I was tired. I mean dog tired. My father, a strong Marine turned Army pilot turned Executive had been diagnosed with Stage 4 throat cancer. He was going through treatment, was about 4 months in and my mom needed help. They owned a lot of rental property that required constant maintenance. I didn’t have my son this weekend, so I flew up to help them.
My Saturday was filled with cleaning up a new house, dry walling and painting another rental, replacing a tile floor then yard work. When I finally finished and arrived back at their place the only thing I could think about was a shower.
After the shower, I went to the living room and flipped on the TV – it was only about 8 o’clock. My mom thanked me and went to bed to be with my dad who hadn’t come out of the bedroom the entire time I was there. It was eerily quiet.
Less than 2 miles from my parents home was an upscale bar and grill that I had seen on my way in. I decided I would head there, eat a little dinner, drink a few, read my book and come home. I still had a lot of work to do before my flight home on Sunday. I threw on a black t-shirt with some jeans and boots.
When I arrived at the bar I find it half full with a mixed age group. I am underdressed, which surprised me, but doesn’t bother me at all. Luckily they had a very large oak wood bar with comfortable chairs. I took a spot at the end of the bar, ordered my drink and a menu. After a few minutes I decided on a grilled chicken breast and a side salad – pretty much my go to meal when I am out.
After eating, I pulled out my book, got very comfortable and started reading. I was reading a Clive Cussler novel, sipping my scotch and pretty much ignoring everyone. I just wasn’t in the mood to socialize, but sitting at my parents in that dark, large house was even more depressing.
At some point three girls come in and sit next to me at the bar. I notice the prettiest girl sits the furthest from me, with the average girl in the middle and the less attractive girl next to me. I don’t even put my book down to acknowledge them. Like I said, I really wasn’t feeling very social.
After a time, they ask me if I will watch their drinks while they “herd” to the bathroom. “Sure” is my only reply. Looking around the bar as they leave I notice it has become busier. Less people eating, and more people drinking. All of the pool tables and dart boards are in use, and it has a fun vibe. I stretch, order another scotch and start reading again.
The girls all come back, but I notice they trade seats with the prettiest girl sitting next to me.
“What are you reading?”, she asked.
I pause a bit, turn to look her in the eyes, and show her the book. She is looking at me like she wants me to fill in the next line of communication, but I really didn’t want to. After a moment of intense eye gazing she turns to her friends to talk. I simply go back to reading.
After a few minutes I hear her ask, “So, do you live around here?”
I pause, slowly place my book on the bar, turn my head to look at her and simply say “no.”
“Where are you from?”
“Why are you here?”
I don’t know why the question bugged me – maybe from the scotch I was starting to feel, maybe from my drained body, but most likely from the stress of my dad’s medical condition. Calmly looking into her eyes I ask her, “Do I look like I want to talk?”
She gets that shocked/offended look on her face. I can see her struggling with wanting to say something, but she either drew a blank or thought better of it. I down my last gulp of scotch, order another one and go back to reading.
Over the next half hour I hear the openings of several guys that approach this group. Most of them are the “Hi, can I buy you a drink?” type of opener. I do my best to ignore everything and just get lost in my book.
At one point she turns back to me, “Why would you come to a bar to read?”
I slowly set my book down and look at her. The scotch is kicking in but I can still see the intensity in her eyes, almost like she has to gain my approval for the night to be a success. I tell her, “Look, if you want to talk to me, buy me a scotch and you will have my undivided attention.”
I say nothing as I pick up my book and go back to reading.
A few minutes later she says, “I can’t believe you would just sit there.”
I make a show of sighing, slowly shaking my head while putting the book down. “I have already told you the rules, if you want to talk with me buy me a drink.”
This time, she replied almost playfully, “I am not buying you a drink.”
I hold her eye contact, smirk charmingly and say “Looks like we are at an impasse.” When she looks away I go back to reading.
