Waiting at the Bar
I sidle up to the bar, empty glass in hand, to order another drink. The guy standing to my left shifts toward me. He’s tall with scruffy facial hair, like he didn’t shave today, and a look in his eyes like he’s seen too many late nights. I’ve seen him around. He’s a little older than me, an aging party kid. He wouldn’t be that cute, except for that straight-guy-with-bi-tendencies thing so common in ecstasy enthusiasts.
The place is crowded, particularly around the bar, and his thigh is touching mine. It’s that closeness that makes me look twice, makes me notice the way he’s dressed tonight. Jeans slightly tighter than usual, showing off the gentle curve of his butt. It’s the fact that he doesn’t lean away, that he stands that close to me, touching me, that makes me think of his cock, surrounded by a nest of pubic hair, unkempt, ungroomed just like his face.
He sets a cosmopolitan on the bar and pushes it away from himself. It’s not what I would expect a guy like him to drink, so it makes sense that it’s half full.
“You want that?” he says to me.
“Um. I don’t know where it’s been.”
He pauses, looks at me, smiles. “It’s been in my mouth.” He shifts closer, his leg rubs against mine ever so slightly. I feel flushed and realized I'm getting hard. Not a raging hard-on, but a subtle inflation that makes me slightly uncomfortable.
I smile, trying my damnedest to look wicked. “Like I said, I don’t know where it’s been.”
“Probably a lot of places yours hasn’t,” he says.
I don’t know if it’s pheromones or the dirty martini I just finished, but I feel like there are ten million little invisible tentacles reaching off of my skin and pulling me close to him. I want to breathe in whatever it is he’s giving off.
Then the bartender takes my order and the aging party kid turns back to the girl he was talking to. And I stand there, waiting for my drink while I deflate.
The place is crowded, particularly around the bar, and his thigh is touching mine. It’s that closeness that makes me look twice, makes me notice the way he’s dressed tonight. Jeans slightly tighter than usual, showing off the gentle curve of his butt. It’s the fact that he doesn’t lean away, that he stands that close to me, touching me, that makes me think of his cock, surrounded by a nest of pubic hair, unkempt, ungroomed just like his face.
He sets a cosmopolitan on the bar and pushes it away from himself. It’s not what I would expect a guy like him to drink, so it makes sense that it’s half full.
“You want that?” he says to me.
“Um. I don’t know where it’s been.”
He pauses, looks at me, smiles. “It’s been in my mouth.” He shifts closer, his leg rubs against mine ever so slightly. I feel flushed and realized I'm getting hard. Not a raging hard-on, but a subtle inflation that makes me slightly uncomfortable.
I smile, trying my damnedest to look wicked. “Like I said, I don’t know where it’s been.”
“Probably a lot of places yours hasn’t,” he says.
I don’t know if it’s pheromones or the dirty martini I just finished, but I feel like there are ten million little invisible tentacles reaching off of my skin and pulling me close to him. I want to breathe in whatever it is he’s giving off.
Then the bartender takes my order and the aging party kid turns back to the girl he was talking to. And I stand there, waiting for my drink while I deflate.