind is awake and looking to hook up this early?

Ba dada boom.

And just like that, my prayers are answered.

Hey cutie.

That’s all the message says. I tap on his profile. Location: 204 feet away.

Perfect. That means I won’t even have to leave the hotel.

He’s white, 6’0”, a little body hair, and a cute enough face—minus the aggressively 80s porn ‘stache. But I could get over that.

I glance around the empty restaurant. Haven’t seen a soul in at least thirty minutes.

Do I risk it?

What’s up? ;) I type back.

Less than a second later, he replies.

Just woke up. So hard.

Promising.

You’re at the hotel? I ask.

Staying at Palihouse.

What’s your room number?

Can’t host. Husband is here.

Ugh.

Of course he is.

Then this man surprises me.

Any ideas? ;)

Blood rushes south, my dick pressing uncomfortably against my zipper. I shift in place, discreetly repositioning so it’s pointing north, tucked into my waistband, safely hidden under my work shirt.

A dilemma.

I don’t want to get caught abandoning my post behind the bar, but if I don’t get fucked, I’ll be unbearably horny for the rest of my shift.

I glance up at the ceiling, half-hoping for divine intervention, some cosmic sign to point me in the right direction. My eyes drift toward the staircase leading to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, the mezzanine. Past that, the hall to the guest rooms. And just beyond that… the pool.

The pool.

I pull out my phone and type as fast as my fingers will allow.

Meet me in the pool bathroom.

***

Palihouse’s pool isn’t anything special. It’s small. It’s not on the rooftop. The view of the city is mediocre at best. There’s barely any space to lay out and soak up the sun.

But it does have one thing.

A bathroom that no one in the entire hotel ever goes to.

The spacious single-stall bathroom is decorated like a British summer cottage—floral wallpaper, wood paneling, and an eclectic mix of paintings, mostly landscapes and Labradors.

I’m on my knees, naked from the waist down, ass in the air, door unlocked—as per my Grindr hookup’s request.

I check my phone. It’s only been two minutes, but anxiety creeps in anyway—what if someone’s downstairs looking for breakfast?

My heart skips when the door creaks open.

What if it’s not him? What if it’s a valet? A housekeeper? The GM? Another guest?

Then—relief.

“Oh fuck, that’s beautiful,” a man’s voice murmurs behind me. The door clicks shut. A zipper lowers.

I glance over my shoulder—there he is, the man from Grindr, clear as day. His beard’s a little scruffier than in his photos, but that’s understandable.

He kneels behind me, slapping a thick cock against my ass. I tense at the weight of it.

“You ready for Daddy’s dick?”

“Fuck yeah.”

And just like that, with the help of a little spit and some deep breathing, I stretch myself open and accommodate the needs of yet another guest.

***

I’m relieved to find that not a single soul wandered into the restaurant while I was upstairs getting my back blown out.

See? My anxiety is just a testament to my unwavering dedication to my job. I actually laugh out loud at the thought.

“What’s so funny?”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of Ruby’s voice. My second server for the morning must have arrived while I was… indisposed.

“Oh my god, hi!”

“Hi!” Ruby breezes past me to the espresso machine, clearly just walking in if she’s only making her coffee now. “I almost thought you weren’t here, but then I saw everything was clean and set up, so I figured you must be. How are you?”

“I’m good,” I say as casually as humanly possible, all while studying her face, trying to figure out if she can tell that I’m still a little drunk—or that I’ve got a couple ounces of a stranger’s DNA in me.

“Ugh, I’ve had the worst morning—” Ruby launches into a rant about something I immediately tune out. I’m just relieved she doesn’t seem to notice anything off about me.

I sigh, leaning against the counter as she continues talking, my mind swelling like it’s two sizes too big for my skull. A familiar sensation. Classic cocaine withdrawal.

“Hi! Welcome in!” Ruby’s voice pulls me back as a woman steps inside, a laptop tucked under her arm. “Take a seat wherever you’d like, I’ll find you!”

The woman heads out to the patio.

Ruby turns to me. “Do you want me to take this?”

“Yes, please.”

She skips off, and I absentmindedly open Grindr again. The quick bathroom encounter took the edge off, but I wasn’t able to cum—too much anxiety about making it back in time.

I scroll through my messages, and something catches my eye. A blonde, built guy with sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes. But it’s his opening message that seals the deal.

Wanna come over and do a couple lines with me and my buddy?

***

After convincing Ruby I needed to take my break an hour early, I find myself pacing down S Orlando Ave, searching for an apartment that promises relief from the pounding in my skull.

