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We went to the hotel, slightly less fancy than the one we had stayed in the night before, but this was likely due to the fact that the town was smaller and more blue-collar. There was no need for some five-star hotel here. But it was still nice with dark decor, clean linens and bathrooms, and its own small restaurant and bar.
“I’m fine,” I objected when he thrust the cocktail menu at me.
“Order a drink,” he insisted.
“I have water.”
“An alcoholic drink, duchess.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It wasn’t really a question. Order an alcoholic drink because you’re over twenty-one, they taste good, and they–”
“Will loosen me up?” I cut him off, feeling my chin raise, knowing it was haughty, and seeming unable to stop it. Because it bristled against my insides that he thought I was uptight. Especially because I had been… more loose around him than anyone else I knew.
“Didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth. Especially the wrong ones that give you that stink-eye look.”
“I don’t have a stink-eye look.”
“Sure as shit do. I’m looking at it right now.”
“You’re kind of an ass.”
“Only kind of?” he asked, smirk going downright devilish. “Order something, or I’m ordering it.”
“And what? Forcing it down my throat?”
“Doubt me?” he asked.
And, well, I didn’t.
“Oh my God,” I groaned when he went on a rant about ‘girly drinks’ after I finally ordered one. “You want me to order something, then give me lip about what I order.”
“Shit. I give you shit about what you order. Lip is what a five-year-old gives his old man when he doesn’t want to do chores. And, hey, you order something like Sin On Wheels, you have to expect to hear it.”
What I really wanted was something they so poetically named Lick Her Right or, in second place, Dirty Whore’s Bathwater. Why this place had their entire cocktail menu named scandalous things – I didn’t even mention the Thai Me Up, Leg-Spreader, or classic Sex on the Beach – was beyond me. This did not seem like the right venue for such a thing. Though as to what type of venue would suit those drinks, I was still not sure. I guess maybe a swinger club. Or singles club.
Jesus.
Singles club.
What was I, fifty?
“What’s that look?”
“Did you see the drink names?” I asked, pushing the menu back to him.
“Mountain Dew Me,” he said, looking up with a smile that met his eyes, erasing the tension that had been there a good part of the day. “Sin On Wheels is the tamest name on here,” he observed, clearly knowing my game. “You’re gonna down that bitch-ass drink, and then order something that makes your face bright red.” And then he read through the names, conjuring up all kinds of ideas, looking at me each time. “Screaming Orgasm it is,” he concluded, looking like he was enjoying this way too much. “Though that was close with the Blowjob Shot,” he added.
“If you’re done teasing me,” I said, wanting to get the ideas of screaming orgasms and blowjobs… with him out of my head. “I really don’t drink hard liquor. I think just the one drink is enough.”
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head.
“What is the end game here?” I asked, it being a phrase I used with my employees – my former employees – all the time, wanting to know what made them decide to do what they did, where they saw their ideas going, forcing them to think beyond the moment. “To get me to loosen up?”
“To get you to stop giving such a fuck what other people think. You think the waitress hasn’t heard someone order a Blowjob Shot or Screaming Orgasm before? Her reaction is determined by your delivery. Nothing else. If you’re hesitant or embarrassed, she will laugh and make you more uncomfortable. If you order it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, she will treat it that way too. You’re making yourself uncomfortable for no reason. Order your Screaming Orgasm like a boss,” he told me as the waitress came back.
And, somehow, it clicked. It made sense.
I swallowed back my fear – and a large amount of nervous saliva – and I ordered a Screaming Orgasm from a waitress who reminded me of my fourth grade teacher with a mostly confident voice that was convincing even if I didn’t truly feel it.
And Gunner was right; it wasn’t a big deal.
Neither was my third drink.
A Slow Comfortable Screw.
After three drinks, I was too fuzzy and swirly to feel anything even akin to embarrassment.
“I thought you were fucking with me,” Gunner said, arm around my hips, guiding me back toward our room.
“Fucking with you how?” I asked, reaching out to run my hand over a silk plant as we passed it, wondering what would possess anyone to decorate with silk plants when real ones would work as well.
