I never ever had any luck at bars. Alone I would march forth, and alone I would slink home. I should have learned my lesson: I’m just not that kind of guy, the bar scene isn’t my scene. And yet, not often, but from time to time, when I found myself in a certain type of foul mood, I kept going back to the Good Times Saloon, false sense of optimism tucked neatly into my pants, fixated on the possibility (admittedly not likely, but certainly statistically possible) that this time I might go home with a girl. Or at least with a phone number.
I sat at the bar and procrastinated my way through first one beer, then most of a second, trying to appear at once cool and collected; mysterious and intriguing; non-threatening and disarming; and most of all not desperate. Desperation, I’ve been told a million times, is pure female repellant: they can smell it blocks away.
The bar was not crowded, and the ratio was lousy. It was too early, the beginnings of the after-work set, with a heavy contingent of construction workers. Soon enough, the place would be flooded with the young and the hip, and I would return, half-lit and depressed, to my solitary apartment; another evening wasted, never to be regained.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Is this seat taken?” Of course it wasn’t, half the bar stools were empty. She plopped down right next to me.
She was shockingly beautiful; in the dingy light of the bar room she might have been an advertisement for some outrageously expensive kind of perfume. She seemed to glow, as if a stagehand had been assigned to track her every move with a followspot. She was a petite thing, with delicate, reptilian lines; older than me, but not by that much. She had short-cropped dark hair, and severe cheekbones. She wore white pants – I caught a glimpse down the back of emerald-green panties – and a white top which contained a pair of small but delightful jiggling, obviously bra-free breasts. Her fingers were long and slender, the nails gnawed close, painted with chipped and flaking turquoise lacquer. Her eyes were pale blue, the moist, needy eyes of an opium fiend.
“Why so glum, chum?” I had no idea my mood showed so obviously. I’ve got to work on not wallowing. It’s almost as bad as looking desperate. “What’s got you down?”
She engaged me, and I was hooked, like a trout on a well-tied fly. I killed my beer and ordered an almost unprecedented third drink. My dick was already obnoxiously hard inside my pants, full of optimistic anticipation.
She was splitting her attention between me and the dude to her left; but that was ok by me. Half her attention was miles better than none at all. I found myself telling her everything: the ex-girlfriend, the unfinished master’s degree, the ex-ex-girlfriend and the long tortured conversations across the time zones, the dwindling freelance gigs, the work-in-progress novel that laughs at me from the blue glow of my LCD screen.
Her foot kept bumping into my legs as she swung her legs from the stool; the dark hairs of her forearm kept brushing against my elbow. I was pretty sure it was not accidental. My cock was certain of it.
The bar was starting to get noisy and crowded: young, hungry faces smarmed around, full of well-groomed arrogance and carefully affected angst. The hipster tide was coming in, deep and fast.
“It’s loud in here,” she placed a cold, exquisite hand on my forearm, “Let’s get out of here. Why don’t you come back to my place?”
Definitely too good to be true, but I wasn’t about to start questioning my good fortune.
She turned to the dude on her left. “You coming too, Sailor?”
The three of us, one on each arm and her in the middle, elbowed our way out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. The night was startlingly cold and clear, a last gasp of winter.
She hailed a cab, and we all piled in, bound for the furthest reaches of fashionable Brooklyn.
What had started out as veiled flirtation in the bar turned into outright molestation in the back of the taxicab. As we zigzagged through the labyrinthine streets of lower Manhattan on our way to the hinterlands of the outer borough, she coolly and professionally started petting my erection straight through my jeans. I am embarrassed to say how long it had been since my penis had been on the receiving end of that kind of attention. The fact that the dude sitting on the other side of her was absolutely receiving the same treatment didn’t bother me in the slightest.
In between losing my mind with barely-contained horniness, contemplating my ridiculously good fortune, and just basking in the rare pleasure of having my dick touched by hands other than my own, I regarded the dude on the far side of the back seat. He was my age-ish, a little shorter than me, but tough and wiry, with a hungry, weather-beaten look. He had a gleaming shaved head, and squinty James Dean eyes, and the kind of ropy tense muscles that said he was scary strong, although he wasn’t bulky in the slightest. He had a bit of a beer belly. He wasn’t looking at me, his head was lolled back, with an expression of pure bliss on his face.
