I’ve got a headache and pushing open the door to a room filled with laughter and smoke mingled with music doesn’t help it much. I have no idea why I came here. It’s too busy. I should go home.
I leaned against the door frame and sigh. There’s nothing to go home to but an empty fridge and an emptier bed. So, of course, I’m going to stay, even just to pretend that I’m not alone for a brief moment or two. My eyes dart around the room and find an empty stool in the middle of the bar along with what I hoped would be the quickest route to it.
I dodged bodies, watching thick hands on soft skin. Half of the people in here wouldn’t be getting all of that attention if it were brighter and the alcohol not offered so readily. I can’t fault them though, we’re social creatures. Even if we don’t want to, we crave the connection another human being gives us. The touch, a look, a slight wave of breath on our skin. It carries us to the next moment.
I twist like a dancer, weaving through the masses. Unfortunately, you can’t avoid the drunks even when you want to and he slammed right into me. The only thing that kept him from falling was his iron grip on my breasts. Reeling from the sudden contact and unable to process the fact that this – person – was groping me and drooling, I almost threw up all over him. Thankfully, his drunken female companion came over and loudly whispered something about sucking him like a leech in the bathroom and took him away. My almost nonexistent gag reflex got a little more practice.
Finally reaching the bar, I shouted my drink order to the bartender before I even sat down and as my ass hit the stool I had the shot glass in hand, the liquid in my throat, and motioned for another. The second and third followed the first without much of a fight and while I let them get to know each other, I turned and scanned the room.
The music is offensive and it smells like sweaty, moldy, ball sacks in here. The men are either too short, too tall, too fat, too skinny, too creepy, too pretty, too…something. The women are as desperate as always. There’s sex in the air and all you need is a Vegas chip, some silicon, or enough money to get so drunk you don’t care.
The bartender is busy and not what I’m looking for. He probably only does this to make money to pay his way through college just like all the strippers. Yeah, and I’m sure the sex he gets from random women every night doesn’t hurt either. Nah, he’s too smart for what I need.
Every other man in here is too drunk. That’s what I get for taking so long to get here. I don’t want anymore alcohol in my system than what I’ve already had. Drink too much and you’ll be waking up beside them in the morning. They’ll start spouting love poems while you’re throwing on clothes and trying to find the words to say you only used them to fulfill a basic need and it wasn’t anything spectacular anyway. No sir, I like my men out cold when I’m done. Easier to get away. No messy complications.
I need to move. I’m getting restless. I need a fix soon.
I realize I won’t find what I need in this building so I’m done here. Maybe I’ll scan the grocery store for some late-night meat. I sigh in frustration. Unfortunately, that means I’d have to be charming and witty and the only thing I’m exuding is sex. Hot, sweaty, pulsing through my veins, sex. I need it badly.
It’s been hard to calm down lately. Every year it gets more difficult. I let my head hang and grit my teeth until my jaw pops. My heart slows enough and eventually, I feel calm enough to move. My hand drops to my bare thigh and the touch of skin on skin, even my own, starts my heart racing again. Fuck. I probably should have put on some panties before I left but I love how the wind caresses up my legs in my favorite mini-skirt.
The room goes black and all noise gets filtered out except for the constant bass of the music which pulses through my body, helping move my need from my fingers through my thighs. Suddenly I’m all alone in my head. Nothing else matters but the wetness between my legs. My left hand lightly runs its fingers across my exposed chest, slowly dipping into my cleavage and running back up to my neck and jaw. My right-hand finds its way under my skirt. Its fingers tracing the crevice where my leg meets my hip. The thumb lightly flicking itself over my mound, desperately searching for the warmth.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I see myself sitting on this dirty bar stool, head tilted to the right, eyes closed, biting my bottom lip. My legs are spread enough that my red skirt is pushed up almost to my waist. My hand is lost in the folds of skin and fabric. My chest is heaving. What am I thinking?
I’ve got to pull myself together and get a fix. I slowly remove my hands and straighten my outfit without opening my eyes. I know there’s another drink in front of me. A ‘thanks for the show’ gift. I reach out and swallow its contents slowly, letting it bring me back to myself. My eyelashes flutter and open and as they do I see every male at the bar staring at me with longing. I flash a smirk at all of them, slide off the stool, and walk seductively out of the now quiet bar.
I love how my body moves when I walk. The cloth on skin, thighs touching, wetness slowly dripping, waiting to be caught with a tongue, hips rocking side to side, back arched slightly to push out my breasts.
I know they’re watching. And I eat it up.