Eventually, I spot the door with the number I’ve been looking for. Just as I’m about to knock, a wave of dread washes over me.

What if there’s a murderer behind the door? What if I’m about to be sex-trafficked? Or hate-crimed? Or, worse—humiliated?

Then, movement catches my eye—a window to my right. Two bodies, one grinding against the other, limbs tangled, skin flushed.

I’m in the right place.

I open the door without knocking.

“Hey there,” says a tall, shirtless version of the man I’d just seen on my phone. He leans against the doorway ahead, casual, confident. The couple on the couch barely registers my arrival, too caught up in their own world.

“Oh hi,” I say with a smirk, stepping forward.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him into a slow, sensual kiss. His hands roam my back, fingers pressing, claiming. He pulls me closer until our hips grind together, his growing bulge against mine sending a fresh rush of excitement through me.

This is exactly what I needed.

Almost.

I pull away from him.

“You said you had coke?”

Tall Guy smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye that sends a spark of anticipation through me.

“Of course,” he says, gesturing toward the table. A few lines are already waiting, neatly cut. “Help yourself.”

As I kneel down, reaching for the rolled-up bill, I feel his hands at my waist, tugging my shorts down to my knees. A second later, his face is buried between my cheeks, and any lingering hesitation disappears.

I snort a line.

“You’re gonna have to hurry, I have to get back to work soon,” I say, glancing at the clock.

Tall Guy lets out a low chuckle, gripping my hips tighter. “You’ll leave when I say you can leave,” he growls. Then, with a commanding edge, “Get on your back.”

I snort one more line before flipping over, legs up, anticipation thick in the air. In one swift motion, he yanks my shorts off and pushes my legs back until my ankles are nearly at my ears.

“Fuck!” I gasp, my breath hitching.

He smirks, dragging his cock teasingly against my already eager entrance. “You like that, don’t you?”

I can only nod, my hands finding their way to my own throbbing need.

Leaning down, he crashes his lips against mine as he pushes inside.

“Fuuuuck,” he snarls against my mouth. “You’re gonna be limping outta here.”

***

By the time I get back, the restaurant has livened up a bit. It’s 10:45 now—some guests are here for a late breakfast, others for an early lunch.

Candice, my manager, has arrived too. She spots me walking in from the patio and greets me with a bright smile.

“Hi, Candice!” I respond, maybe a little too enthusiastically. Residual adrenaline, no doubt.

“Hi, Sean! How’s everything been today?” She beams, completely unaware of the secrets I keep. ​​Candice is a textbook Sagittarius—she just wants good vibes, smiles, and smooth sailing. As long as I look fine, she assumes I am fine.

“It’s been great! Slow start. Had a few guests early on, then nothing really until Ruby got here.”

“You took a break?”

“Yes, I did—” My voice falters as my eyes land on the bar.

Sitting there, not six feet away, is the bearded man from the pool bathroom.

And his husband.

“Okay, perfect, because I’m going to need you to stay a little later today.”

I nod, barely processing her words.

“I also need you to take this espresso martini to room 345.” Candice’s voice registers, but my mind is elsewhere.

“Sean.” She snaps her fingers, yanking me back into the present.

“Yeah?”

“Take this espresso martini to room 345.”

“Oh yeah. Okay.”

***

I take the elevator up to the third floor, balancing a single espresso martini on a tray. Absolutely ridiculous that I’m making a trip up three floors for a single cocktail.

The Bearded guy won’t say anything to his husband, he’s probably more worried about me than I am about him. I’m fine. 

Just relax.

I take a few deep breaths as I walk over to room 345.

Knock knock

I wait a few moments before the door swings open. Standing in the frame is a man so stunning, so effortlessly gorgeous, that I momentarily forget how to function. Dark skin, sculpted body—he’s a work of art.

“Oh my god,” slips out before I can stop it. “I mean—sorry—here you go.” I stumble over my words like an idiot, forcing a smile.

He chuckles. “No worries. Thank you.” He takes the martini from my tray, his voice smooth, effortless.

“No problem.”

We linger, locked in a moment of silent recognition. A strange familiarity, like we’ve met before—on a dance floor, in another life, somewhere.

I break the silence. “Enjoy.”

And then I walk away, kicking myself.

At the elevator, I press the down button and wait, replaying the interaction in my head. I should have said something. What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe the coke is making my anxiety worse, or maybe I’m afraid of pushing my luck. I’ve already gotten away with so much today.

Ba dada boom.

I take out my phone. A new Grindr message.

Come back.

I open the profile. It’s him.

The elevator doors slide open in front of me.

Do I step inside?

Do I go back?

It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t.