(This is an older piece re-posted for the holiday.)
Another night at the bar.
Scotch neat. It’s my way.
You sat a few seats down from me. All beautified, perfumed and bitter. That shoulder length hair shrouding a face that said forties, the fit of your clothes cried out late twenties.
Shit, I feel some stupid coming on.
You entered awhile ago, slamming your purse on the bar and unceremoniously barking for a vodka tonic, light on the tonic. Your attention turned to your phone. I sat and watched you text then curse then drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Forty-five minutes and three V&Ts down, you proclaim at a volume equal to your buzz,
“Fuck Valentines Day!”
Oh, here it comes, I thought. I’m going to need more Scotch.
“Fuck Cupid and heart shaped candy boxes! Fuck the commercials and the fucking cards! Fuck heart shaped pendants and rose petals and young love! Fuck this artificial fucking holiday right in its heart shaped ass! Fuckers! I mean it! Fuck, fucking Valentines Day!”
You polish off your current drink, slammed it to the bar and was in the process of demanding number four, when my stupid kicked into high gear.
“Hey, Sweetheart! This one’s on me.” I interrupt.
Sigh, I’m an idiot.
The offer kind of pisses you off, I could tell.
“What, some kind of pity drink?? Or do I look like an easy lay? All sad and lonely on Valentines Day, thought you could swoop down like a hero and I would just magically drop my panties?”
“I actually bought the drink so I could say what I’m about to say with a clean-ish conscience” I answer while paying the bartender.
Then I say what I was about to say, “Shut the fuck up, will ya??”
To the tender I add, “Seriously, if she so much as sneezes, take it back.”
Oh, when you hear that from me, lets just say, you wear outrage well, Sweetheart. It puts color in your cheeks.
“How DARE you! You son of a bitch!”
Your aim is better than I thought, you actually get the majority of your drink on my face when you throw it. I suppose I deserve it, I am pretty stupid.
You storm out the exit, loud and stomping. I grab some cocktail napkins and attempt to sop up the vodka I’m now bathed in. You storm back in.
“Fuck you buddy! No one tells me to shut the fuck up! Nobody!” Then you pivot with flair and storm back out. I look at the bartender with WTF eyebrows and he shrugs, that “Yup, she’s a woman, what are ya gonna do?”, shrug.
Crap, I think there’s vodka down my pants. You storm back in.
“What in the fuck gives you the right?? Huh? You don’t know me? You know nothing about me! Fuck you! You’re an asshole!” And back out you go. Slamming the door as you leave.
I get this a lot. Is it me?
Again, the bartender and I exchange glances. Then he stares at the door and I look at my watch. Like clockwork, you storm back in, right to me.
You slap me right across the face and stand there, glaring at me. I just calmly look back into your eyes. You slap me again, again no response from me. As you go for another, I catch your wrist with my hand, gripping it tight an inch from my face.
“You only get two free, Sweetheart. You need to earn the rest.” I chuckle, looking as confident as I can with tonic dripping from my ears.
“Let go.” You order, in a low simmer of anger. Yet not struggling against my hold.
“Are you going to slap me again?” Setting a condition of your release.
“No.” You glare.
“No, what?” Now I’m just fuckin’ with you. Stupid, remember?
“No, I wont slap you again.” You respond, your pride a little tender from the swat I just gave it. I let go and you rub your wrist, start to leave and then turn to ask me “Why didn’t you just ask why I was upset? Why did you have to be such a dick?”
A valid question, I’ll leave out the stupidity part.
“For a couple of reasons. First, I knew it would shock you out of whatever funk that was you were in, at least for a minute or two. And second, if I had sauntered next to you, all sensitive and concerned, then you would have just thought it an act, a cheap ploy. I may be stupid, but I ain’t cheap.”
Damn, how did stupid get in there??
“Wait, you weren’t intentionally being a dick and you weren’t hitting on me, then why say anything at all?” You were so confused at this point.
“Because I got a problem with people who go on and on about how much they hate Valentines Day. I had to do something.” Shrugging my shoulders as I finish.
“So you’re one of those romantic types? Roses and champagne? Love notes and chocolates? Defending the sadistic little holiday?” Thinking you have me pegged. Guess again.
“I might be guilty of romance and love notes, I’ve popped a cork or two and presented my share of bouquets. But I’m no varsity cheerleader for the holiday. To me, it’s just a day, Sweetheart. But I don’t hate it either.” I explain, “See, the way I figure it, Valentines Day gets the blame for a lot of things, but mainly loneliness. Let the lovers have the day, they didn’t conspire to flaunt it in your face. Its a lot like smoking, once you quit you hate smokers. Why? Because you so badly want to smoke. That’s not the other smokers fault. So find something to take your mind off smoking. That’s how I look at it. Works sometimes, even.”