Her apartment was a cavernous converted industrial space. It must have been an aircraft hangar, or a dry-dock for battleships in its previous incarnation. The walls were painted bright white, and her effects were scattered around the place like stones in a Zen garden. There was a couch, a ridiculous red velvet couch that must have been fifteen feet long; a four-poster bed next to an antique wardrobe; a steampunk-looking coffee maker of epic proportions, and a minimalist but extremely expensive looking stereo. Uncurtained windows with warped and cracked panes looked out toward Manhattan. An old gantry crane was tucked away in the corner. Overall, the effect was halfway between ‘boudoir’ and ‘operating room’.
“Excuse me,” she said, “While I slip into something more comfortable.” Our girl was full of clichés. She drew blackout drapes around her bed area, disappearing from sight, and leaving me and dude standing stupidly in the middle of the arena-sized room, hard-ons jutting uncouthly outward from our pants.
“What’s your name?” I asked, when the level of awkwardness had surpassed a certain level.
“Kevin,” he said, “What’s your bag?”
“Writer,” I told him, “Failed writer, actually. How about you?”
“Machinist.” His hands were big and strong, and ingrained with grease or oil. The fingernails were cut painfully short. “Actually, I went to art school but that didn’t work out. So I’m a machinist.” He shrugged. “It’s a living.”
“Do you know her?” I nodded toward the curtained-off bed area.
“Her? Not a chance. No way. Something’s not right. I never meet women in bars. And I never ever get picked up by beautiful women in bars. Something’s definitely rotten in Denmark. But hey, for now I’m letting the little head do all the thinking.”
I nodded in silent agreement. Something was definitely fishy here. But my dick wasn’t about to argue the point.
She emerged from her cocoon, wiping her nose. ‘Slipping into something more comfortable’ wasn’t exactly accurate: she was now wearing green thong panties, the same ones I had glimpsed down the back of her white pants, and painful-looking high heels, and nothing else. Her breasts were small and precious, and jiggled as she walked, a little unsteadily, across the echoing, cavernous space. She tottered over to the liquor cabinet, poured herself a poisonous-looking green drink that may in fact have been absinthe, put a scratchy disco LP on the turntable, and then sat ungracefully down on the red velvet couch.
“One of you lucky fellows gets to fuck me tonight,” She declared with a sweet little smile, “Now fight for it.”
Kevin was fast, like a striking snake. He pushed me hard, both hands on my chest, and I went sprawling ignominiously on the battered hardwood floor. He kicked me in the stomach and ribs while I struggled to get back up on my feet. I caught a glimpse of her on the couch, bare-breasted and sipping her cocktail, a nasty smirk written across her angular face.
A fight. I hadn’t been in a fight since the fifth grade, and that time I got my ass kicked. When I finally managed to regain my footing, Kevin was all over me, showering me with punches. Each one hurt. I had my hands up to protect my face, for all the good that was doing me. He hit me again and again, and I felt myself spiraling down into a preemptive defeat, like one of those hapless TIE fighters from the Star Wars movies. I resolved, at the very least, not to cry.
I staggered backward, reeling like I was drunk, which I halfway was. A freeze-frame, an unguarded moment, and I saw my opportunity and seized it. Kevin had both hands outstretched like a scarecrow, or a scrawny white Muhammad Ali. Easy as reaching out and taking a slice of pie, I smoothly punched him in the nose, breaking it for him with a satisfying crunch that, just for an instant, made it all worth it. Blood sprayed everywhere, like a morbid lawn sprinkler. He howled in pain, stepped back, spun around, and busted an insanely expensive-looking post-modern retro lamp over my head. I saw fireworks, Fourth of July chrysanthemums in red, white, and blue as the porcelain shattered against my skull, and then a quick fade-to-black as I wilted to the floor.
I don’t think I was out very long. The next thing I remember is sitting unsteadily on the red couch, feeling nauseas, and being offered an icepack to hold against my throbbing head. The ironic thing was that I still had an erection.
“Well,” she said, “We have a winner!” She graced us with a feline smile, and licked her lips lazily. “Ready to get your dick wet?” she asked Kevin. “You’re welcome to watch,” she told me.
