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I don’t date. Expectations, titles, and all that shit doesn’t really fit me. I have gone out with more than a few women and some I hook up with more often than others. I have made the mistake of hooking up with Sadi, a fill-in barmaid a few times, when the old man ran the place. It has turned out to be a fucking annoyance to have her around.
The first time I left the bar with a friend when Sadi was working, she copped an attitude. Right then and there, we had the talk about me and her. We were not in a relationship, we were in a mutually beneficial exchange. She was warned that day that it would be the last time she dropped an attitude with any of my female friends.
I respect women. Hell, no woman in the world was more respected than my mom. Sadi was told if she pulls that shit again, it would be the last time she worked in my bar and warmed my bed. Hard worker, decent lay, but a pain in my ass every chance she can be.
Looking in the mirror, I try to fix the crooked tie, but that isn’t happening, so I take it off. Just another reminder that this isn’t me. I look down at the mask and feel like a fucking fool. Shaking my head, I shove the stupid thing in my pocket and give one last glance in the mirror before walking out the damn door.
It’s too cold for the bike, my preferred mode of transportation around the city. In this monkey suit, I would be far from comfortable, anyway. As a result, I think about taking my 1971, flat black Chevy Nova SS, the Heavy Chevy, as it was called in its day. My beast, my good, old American muscle car, restored and brought back to life by my very own hands. However, if I have to wear this suit and rub elbows with a bunch of people wearing masks, I’m going to at least get buzzed, so I make the decision to take a cab.
I walk into the Fairmount half an hour into the event and hand my ticket to the man at the door who is dressed pretty damn close to how I am. Donning my mask, I look around for the nearest bar and make my way to it, wading through the masked crowd. Even the bartenders are wearing masks. I have to laugh, thinking it may not be a half bad idea to have my staff start doing the same damn thing. Hell, with the mugs on the most recent applicants, I’m sure business would be better off.
“Southern Comfort Manhattan.”
“Do you want a cherry?” The barmaid smirks at me.
“Nah, that just makes things messy.” I smirk back.
I hear a girl beside me giggle and look to my left.
She laughs again, snorting, then covers her mouth. “Sorry.” The lights are low, but I can see her cheeks flush.
I shake my head. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head as she giggles again.
“Nah, I think you have something more than nothing going on in that head of yours.”
She laughs again and covers her mouth as she tries to hide another snort.
“See? I knew it. I bet under that mask of yours is a very dirty girl just dying to come out.”
She smiles a big, sloppy smile. “Oh, there is. There really is.”
I slam my drink down and motion to the barmaid, holding up two fingers. When she sets our drinks on the bar, I grab them and hand the dirty girl one of them.
“Oh, I don’t think that is a good idea.”
I lean in. “You got something better in mind?”
She stands completely still for a moment. Then, I swear to fuck, she rubs her ass. I am liking where this is heading. “I suppose I do.”
“Care to,” I pause, “share?”
She laughs, snorting again. As the band starts up, some chick comes up, dragging the giggly little thing away. Oh, well, I’m not here to hook up with some highballing broad, anyway.
I grab another drink and walk to the edge of the dance floor to listen to the band play some nineties rock. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the giggler and her friend edging their way closer in my direction as they dance together.
Mask or not, I can tell they are checking me out. I’m hiding nothing at all except my face. My interest, though, I make sure that is obvious.
Of the two women, one is a curvy, sexy Latina, and the other is the giggling little snorter with the long legs and a dirty mind. Well, hell, this night might not be as bad as I thought.
When the Latina points to me and curls her finger, calling me over, I point to myself. The giggler instantly smacks her friend’s hand away then begins laughing. They don’t have to call me a second time.
