s0litude - Anything, Everything,... Perhaps Nothing At All?

[s0litude]

No, this is not a Physics lesson. Chemistry, perhaps? I wrote a short story years ago for another site I frequent that was similar to this-- but "younger", trashier, raunchier, more "Ooooooh, Fabio, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter". As I cannot recall the specifics, it seemed interesting to me, at least, to rewrite it, seeing that I am about ten years older than when I wrote the original. I honestly DID try to tone things down. I'm older, hornier, BUT STILL need more sleep and more coffee. Oh well. If you live in or have ever lived in Dallas, you may recall some of these spots in the Cedar Springs area. I haven't had a chance to write in a long time, and I still don't have a great deal of time now to focus on such tasks. I could be blindfolded with dental floss, but as I'll procrastinate, I wanted to finish it tonight

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Trudging down the rain-soaked sidewalk past the Throckmorton Mining Company and JR’s, I hurried across the street as the timer ticked down and traffic waited. Baristas at the Crossroads Market were wiping down tables, diming lights, shelving stray books, and setting chairs upon tables. The bars were still in full-swing, and apparently, Sue Ellen’s had a live performance that even the muggy weather couldn’t halt. Their patio was filled with laughter, smoke, drinking, and acoustic guitar. But me? I was feeling more honky-tonk than folksy, so I continued over to the Round Up and made my way into the bar.

I was having another of those nights where my thoughts simply would not slow down, figured that I’d step in for a beer or two, head home, and try again to rest. One of the things I loved most about Dallas was the [Gay] “District” and the fact that the city never seemed to sleep. Living a few blocks from Cedar Springs meant never having to worry about parking or calling a cab as I was firmly against drinking and driving.

Over the past several months, I’d hidden away basically, worked as much as management would allow, slept when my body permitted it, ate “on autopilot”-- just enough to keep me going, but life offered little pleasure and no real comfort. It was about time that I pulled myself “out of my shell”. At this point, if I didn’t do something, I feared I’d never venture out of my safety zone again. That’s not living; that’s merely existing. You have to feel it to heal it, have to live outside of your comfort zone, or what’s the point really? So here I was.

Music roared out of the bar as I pulled the door open and retrieved my wallet for my ID and cover charge. It’s always much too loud here, and it used to reek of cigarette smoke until city ordinances were put into place and forced the smokers to the back patio under the awnings. Inside the club, it smelled of beer, whiskey, sweat, and fragrances of cologne and perfume applied much too heavily, too… well… “eagerly”. It was after midnight, so the baby-faced doorman just smiled and waved me in after stamping my hand. Men with men, women with women, and combinations of every gender in between moved around the dance floor under a rainbow-assortment of lights as I adjusted to the bass from the speakers ricocheting off of my body, others pressing and moving here and there by me, against me, and made my way to the bar.

A few beers, some “people watching” which I considered a hobby of mine,… hell, maybe if I saw a friend or two, I might even loosen up enough to get in a dance or two? I ordered a Sam’s [Adams] and turned on the stool to scan for familiar faces as I brought the bottle up to my lips. But then I saw her and everything froze.

Her smile, her eyes, the way the corners of her lips had a slight lift to them as she was talking to another femme over by the pool tables. Suddenly, the music didn’t seem too loud anymore, the place wasn’t nearly as crowded, and I wasn’t too sure I hadn’t fallen asleep in front of the television at this point. Was I imagining her? I had to be. In a bar this bustling, music this loud, there was no way I could hear her laughter over it all, but I would swear on my life that I could decipher her voice and laughter from the rest of the din.

Auburn- and copper- highlighted BEAUTIFUL is what she was; her hair rained down her shoulders, freely flowing along her back, swinging along the top of her backside as she moved her head in conversation with another girl. Don’t ask me what her friend looked like. I couldn’t tell you. I was locked into the vision of her as she turned those eyes towards me, ice blue, colder than the beverage I struggled to hold as the full weight of her gaze crashed into me. And her smile broadened over perfectly white teeth, a walking Colgate commercial. Long, delicate fingers—a pianist, perhaps-- flexed along the shaft of the pool cue she held. I felt the bottle slip in my hand and grasped it with my other as my eyes shifted to the bottle. Sliding my hand back to the bar to sit it down, I looked back up to search for her again, but she was gone.

Sleep deprivation or…? Maybe I did imagine her. I scanned the area where the pool tables were, but I didn’t see her. Frustrated, I reached back for my beer, and felt fingers brush my hand, looked up and met her eyes. I jumped, felt my breath catch, and knocked the beer over. Nice. Very smooth, Nicholas.

That perfect smile curled higher and a laugh escaped her lips, the sweetest sound, and offered, “Perhaps you should try a mug, y’know, with a handle?” I felt my face burning as my own—surely goofy-- smile met hers and offered, “Maybe a sippy cup even?” That earned me another laugh.