Soon after this exchange she says in an exacerbated voice to no one or everyone, “Ok then.”
She calls the bartender over and orders a scotch and a glass of wine. He knows her by name, which means she is a regular or his girlfriend. Based on the lack of enthusiasm from her, he is not the boyfriend. When the drink arrives she slides it over to me with a, “Here you go.”
I chuckle to myself, place the book on the bar, turn slightly to her and say, “Thank you.”
She then starts questioning me like it is an interview. I answer the first several questions about my name, where I am from, then why I am there. I discover she lives just down the street in some upscale apartments. The conversation becomes a little more fluid as we chat about nothing. I can’t help but flirt when I am talking to girls, so I fall into my normal patterns of building attraction and calibrating her responses.
She mid 20’s slender, 5’7 beauty with long dark hair and a slightly upturned nose that looks cute on pixie girls. She smiled easily, worked in marketing and had a habit of throwing her hair forward when she laughed.
After about 30 minutes as the conversation starts to dry up I drink the last drop of my drink and tell her, “Thank you for the drink. It was nice meeting you Becka.”, while turning and picking up my book.
She is shocked, but can’t help but smile. “You aren’t going to keep talking to me?”
“No. I told you if you bought me a scotch, I would talk to you. Our interaction is at a close… unless you want to buy me another scotch.”
She smiles, calls over the bartender and orders another round. I make a show of acting slightly disappointed for not getting to read my book as I set it on the bar, yet again.
This time we are in full flirt mode. It is actually fun and being slightly intoxicated tends to renew my energy levels from the drain I felt just a few hours ago. Shortly after this her girlfriends tell her “bye”, leaving her at the bar without a second thought.
After a little more talking she turns to me and tells me, “I can’t understand it, I am actually attracted to you.”
“Of course you are, it’s natural.”
Shaking her head, “No, you don’t understand, I am not attracted to guys.”
Me with my cocky attitude, “No, you don’t understand, you are hard wired to be attracted to a masculine man. Maybe not an average guy, but you are genetically programmed to like a guy like me.”
She is smiling, but still with a look of intensity on her face, “No, you really don’t get it. I am a lesbian. I have never been with a man.”
Holding my frame, though I had never been hit on by a lesbian, “Most women haven’t.”
“What do you mean?”
Looking her in the eye, with our sexual tension peaking, “Most girls have never been with a man – damn few of us left. But my fact stands, you are hard wired to be attracted to a masculine man, regardless of what you think your orientation is. Personally I believe all girls are bisexual, so I assume you convinced yourself to believe you were a lesbian because your first sexual experience was with a girl.”
She looks amazed for a moment. She then looks at me with her eyes blazing and almost whispers, “Would you like to come back to my place?”
I follow her to her place which literally only takes 2 minutes. Her apartment is rather large, and decorated very “girly”. We walk in and waste no time kissing and stripping as we walk straight to her bedroom. She is a little worried as this is her first time with a man. Damn she is tight, but very wet. I start slowly, but as she gets more into it I revert to my normal self: hair pulling, choking all timed with hard thrust.
I wish I could tell you this was a Penthouse letter and that she was the girl from upstairs that heard our wild sex and that she couldn’t help but join us in such a passionate episode.
The truth is, this was Becka’s extremely pissed-off live in girlfriend. It will never cease to amaze me the “little” details girls forget to tell a man they want to fuck.
Becka jumps out of bed and throws on her robe. These two are SCREAMING at each other. I dress rather hastily, and start to leave.
Becka ask me if I want her number, which sends her girlfriend into complete hysteria. I just smile and walk out. As I got into my truck I realized I left my watch on the dresser. It was a fairly cheap watch, but it was a gift and I liked it. Oh well, I could still hear those two yelling. I decided I should retreat before the neighbors called the cops.
A few minutes later I was at my parents house. I could still smell her on me as I stripped. A smile crossed my face as I drifted off into blissful sleep.