Five Drunk People Walk Into a Hotel

Five drunk people walk into the hotel.
---A cute, sunny, busty beanbag of a girl in her early twenties, wearing a tight, sheer, black shirt
---A thin gay guy with short, wavy blonde hair or similar age
---A slightly shrewish but enthusiastic older woman with glasses, probably about fifty
---An unmemorable girl with dark brown hair
---A pretty, taller, well-put-together black girl with beautiful, medium-toned skin and sleek black hair

It's about three in the morning. They've met back at the hotel from two separate locations, although its unclear who came back with whom. They are all very drunk, but loopy and exuberant drunk, not belligerent or slurry drunk. I'm not sure whose mother the woman is, but it seems like she's matched them shot for shot and that she's having a good time, not acting like a mom or anything.

As soon as they walk in, the pretty one saunters right behind the desk and drapes herself over me. I am pleased but, honestly, not really in the mood. Not bitter or anything, or even tired really, just nonplussed, I would say.
"What's your naaaaame?" she asks.
I turn my neck and give her a look that I want to be slight bemusement.. "{The Concierge} ," I say evenly.
She gives a drawn out whoop. "Hooo, I'm gonna come back for you later. We're gonna have fun tonight, Mr. {Concierge}." But she says this genially, not sexually, as if we might be going to the county fair sometime this week.

Meanwhile, the other four are swapping stories of their evenings, which I can't really follow, and I still can't figure out who was out with whom (to be fair, I am a little distracted). Gradually, for some reason, I don't really know why, I tune out everyone until I'm just listening to the girl in sheer black, who is like this big, fat, rosy-cheeked, beatnik strawberry.

"She broke mah bra," she is whining, her head lolling a bit. "Some bitch at tha club broke mah bra! She bit it like this, and it broke!" She had chomped down on her imaginary bra-strap and shook her head back and forth like a dog. "She thought I was a lezbian," she mewls, her lower lip hanging down in a mock frown.

"And now ever'body can see mah tigg ol' bitties," she says, sounding like a very saccharine old prospector, pretending to be ashamed, secretly enjoying the attention.

I had indeed noticed her busoms; her shirt is as sheer as it was black, and it is very, very black. Her breasts are pendulous, and they are, well, tigg.

"I'm sorry about your bitties," I murmur, so only she could hear me.
"Did you hear him?" she cackles, but no one else is paying attention.

Gradually, the herd decides to go to sleep. The male heads for the door. "Where you going? someone asks. "Honey, I got a boy's house to sleep over," he responds as he pushes open the door.

Eventually the ladies shuffle off to their rooms. The last in line is the attractive African-American girl. As she's passing by, she abruptly turns to me and says, in a disembodied, prophetic tone, "I ran, {Concierge}. I ran from the man."
Then she turns as if that were a perfectly normal thing to say and clicks off to bed.