"There was some confusion over which “Dune” we were staying in, and even though we knew we were on the 6th floor, we erroneously decided to check into the Ocean Dunes Hotel that only had three floors. This is what happens when you hit the Myrtle Beach city limits. All common sense is sucked out of your head like a riptide.
After checking into the proper hotel, we head to the room and I’m immediately grossed out when I realize the elevator has been freshly painted. There’s only one reason an elevator ever needs to be painted – to cover something up. And in a beachside hotel you better believe it’s something NASTY.
As we break the seal to the hotel room, I expect to see half-naked spring breakers having sex on the balcony, funneling tequila shots off each other’s asses, with ‘The Real World’ blaring on the TV. Instead we encounter the aroma of parties past - stale beer, sweaty sex & salty cigarettes.
The fact is, beachside hotel rooms in Myrtle Beach are not pampered by their guests. These rooms are rode hard and put away wet. Literally. If scanned by the Dateline black light, these rooms would light up like a circus. No matter the day of the week, every nite in a beach side motel room is like a 1989 Poison after-show party.
The balcony doors are thrown open to air out the room and we promptly head to the hotel bar for an adult beverage. The hazy hotel bar is empty and disgusting at best. The instant we walk in I feel a layer of “sticky” cover my body. We perch ourselves on ancient wicker chairs that have hosted a plethora of half naked, thong-clad asses over the millennium. The wicker barstool groans under my weight but is grateful for a fully-clad arse."
Total saga on 9 White Street, the blog, here.