I need a drink.
A big one.
Or two.
Two shit weeks in a row at work had put me on edge, and my bitch switch was fused in the open position. I had been short and snippy with everyone from the parking attendant to the security guard at work to the woman who has poured my medium caramel mocha latte every day for the last six years. This evening, however, was the very last straw. This evening, I snapped. This evening, I packed up my desk after another fourteen hour day, dumped my blackberry and my company ID card on my boss’ desk and said adios. Thanks but no thanks. Hasta la vista, baby. Ciao fucker.
In hindsight, not my best move.
Now, not only am I pissed off, but I am unemployed. I’m pretty sure I screwed up my chances of re-hire when I told my boss to take a flying leap off the top of the Pru when he asked if I was kidding. “Does it look like I’m fucking kidding?” I asked him, none too quietly.
Well, you can’t un-ring a bell, as my daddy likes to say, so I turned on the three inch heel of my favorite Prada shoe and strode out of the building, head held high. Once you made a decision, you have to stick by it; that’s my motto.
The next decision I made was to find me a nice piece of young, firm man-meat and make myself feel better. And to do that, I was going to need a nice, stiff drink. So, now, I’m on the prowl. Go ahead and call me a slut, cougar, whore, whatever. I’ve been called worse by people closer to me than you and survived it; I’ll survive this. What I will not survive is another night of feeling like the walking dead. What I will not survive is another night of being alone. I need to feel alive, especially after my day today.
I walked toward the bar with a chip on my shoulder the size of South Boston. People actually gave way as I stalked down the sidewalk toward my favorite unwinding place. Smitty’s is an institution around here. Not among the people I worked with, thank God—I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime – but among what I call the “real” people: the folks who do actual physical work for a living. Don’t get me wrong; what I do is work, damned hard work. But I spend my days in a climate-controlled building with computers and meeting rooms, free bottled spring water and a brand-new cappuccino machine. Not what I’d call tough duty.
Usually, the thought of heading over to Smitty’s to let Joe pour me a few will put a smile on my face. Not today. Today, I’m sporting an award-winning scowl. I can feel it. I should probably just go home and cool down, but I am so livid right now, that there’s no way I should be behind the wheel of a car. Apparently, judging by the looks I’m getting, I’m one scary chick when I’m angry, and I’m nearly pushing people over who get in my way. I’m sorry, but I am not going to wait longer than necessary to get loaded. Yeah, I know, not the best way to handle stress, but I left my gun in my other bag, and this way, I don’t go to prison.
Typically, I’m a social drinker at best – a cocktail or two a couple times a week if I’m out with friends, a beer or two at a ball game, not too much otherwise. Today, the call of the bottle is a siren song I cannot resist.
I’m also somewhat of a wallflower, not really confident enough to be forward with men. Now, if a man makes the first move, I can flirt with the pros. I just don’t make the first move. Tonight? I’m on the hunt. I need the release that only rough, anonymous sex can give me. So I made a conscious decision to, after I gathered my crap and dumped it in the trunk of my new car, get shit-faced and laid… preferably in that order.
I didn’t make this decision lightly – I’m not usually the one doing the picking up. That’s not my style. Hell, none of this is my style really, but since being me wasn’t working out too well for me lately, it was time to be ‘HER’.
You know who ‘HER’ is. She’s the one you see in the bar or the restaurant or the club – the bold, confident woman who doesn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks of her. She’s having fun, going after what she wants, and only looking out for herself. That’s what I’m going to be tonight.
HER.
So you’d better watch out.
As I pushed through the heavy oak-and-glass door of Smitty’s, the heavenly blast of the air conditioner hit me full on, and my nipples responded. Perfect. It would be easier to pick up a guy when the girls are cooperating. I saw that Joe had tuned the plasmas behind the bar to the Sox game and I felt a weight start to lift from my chest. How can you go wrong with a few drinks, the BoSox on the tube, and the prospect of hot, sweaty sex? My spirits sank, however, as I scanned the patrons. I may be trying to be a slut, cougar, whore, whatever, but I do have my standards. The few people scattered around the bar and high-tops were not my type; they are all scrawny, young wanna-bes – boys trying to play the part of men.
To a boy, they track my progress to the bar. I honestly can’t blame them; mad or not, I have a presence that men notice. I’m not even being boastful. The long winter months spent in the gym had paid off, and my petite body was toned and fit. The first few weeks of summer were good to me, kissing my skin with its rays, and turning me a lovely caramel color. I showed a lot of skin today in a pink floral mini-dress with tiny black buttons down the front. My dark, curly hair bounced and swayed as my black peep-toe heels clicked across the wood plank floor, and the skirt of my light, filmy dress flirted with my knees.