She was sprawled out, spread-eagled and naked across her 800 thread count sheets. She was the kind of girl who shaved everything, or had it waxed, and I had to admit she had a lovely little pussy. She was wet and excited, the lips were splayed eagerly out, and a puffy little pink clit peeked eagerly up and out. She played idly with her own nipples as Kevin got undressed, peeling off his blood-spattered t-shirt and unbuttoning his greasy jeans. His nose, I was pleased to see, was swollen and crooked, and the blood was smeared all over his face.
I was obscurely pleased to see that Kevin’s dick wasn’t appreciably bigger than my own. It may have been a little longer, but I thought mine was thicker. An perfectly-formed mushroom head crowned it, and it had a slight bend to the right. I thought it was actually a pretty nice-looking cock. Apparently she agreed with me. She went at it like a greedy kid with an oversized lollipop, licking and slobbering all over it, and occasionally trying to jam the whole thing into her mouth. To facilitate this, Kevin straddled her chest, kneeling so that his balls rested on her breasts. It looked pretty hot, but Kevin looked alternately bored and aggravated: every time our girl started to find a good rhythm, she would change tack and leave him bobbing, red and frustrated.
It hurt to breathe; I was pretty sure Kevin had cracked a couple ribs during the pummeling he had handed me. I gingerly probed my scalp with one tentative finger; my head ached like a buzz saw. I found a lump the size of a tennis ball, and plenty of crusty, not yet quite congealed blood.
She looked up from Kevin’s cock and scowled in my direction. “Why are you not naked yet?” she asked me pointedly. I hurriedly disrobed, even as Kevin tore open a package and rolled a condom down his shaft.
Drunk on a bubbly mixture of beer, lust, and envy, I watched Kevin slide his condom-covered cock up her pussy. It was fucking hot, pornographic in the very best sense of the word.
She was an enthusiastic and verbose fornicator. As soon as he was safely lodged inside her, she cut loose, bucking and writhing around under him, alternately urging him on and cursing him out, as if she were riding a temperamental racehorse. “Come on Big Guy, fuck me, fuck me harder, like you mean it goddamn it! Oh yeah, that’s right, fuck my cunt! Fuck me deep you big stud! Fuck that pussy hard! Oh yes do it to me, don’t you dare stop, don’t you fucking dare! Yes, harder, do it harder! Faster, can’t you do it faster? Fuck me! Fuck me! God damn you to hell! Fuck me hard!”
It didn’t take her long to get off, and when she did, it was like a thermonuclear explosion. She thrashed around under Kevin, screaming like a cat being dismembered, kicking her legs wildly and baring her teeth. I thought her head was going to start spinning around like that girl in The Exorcist.
When she finally settled down, she pushed Kevin away. “Come on my tits, Big Guy”
He peeled off the condom and obediently went at it, jerking off onto her proffered bosom. He came with a deep, throaty grunt, splashing a fairly shocking amount of semen all over her cute little boobs. She idly spread it around with one finger, bringing it up to her tongue and tasting it like it was lemon custard.
“Well come on Tiger,” she said to me, stretching lazily and running one finger up the length of her vulva, “You can be dessert. Call it the consolation prize. Dive in!”
Her pussy was wide open and physically hot, wet and slick, and she tasted faintly of latex. Any attempt at subtlety was quickly corrected with a sharp tug on my hair: she wanted her clit licked, and she wanted it licked hard. I slid one finger up her asshole, my thumb up her gasping, loose pussy, and then I lapped at her clit like a dehydrated dog at a water dish. I was rewarded by having my wounded head crushed between her surprisingly strong thighs, and my face mashed violently into her twat. I fervently hoped that she would come before I was asphyxiated. Fortunately, she once again did not take long. This girl was a short-fused firecracker. She was just as loud with me as she had been with Kevin, but this time there were no discernable words. She sounded like an acid-tripping opera singer belting out some macabre aria.
At long last she pushed me away, sighing contentedly. “Oh yeah,” she said, “That’s more like it. I needed that. That’s the stuff.” Turning to me and Kevin, she added as an afterthought, “You two can sleep on the couch.” She drew the curtains up tight around her bed. We were dismissed.