She motioned to the pool cue in her hand and asked me if I played. I do, but not well, and especially not well against beautiful women. The more attractive they are is proportional to the number of IQ points I lose while attempting to play them. She took the first win effortlessly, the second win was more of a challenge, but still. I assured her that I dance better than I shoot pool, and she smiled and allowed me to lead her to the dance floor-- and around it. A few numbers in, and a slow song started, and she slid her hands along my shoulders, pushed back, when I was going to move her along for another song.

We fell into a rhythm of middle-school-rocking-back-and-forth, and the feel of her pressing into me made it a wise choice. My hands slid along her bare back where her shirt ride up; her hands along my shoulders and the back of my neck slid along the back of my head as her fingers stroked my hair, still neatly shaven a few days previously. Her nails dragged along my skin, and I lowered my head along her neck, breathing her in, the smell of vanilla and beneath it, her. I closed my eyes and hung on that scent for two songs before she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

Waiting a few minutes, I felt myself watched and looked up to find her near the service hallway of the bar. Her hands were behind her back as she leaned back into the wall, and she greeted me with a smile, tilted her head to the side, then motioned for me to follow before slipping inside. I casually set my drink down and followed her; far be it from me to deny a lady.

As I stepped inside, I noticed it was not a hallway but rather a storage room. There was a pool table in the middle with a tear along the green top and cabinets and boxes lining the wall. She stood inside the door, closing it securely and locking it behind me, and I stopped scanning the room and looked at her. That Colgate smile was back but had an edge to it.

Stepping in close to me, her hands slid up over my shoulders, and she told me that she’d been waiting for me to make a move, to at least try to kiss her. I told her I was being a gentleman, and she explained that while she loved that side I had shown her, right now, she wanted me to… ah… not be so “gentlemanly”. Her eyes held mine a moment, and I leaned in and kissed her, brushed her lips softly at first, touching her, tasting her, as her mouth found mine more eagerly. Her teeth lightly bit my bottom lip, tugging slightly, and pulled a growl from my throat that was met by a harder push of her body against mine.
Sliding her hands down my chest, her fingers began to unfasten my shirt, and I breathed hard along her mouth as her hands found my skin, slid along my chest, and her fingertips traced my nipples, her nails lightly dragged down them as they tightened, hardened at her touch. My fingers dug into her hips, kneading them, pulling her in against me more fully. She whispered about the table behind us, and I guided her back, pulling softly along her mouth, teasing her with the tip of my tongue, nipping and tugging along her lips…. Another kind of “dance” was about to begin.

Unfastening her pants and slipping my hands in along the sides, I shifted her pants and panties down her hips, slid my hands back behind her thighs, and lifted her up along the edge of the table as I pulled them off.

By this point, I was no longer thinking. I was feeling, smelling, tasting, hearing, seeing, but not thinking: the feel of her hands on me as I climbed up along the table, her thighs parting, her hands pushing my shirt and vest back off my shoulders and down my arms, and her hands along the belt of my jeans. The feel of her skin beneath my lips, my tongue parting to taste her skin, the sweat and heat of her, that scent from earlier beneath the hint of vanilla she wore, my teeth lightly dragging along her skin, slowly seizing her flesh, drawing it gently—at first—between my teeth, an almost purr escaping my lips as it just felt that damn good to me. Moving down her body, her figure pushing and moving up against me, her thighs parting further as I dragged my teeth along her abdomen, the smell of her arousal calling out to me as I lowered my head, her breath catching, my breath catching in response, her hips shifting, pushing along my mouth, my tongue teasing, coiling along her, tracing, brushing the length of her treasures, then back up, exploring her, attentive to the signs of what she seemed to enjoy most. Fingers, slick, sliding along those soft, pink folds, pushing in slowly, curling into those special places, a “come hither” along a ridge, along the top, slightly inside… beckoning her release.

Moments later, I found myself being pushed onto my back, her hands along my belt, her efforts having been halted by my desire to get to her. Button unfastened, my zipper slid down, and her hands sliding along my skin into my boxer briefs….

“Want another beer?”

“I’m… sorry? What?” My head whipped back to see the bartender looking at me, grinning, having caught me in a daydream. My hand was still holding my bottle, and the drink looked completely alien to me. The bartender paused and asked again if I wanted another beer as last call was being made soon. I took a second to get my bearings, shook my head, politely declining, and turned my eyes towards the pool tables again. She wasn’t there. I’d… well, I’d imagined it, but…. I thought I had imagined it before and then….

I stroked my face and then my forehead as I set the bottle down; I must be losing it. I desperately must need sleep to feel this out of sorts, to imagine things this vividly.

And then, she was there. She and the girl she’d been talking to when I entered were walking towards me, and I tried but failed to keep from staring as she approached. And then vanilla. I smelled vanilla as she stepped beside me to the bar, brushing against my hip as she asked for a napkin. She was speaking to her friend, but caught my gaze and held it as she wrapped up her inquiry:

“Why do jerks hit on you all night, but the really sweet ones, the ones you want to sweep you off of your feet, are always too shy even to say hello?”