Oh, I know they were watching me. I’ve entered too many bars to think otherwise. Frankly, I was surprised nobody made a move to get up. Must be something in my face, making them keep their seats.
Good decision on their part.
I like my men to be MEN – I have no patience for these children. Not tonight. The twenty-somethings currently sprinkled around the room would be long on enthusiasm and stamina, but short on skill. Granted, they’re cute, some are bordering on downright hot, but they’re just so damned small.
I mean scrawny, coke-addict small.
I like my men big. Not just in the shorts, though that is definitely my preference, but I mean B-I-G: Brawny, Intelligent, Gorgeous. I need someone who isn’t going to stagger and give a nervous laugh when I push him against the wall and climb up his body. Someone who is going to give as good as he gets. Someone who isn’t an idiot and whose looks alone can get me hot.
Soon enough those guys will roll in. You know the ones: the blue collar workers who know how to use their bodies and need to blow off steam as much as I do; the guys that are ripped and tanned from working outdoors, not spending hours in the gym and on tanning beds. For now, I will wait at the bar, biding my time, but when the meat walks in, all bets are off.
Somewhere around the middle of my fourth tequila, right after I licked the back of my hand, I heard a man’s voice. Finally. It called out to the bartender, “Hey, Joe,” and was rough and low and delicious and sent a little zing through my panties. I downed my shot, sucked the lime, dropped the rind into the shot glass, and raised a delicate finger to Joe.
“Anuthah one, Aimee?” Joe asked me, a hint of disapproval in his voice. I simply nodded. “You ain’t drivin’ home ta-night, ah ya, sweet-haht?” He held out his hand, waiting.
“Not tonight, Joe,” I said softly, dropping my keys into his outstretched palm. “I’ll catch a cab and come back for Darlin’ tomorrow. Or Thursday.” He dumped my keys into the cash register, chuckling at the name I had given my convertible. He swapped out my used glass for a clean one and poured me another healthy shot of Patron. The liquor was so pristine, so smooth and lovely, it was almost a shame to use the salt and lime. All the same, I licked, tossed and sucked my way through this shot.
I heard Joe move down the bar to talk to the newcomer. The man – for with that voice, a voice made for sin, he had to be a man and not a boy – ordered a shot of “whatever the lady was having” and I heard enough words to recognize his voice.
Holy shit.
I mean I knew that he – they – were in town this week and had shows this weekend, but I never thought any of them would show up here.
I crossed my legs under the bar, and swiveled my chair toward him. Sweet fuck, he was amazing. The heel of his right-side scuffed black boot was hooked over the bottom-most rung of the stool. The foot at the end of his long, long left leg was planted firmly on the floor. I followed the tight black denim upwards until it gave way to a broad, taut chest barely covered in purple silk. His eyes were currently downcast, checking out my legs, but I knew when they finally met mine, I’d see soft chocolate pools lightly framed by laugh lines.
I wasn’t disappointed.
I raised a hand, signaling for Joe. “Put the gentleman’s drink on my tab, Joe; and another for me, please.”
“Aw, that’s not necessary, darlin’,” Richie answered giving me a panty-melting smile. The smile lit up his whole face and made him look about twenty years old and still, he looked like more of a man than the twenty-somethings here in the bar.
When his dimples flashed, all I wanted to do was lick them. Apparently, I had enough liquor on board that my inhibitions were now low. I remembered my motto, and this man definitely fit the bill of what I was looking for, but still, it took an effort to not bolt from my seat and fling myself at him. That’s not what HER would do. HER would play with him a little before taking him home and fucking him silly. And I was being HER tonight.
When Joe poured the drinks and set them down in front of us, I picked mine up slowly and moved two stools down, so I could sit next to the most gorgeous man I had ever had the pleasure to meet. Christ, he even smelled gorgeous.
“You turning down a drink from a pretty lady?” I asked, settling onto the stool next to him and crossing my legs again. My skirt rode up a little, showing a few inches more of tanned, toned thigh. I couldn’t have planned that any better if I tried. “That’s not your style, baby.” I was full of myself tonight. Full of HER. What I wanted, though, was to be full of HIM.
Richie chuckled deep in his chest. “Well now,” he said, picking up his own glass and saluting me with it. “You’re right; I never was one to turn down a pretty lady. Thanks, darlin’.” He clinked his glass against mine. “What should we drink to?”
I grabbed his hand, the one not holding the shot glass, and took my time licking the meaty flesh between the thumb and forefinger, making sure I had his full attention. “To new friends,” I said sprinkling his hand with salt.