The couch reminded me of a 1970s era Ford station wagon. There was plenty of room for us both, each guy occupying his own end of the sofa. We piled up the cushions possessively. What was lacking was any kind of sheets or blankets whatsoever. The apartment – what a joke to call such an enormous open space an ‘apartment’ – was just on the chilly side of comfortable.
“Are you asleep?” Kevin whispered at me from the far end of the couch, like we were kids at a slumber party.
“No.” I answered.
“You didn’t get to get off, did you?”
“No.” I replied. My dick was still hard, obnoxiously hard, and my balls had a deep-down throbbing ache that competed for attention with the hangover/concussion that was brewing in my head.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said, “If you want me to.”
We snuggled together at my end of the gargantuan sofa, sharing our body heat. For a little while, we just cuddled. Then we started kissing. I’m not sure which one of us initiated it, it just seemed like a natural thing to do. It was strange to kiss a guy, with his chapped lips and scratchy chin, but it felt nice. I liked the way he smelled: a combination of sweat, sex, machine oil, and something else, something I couldn’t identify. He reached down and his strong, meticulous mechanic’s hands found my dick, and my body stiffened.
Between the harsh white of the walls and the city glow seeping in through the windows, it wasn’t really very dark in there. I watched Kevin through the gloaming as he slid down my body and applied his mouth to my cock.
Oh he was good. He played me like an instrument, using his fingers, lips and tongue. He kept bringing me to the very edge and then backing away, squeezing and petting my shaft, kissing the head, licking my balls, taint, and asshole. My dick felt like it had never been bigger or harder. He had me squirming like a kitten, frantic with desire, leaking oodles of slippery pre-come out the end of my swollen cock.
“I want to fuck you” he said.
“Ok” I said.
Everything guys say about being on the receiving end of anal sex: it’s humiliating, degrading, emasculating, excruciatingly painful; all that went straight out the window. The closest to uncomfortable was when the head of his cock nudged its way past my anus; I can only describe that sensation as ‘strange’. Then he was inside me, fucking me, and it felt great. It was really pleasurable, in a deep-down, bizarre way, and it made my dick stick out harder than ever. I was fucking back against him, twisting around to kiss his lips as he sodomized me. The thrusting action of his cock in my ass was almost enough to make me come all by itself. Almost. His hand wrapped around my dick pushed me right over the edge. I think we came at the exact same moment, him growling like a feral dog, his dick twitching and swelling inside me, squirting semen into my asshole, as I finally let go, arching my back and emptying my balls all over her lovely red velvet couch. My orgasm seemed to last forever, like all the pent-up frustration and depression was being forcibly ejected through my penis. It was amazing, and when it was all done, we fell asleep like that, a couple of spoons in a drawer.
The apartment was so big that when she emerged from her Bedouin tent, she almost appeared foreshortened. She looked older, harder, a little haggard in the stark light of morning. Her hair was mussed up and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was wearing flip-flops and a bathrobe as she staggered over to the counter and fired up the Rococo coffee machine.
That’s when she noticed me and Kevin, still nude and entangled on the couch.
“Out!” she scowled, cup of coffee clutched in both hand, “Shoo! Both of you, get lost! Out out out!”
We hurriedly got dressed and made ourselves scarce.
Outside, the streets were fairly empty. It was still pretty early. A few bedraggled hipsters were making their way home, a few unlucky souls with day jobs were on their way to work. We walked together toward the subway.
“I’m sorry I broke your nose”
“Don’t sweat it Man,” he said, “I’m sorry I busted a lamp over your head.”
We walked in silence for another block. Between the two of us, his swollen and purple face, my blood-encrusted head, we must have looked like we’d just come back from a war.
“We didn’t use a condom last night.”
“No” he said, “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m clean as a whistle.”
A pause, another half block.
“I’d double team her with you any time.”
“Yeah,” he said, “No doubt. But we’d have to tape her mouth shut first.”
We were almost at the subway station.
“You ever date a guy?”
“No,” he said, “I never did that. I’d give it a try though.”
We got on our separate trains, and I dragged my aching corpus up five narrow, dingy flights of stairs to my dark and cluttered little apartment, where the unfinished novel lay in wait. I felt like I’d been run over by a bulldozer. Kevin’s phone number was folded safely up in my pants pocket. “Well,” I said aloud to the echoing stairwell, “That was different.”