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I scan the room again while I wait, really looking this time. I wasn’t lying when I gave thanks to the Lords of Bisexuality. There are so many people here that are gorgeous.
Then I spot her. She’s perfect so far, for starters, as far as I know: Not. Male. Already different from Callum. She’s got light brown skin, curly hair, and she’s a whole head shorter than me.
“Here.” Bartender Scene Boy, as I’ve dubbed him since I don’t know his name yet, says as he places my drink down. Being forceful enough that a little splashes on his hand and the countertop. He glares at me as he wipes his hand with a towel, as if it’s my fault he has an attitude.
I love him.
But I need to put becoming his friend on the backburner. I have a man to get out of my system. I spot the girl again, dancing with a group of women I assume are her friends. They appear to be in a continuation of a Bachelorette party, one of the women adorning a crown and a sash. It could be birthday though, I can’t see very well from here.
I drain my drink, and head over. Hoping my stride and expression exude more confidence than I feel.
Callum couldn’t even have this courtesy for me, and yet here I am nauseous over him. Fuck, I’m dumb.
“Hey, you mind if I cut in?” I ask the girl, and by proxy the woman she’s dancing with. I could have read this all wrong and I panic for a moment as she hesitates. But then there’s a spark in her eyes, (which are brown by the way, score) recognition maybe, before they fill with heat.
I don’t know if it’s all lust but NDAs are digital now, so any plans she has will be ruined shortly. We chat a bit, and I find out her name is Camilla, and her accent is unremarkably plain. She’s perfect. After she begrudgingly signs the NDA, which honestly isn’t even really that bad. She still gets bragging rights.
I go to the bathroom and wait for her to follow me inside. When she enters the stall with me she immediately drops to her knees, pulling on my belt buckle with wild hands.
“Woah, it’s okay to slow down a little.”
I’m not even hard yet. She doesn’t listen, finally figuring out how to control her hands and quickly unbuckling my belt and lowering my pants. I feel slightly uncomfortable, but it’s because I’m embarrassed. This should be hot.
There’s a sexy as fuck girl with a fat ass in a tight pink mini dress on her knees for me and my dick is dead. Absolutely lifeless.
She pulls down my underwear after teasing my soft cock through them. My nausea worsens the longer this continues. She dry jerks my soft dick and looks up at me with what I’m sure would be a sexy face any other time. Maybe before I started letting Callum touch me again.
She spits on my cock and I cringe. The sight of this and this experience are so fucking humiliating. Stupid fucking Callum.
As my brain switches gears to the pseudo-cowboy my dick finally begins to perk up, giving the slightest jerk. Camilla grins as if she’s finally won the task of turning me on. Little does she know it’s honey brown eyes and a nice thick cock that are filling my dick with blood.
I swear I’m dizzy, light-headed from how quickly just the thought of Callum got me there. I can’t do this. It feels dishonest.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pushing her off my dick and rushing to pull up my pants. I’m unlocking the stall and halfway out before they’re up, running out of the bathroom and buckling my pants back up. I rush outside in a panic, ready to call Nathan before suddenly remembering the bartender.
I turn around at the risk of seeing Camilla, who I feel really bad about running away from like that. Scene Boy moves around the counter swiftly. He makes good drinks, but he’s the rudest bartender I’ve ever seen. He fascinates me.
I stride over to the bar with a bounce in my step, and a giddy grin on my face.
“Oh goody, you’re back.” he says flatly, when he sees me squirming at the bar.
“Yes. I want to be your friend.” I say brightly. I think this is the sunshine-iest I’ve ever been. I’m not a mean guy, but this is not my usual vibe.
I’m standoff-ish, I wear a scowl as my armor. I don’t let anyone in and I like it that way. At least, I thought so.
But there’s something about this asshole in neon clothes that calls to me. It’s like a platonic Callum. But does he feel the same?
He rears back in shock, blinking like he didn’t expect that response. And why would he?
“What?” he seems genuinely perplexed as to why I’d want that.
“I think your soul matches mine.” That sounds creepier outside my head.
His eyebrow raises, and he begins to wipe down the bar as things begin to simmer down. Probably getting close to last call.
“Nobody wants to be my friend.” Scene Boy replies.
“What’s your name?” I ask, ignoring that self deprecating comment.
