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Barroom Brawl
Royce
Twoyearsago…
The woman reminds me of a dirty joke: A brunette walks into a bar wearing a vinyl coat and a wet T-shirt....
She’s no joke, though.
She marches up to the bar top like she is on a mission, hooks her little black purse to a stool, and grabs a fistful of napkins. Spots of red color dot her cheeks, and wisps of damp mahogany tendrils lay plastered to her face. The rest of her hair loops her skull like a loaf of twisty Bavarian bread with a hint of an extra from a Star Wars movie.
Quirky.
I like that.
A good half-foot shorter than me, Miss Quirky’s skin glows like the start of a new day and looks softer than cotton. Her cheekbones are sharper than a knife and those pouty pink lips are a rose blooming in winter.
Nice.
The bartender thinks so too. His initial frown at the scattered mess of napkins on his otherwise pristine bar changes into a welcoming smile as he greets her.
She orders a drink from him while mopping the water from her face. She then goes to work on her coat—an ugly polka dotted thing.
Given the brutality of the New Orleans humidity, she must like punishment. Who the fuck wears a vinyl jacket in this city? I bet she lost ten pounds for each yard she walked in that black and white sweatbox.
The rest of her outfit isn’t any better. Her dark blue jeans and an oversized college t-shirt are more suited to a Saturday on the couch than one of the most expensive hotels in the city.
Either she doesn’t give a fuck or she’s trying to draw attention away from the fact that she’s a knockout — with her thick long legs, small waist, and enviable rack.
Verynice.
The bartender sets her drink on the bar top and scoops up her wadded napkins. I’m surprised at the brown liquid in her glass. I was sure she’d go for some fruity concoction, not what is probably scotch that she slings back in two gulps.
She signals for a refill, then plants her delectable ass on the seat, wiggling until she is comfortable.
I imagine her doing that on my face, and suddenly, I’m changing my plans of ordering room service and watching TV.
Miss Quirky has put an image to a fantasy I’ve been mulling over for a long time.
I want to have a one-night stand. An organic experience with a woman who doesn’t follow orders, but does whatshewants.
Technically, I’ve never had a spontaneous coupling. My standing in society along with my…proclivitiesprevent me from fucking a random off the street. I schedule sex with an exchange of cash, and until this moment, my “dates” have suited me just fine.
Now, I want to fuck someone whom I can easily dismiss in the morning.
Like Miss Quirky.
She’s not the type of woman I usually go for. Miss Quirky is tall, model tall or close to it, and she’s young, probably just graduated college. That would make her four years younger than my twenty-six. Considering there are no rings on her fingers and that she hasn’t glanced at the door or her phone once, means she’s not marking time for someone to show up.
I travel my gaze around the bar, searching for obstacles just to be sure. Men size her up, then dismiss her. Probably because of the way she chugged her first two drinks and how hard she works at finishing her third.
Seems like she wants to forget something...or someone.
I’ll help her forget. At least for a couple of hours.
I rise from my chair, and like a jet, I begin my initial approach... only to sit back down as two guys come in, shaking their gelled blond hair and shrugging out of their designer raincoats.
With strident voices, they shatter the peaceful ambience by cursing the weather as they fill the seats on Miss Quirky’s left. The one closest to her (douche number one) nudges his buddy (douche number two) and not so subtly points in her direction. They then eye her as if she is the last beer at a frat party.