Jesus, somebody tell ME to shut the fuck up!
“Quitting cigarettes was easier than this.” You sigh and sit down, dabbing vodka from my shoulders with a napkin you grab. I didn’t even flinch.
“Look, I’ll buy you another drink, and I’m sure we can come up with something. I promise not to tell you to shut up if you promise not to drench me with it again.” I bargain with you.
You lean in close, and whisper, “Want to hear a secret? You aren’t the only one drenched.” And you glide back to your seat.
So, let me get this straight. Here I sit, in a puddle of vodka. Its Valentines Day and a strange woman who’s half in the bag, called me an asshole, slapped me twice and proceeded to tell me a filthy secret.
God damn, I love this bar.
I tell you to sit tight, I’ll be right back. I’m going to the mens room to de-vodka. You tell me not to take too long and wink.
Once in the small bathroom, its very apparent how much of the drink made it down my shirt into my pants. I start grabbing paper towels, unbuckle and stuff my hand down to dry my semi-awake dick.
“Busy!” I yell, trying to figure out how that much vodka made it between my ass cheeks, was she drinking out of a bucket?
“Christ! It’s occupied!” What, are they deaf?
Oh, for fuck’s sake! I toss the damp towels, zip and buckle, and open the locked door, ready to unload on the persistent patron. As I do, you leap on me!
In a blink, you kick the door closed behind you, reach back to turn the lock and have your tongue planted firmly in my mouth. It was such a blur, it took me a moment for my brain to catch up.
It’s that stupid thing again.
My rough hands grab your waist as our lips grind and our tongues dance. Your perfume teasing me in exotic ways. You have one hand at the back of my head, pulling my mouth tighter to yours. Your other hand grabs mine, guiding it from hip to under your skirt, between your legs.
Oh god, you really are drenched!
The lace panties are warm and soaked. My hand cups and rubs, you moan in my mouth. Fuck, that’s hot.
You step away with spontaneous need. You hike your skirt to the waist and roll your sopping lace to the floor. I cant unbuckle and drop trou fast enough. My belt rattles on the tile floor and its my turn to pounce. I grab you by the waist again and lift you to the counter. Our forms reflected in the mirror, In a move borne of primitive urgency, I shove myself deep and rough into your dripping pussy. You gasp as I fill you, I can feel the tight grip your body has on my cock.
“Fuck! Come on! Fuck me!” You demand, wild eyed!
I plunge into you again, and again. My thrusts rocking your hips, shaking us at each forceful collision. As I fuck you, you look me in the eye, lick a couple of fingers, reach down and start rubbing your clit rapidly.
Between gasps you ask me if I like that, if I like it when you’re a dirty slut. I answer by grabbing your legs and putting your feet at my shoulders. Fucking you even deeper on this bathroom sink. You like how I fuck you when you play slut. Your legs start shaking, and your arms frantically look for anything to grab as the orgasm crashes into you.
You scream for God! You scream for Jesus! You scream for Fuck!
I keep pounding into you as you rattle and hum. The quakes in your pussy’s grip and the sight if you cumming, it has my cock throbbing. I’m starting to moan and grunt like a man should. Winded and a hot mess, you push me back from you, climb off the counter. Take to your bare knees and swallow my engorged, slick cock down your eager throat. My hand grabs your head as you mouth-fuck me with enough tempo, force and enthusiasm, to force my legs to shake! I explode with a hot blast of cum down your throat. The bathroom echoes with my sudden guttural cry. Your lips and tongue clean me as I still twitch with aftershocks.
Whoa. Just, whoa.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand as you stand. “Too bad, you should have seen what I had planned if you had opened on the first knock.” You tease as you straighten your skirt and gather your panties.
“You know, my place has a bathroom door. We could practice, just so I’m ready the next time.” I tease back, pulling my pants back on.
“Next time? Presumptuous, aren’t we?” You say, applying lipstick in the mirror.
“And stupid, let’s not forget stupid.” I add, because its the truth.
You laugh and head to the door. Before you open the door, I say, in my best smart-ass “Hey, Happy Valentines Day, Sweetheart.”
“Fuck You.” You snap back.
“Just did.” I parry, with my best sly grin.
You open the door, look back, staring for a moment and then say, “Are we practicing or not? You’re too stupid to learn the knock thing on your own.” And I watch your heart shaped ass walk out the door, knowing, full well, I would follow.
I mean, come on, I’m not THAT stupid.