But I’m sure I won’t.
Amber slides her hand up my thigh. “Thanks for the drink. But if you don’t want me to call you big fella, you’ve got to tell me your name.”
I eye her, at the way her eyes are already dilated because she’s already had a few too many. “Do I?”
She examines me for a moment, before she laughs. It’s a slutty laugh. A fake one. I almost shudder, but don’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is an easy woman who is mine for the taking. If I wanted to take her, that is, but I find that I really don’t. And I think I do know what’s wrong with me.
Mila Hill is in my head, wholesome and sweet. But I’ll be f**king damned if I let her invade my life when she doesn’t even want me in the first place.
I knock back my glass of Jack and signal for one more. I knock that one back too.
A comforting sense of calm descends upon me, the familiar numbness that I love so much. When all else fails, the obscurity prevails. I almost laugh at my deep thinking, but instead, I reach over and grasp Amber’s thick thigh, enjoying the fleshy feel of her leg in my fingers. If this chick wants me, she can have me.
And then I do what I always do. I block out logical thought with drugs or women. In this case, a bar slut and Jack Daniels.
“Come with me,” I whisper into her ear. Amber smiles knowingly and nods. She clings to my hand as we pick our way through the dirty bar, down the dingy back hall and into the women’s bathroom.
The bathroom is exactly how I figured it would be—disgusting. A single light bulb hangs from the yellowed ceiling, casting a dubious light around the small room. There is evidence of puke on the sides of the toilet, the tiles are grimy and the walls look as though they haven’t been washed since 1969. But it doesn’t matter. I lock the door behind us and turn to Amber.
She reaches for me and I let her, sliding my hand up her thigh and under her tight shirt, gripping her fat tit. I squeeze it hard and she moans.
I squeeze it harder and she moans again.
I want to roll my eyes at this stupid game. I know what’s going to happen because I’ve played it a thousand times before. She’s going to pretend to enjoy anything that I do, and I’ll pretend not to know it’s fake.
But who gives a f**k? Pussy is pu**y.
I pull a condom from my wallet and rip it open with my teeth, but discover a problem. I’m not hard.
“Suck me,” I tell Amber. And then I smile charmingly.
She smiles back and immediately drops to her knees on the dirty floor, her head bobbing. It’s not long before I’m hard enough for the condom, in spite of myself. I slide it on, help Amber to her feet and turn her away from me. And then I enter her from behind, with no preamble, no foreplay.
She doesn’t seem to mind.
She moans as if my dick is the best she’s ever had. I close my eyes and picture all of the p**n scenes I’ve ever watched, all of the tits and ass and mast***ation and shower scenes. But something is off. The smell in here is putrid, I’m tired, I’m pissed. Things aren’t coming easily tonight and I know that having an orgasm isn’t going to be easy, particularly with whiskey-dick.
So I picture Mila.
And immediately, I feel a gush of warmth. I picture her small waist, her lush hips. Her full lips. Her soft tits. Her feminine smell, clean and floral. It immediately floods life into my dick and I’m back in the game.
As I envision Mila, I bang Amber hard and I hear her forehead thumping against the dirty tiled walls. She allows it because, like me, she doesn’t feel like she deserves anything more than this… this dirty f**k in a dirty bar bathroom.
It’s pathetic on both our parts.
I picture Mila again, and then for some reason, it stops working. It’s doesn’t feel right. Amber isn’t Mila. And even thinking of Mila while I’m in this pathetic place with this pathetic chick feels wrong on a hundred different levels.
I pull out abruptly and Amber turns to look at me in confusion. Her eye makeup is smeared from sweat. In fact, I can smell the sweat from here and I fight the urge to shudder.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” I tell her. “Whiskey dick.”
It’s a lie, but it doesn’t matter. She nods knowingly, as if she encounters this problem all of the time. She pats my shoulder sympathetically, as if I give a flying f**k what she thinks about me.
But I smile as if I’m grateful for her understanding.
I toss the condom into the trash and walk out.
As I do, I hand Dan the bartender a twenty.
“To cover her drinks the rest of the night,” I tell him.
Dan smiles. “Sure thing. See you next time!”
I nod and make my way into the parking lot, collapsing into Danger. My car is familiar and comfortable and I feel calmer now that I’m in it. I rest my head against the seat and inhale the leather smell and the fresh air. It’s so much better than the stale, smoky air in the bar. And then I drive home with the windows open and my music blaring.
The road is black and long as it flies beneath my car, but I am home before I know it. Before I am even ready, actually. I stand in my driveway and face the dark house, and for the first time, I have the feeling that I don’t want to go in, simply because it is so empty.
Living alone is great, but sometimes it is just so f**king lonely.
I stand still for a moment, my hands dangling at my sides, before I head back to my car. I’ve still got agitation to burn, I guess.
I don’t know why I head to the Bear’s Den, the little bar in town. I know that Jill is probably there or her other bar whore friends, and if I want to spend time with them, I’ll call them. I don’t want them hanging on me when I’m not in the mood.
And I’m definitely not in the mood for that tonight. I just want to walk in, draw up a seat at the bar and be around people, without actually having to interact with them. Is that so much to ask? I’m not in the mood for bar whores.
I nose my car into a parking slot and slam the door, taking a deep breath of the night air as I walk inside. It’s the last clean breath I’ll get once I cross the smoky threshold of the bar.
I walk in and glance through the smoky haze that floats through the dim room. Locals sit and chat, while others play pool or darts in the back. I know their faces, but not their names. I’m not much of a socializer.