Blind Date

You could tell she wanted it bad. I noticed her urgings every time she was at my bar, and with every guy she was with too. It was almost enough to sicken a man. I caught her name the first time, though if her parents actually named her Star I would be surprised. That's what she went by anyway, and let those poor saps believe it. She was gorgeous though. Gorgeous in that “used up and wanting to be used more” type of way. Her hands were constantly busy, placing themselves on knees and eventually finding inner thighs, rubbing the back of whoever she may have chosen as her fuck buddy for the evening, but most notably was the cigarette. Sure I smoke, but nothing as religious as this woman did. She was never without one, I often pictured her showering, hand poking out the curtain nestling a smoldering Newport as the water ran down her body.
Her newest prey was Russian or something. Maybe Czech. Who really cares? I was sure I'd never see him again after she used him (or let him use her, however it was her crazy brain worked). I never quite caught his name but I called him Boris once and they both laughed. Boris it is. You could tell he was nervous, he looked at her too much, like, if he was caught checking out another piece of trim she would castrate him and eat his soul at the same time. Poor sap didn't even flinch when she started going on and on about her old boyfriend, her Casanova, the guy who got her to pull the shotgun out of her mouth and all that bullshit. He just smiled and nodded in the appropriate places, even complimenting the guy and calling him a modern day, gen-u-wine hero.
So there they sat, bud-light and sex on the beach in hand, pretending to enjoy each others company long enough so they could justify what would eventually happen between them, what eventually happened between all these idiots. Just more coincidental coitus. Abolishing their longings into someone they hardly even knew, or even cared to know. It was almost so picture perfect. She would let him play the gentleman, buy her drink and open doors until she brought him back to her pink bedroom. Her mockery of the “finer sex”. Fine sex was never even in her repertoire. She would basically tear his cloths off just after the door clicked, going down on him whether or not he enjoyed that whole sort of thing. She would let him think he was in charge though she would guide him in, she would roll over, she would stand and brace her arms against the wall while she decided she wanted to be bent over and treated like a slut for god knows what reason. She would enjoy it all enthusiastically. Moaning and screaming his name for all twenty seconds that the pathetic charade lasted, then she would make him feel big, like the biggest, the bestest she has ever had. She would whisper these promises in his ear while he lay panting, feeling like David while he drifted off to sleep, stones spread around him, knowing Goliath was still very much alive and breathing only inches to his left.
Watching the hunt is one of the most amusing things about my job. Serving drinks to retards, and watching the hunt. It's basically why I kept my roots at this shit hole establishment though some Starbucks on 42nd needed a head coffee whore. I decided I wouldn't drink that crap anymore anyway, at least not until the owner undid his panties and sent our soldiers some of his fucking beans. Christ how cheap can you be. Oh, but the hunt. These pathetic kids and their BB guns, walking around like they got the biggest dick on the earth trying to capture a lioness thats really nothing more than a muskrat. I gotta say one thing though, some of their parents must be filthy fucking rich, because these little assholes are always selling out my highest brands of tequila and vodka. For some reason they think that the more fucked up these girls get the wider their legs are gonna open and expose the “already been exposed” freshman glory.
I caught one kid in particular. You could tell he was straight from his highschool football team, still wearing his gaudy class ring and flashing twenty dollar bills while he tried ever so unsuccessfully to play pool, though still bragging about that one ninety some yard touchdown reception he had gotten back home. Don't get me wrong, these girls believed it. There was at least two hanging on his arm at every second, rubbing their body sprays on him and alighting his lips with glitter paste. You could basically see him cuming in anticipation. Dumb blonde's and presumptuous brunettes, all set in their way to either tease this guy till his balls exploded or get a little of him into themselves. It was the blonde he left with, which was really no surprise to me.
He left with a swagger and she left with a wobble. I pictured him walking her to his beat up Trans Am, just another reason for her to say how wet she was. He would drive her back to his place, barely successful, just ever so close to taking down that last unfortunate pedestrian. They would stumble in together and lick the taste out of each others mouths until eventually he found enough control to try for her bra strap, which remained fastened until at least the eleventh attempt. They would giggle and sigh, enjoying the forplay, the touching, the tasting, the rough hand movements until they both wound up on the floor completely naked and willing to try it without a condom “just this one time”. It could go a variety of ways from there, the most likely being laughter from the dumb blonde when the silly jock couldn't control his whiskey, no matter how much she sucked on his flaccid masculinity. Maybe he did get it up, maybe he even found enough coordination to climb on top of the poor girl and start siezuring until her mouth locked up and her face turned green, maybe he continued thinking she was in love until she threw him off of her and ran to the bathroom, tits bouncing and collecting the liquid seeping between her lips before she made it to the throne. Once again on her knees, though not in the same way the poor jock pictured his night going. Shit maybe they were both successful, maybe they fell in love that night, maybe they cuddled or watched a movie, maybe they only kissed once. Or maybe they went full throttle, hours of unforgiving positions the kama Sutra only dreamed of drawing until finally he realized he wasn't wearing that little piece of protective promise until it was to late. Wam, bam, thank you ma'am and another welfare baby is brought into the world. Another bundle of joy that was by and large a collection of stupid teenagers and the liquor they had only months before been allowed to start consuming. Isn't that just a picture perfect endeavor to recall to the grandchildren?
I'll be honest right now, I have a history with Lana. God she was beautiful, shit she still is beautiful. She comes in once in a while, we exchange a quick hello and she sees my eyes, my mourning and pathetic emerald eyes and she clicks her heels, obviously wishing she was anywhere else and she moves on. The problem is how she always moves on with him. To that corner booth, the one way on the other side of the bar that the waitresses rarely have to venture to. They sit and hold hands, they laugh and smile and kiss gently and share martinis. They share their love. He's no dumb ass either, he watches me watch her and moves in for the kiss every time he feels my eyes trying to pry hers away from him. He smiles politely at me while he holds her hand across the bar, walking her to the exit, and he nods his head in my direction just after she disappears into the night.
That fucker probably does the ritual the same way I always did it. She probably told him and he probably stole it straight out of my fucking playbook. He probably doesn't even bother opening the door for her because he knows she is one of those “i can take care of myself” women. So when they get home he probably just lays on the bed and lets her come to him. He lets her dress in that baby blue lace nighty she loves so much and climb on top of him. He just smiles while she lays her body against his and breathes in his ear, kissing his neck and all the way around until their lips seal, so modestly at first, then barely opening so that the tips of their tongues touch. He caresses her arms while she unbuttons his shirt, undressing him completely from head to toe then ever so gently slipping off that nighty, revealing all the nothingness that was underneath it. She lays on her back, as always, and lets his body meld with hers, gently, never forcing entry but waiting until she can no longer stand to not be linked with him. He keeps one hand on the bed, propping himself up while the other hand either stays nestled beneath her carpet of red hair or gently sprawled against her cheek, aiming her lips to his, kissing in rhythm with their moving hips.
I'm sure they lay still afterwards, her head resting on his chest. They probably fall asleep the exact same way, no protection save that offered by each other. It seems almost imperative that they breath the other into their very souls and wake in the morning still cradling the other, still not needing to miss them just yet. They wake to scented candles and clean kitchens, maybe even to small whisperings from smaller children. Then they simply live. They shop, eat, work, cuddle, and nurture all the while staying within the others eyes, the others minds eye. I'm positive they do this because i've done it. I know they maintain a busy life and fade in out of the focus of the random public only to relapse in the others' embrace when night finally shifts into orbit. I am that public and sadly there isn't meant to be a fairy tell ending for bartenders who lost the only chance they had at love, who never gave up but were gave up on. I see all this in a night and every time I wake up, covered in sweat with the sheets wrapped tightly around my limbs I wish I hadn't thought about that sluts need, or that stupid jocks blind date. I wish I was blind. Blind or luckier than I was.