It was one of those weeks at the office. My idiot boss had gone to the Bahamas— with no notice at all— and left our whole sales team shorthanded and self-managed. Not that we needed him. He was a nephew of the Big Boss— yeah, one of those guys— on a fast track to Upper Management and would soon enough be out of our hair as he rode the backs of his subordinates up the corporate escalator. We actually did better without him and his trademark 'visits from the Good Idea Fairy, ' but it took some overtime on everyone's part.
Being the only single member of the team, I had volunteered to stay and wrap things up so the others could get home to their families. It was Friday night, after all. Finishing all of our paperwork and leaving the idiot with an overflowing Inbox for Monday morning left me with a feeling of accomplishment, but looking at the clock and realizing it was half past eight was a reminder of the empty apartment awaiting my return. As was the case more often than not, I decided to stop at the tavern on the corner before catching the subway across town.
The place was a bit on the upscale side for both my taste and my budget, but it was too conveniently located between the office and the subway not to patronize on days like this. I made my way to the quiet end of the bar, farthest from the dining area, where I could sip on a beer and unwind a bit. While I sipped my beer, I could also perhaps catch up on the day's news or sports on one of the flat screen TV's mounted on the walls around the bar. I found an open seat at the corner of the bar. Next to me sat a man I could only describe as forlorn. He was immaculately dressed in an expensive suit, but his hair was disheveled and he had a few days' growth of beard. He had a smart phone sitting on the bar next to a half empty glass of Scotch.
"Girl trouble?" I asked. It was too obvious. I spent enough of my time here to know the look.
He gave me a sideways glance that said "What else would it be?" Then he downed half of his drink in one gulp, did something with his smart phone, and signaled Bill, the bartender, for another. I recognized the bottle, not from ever drinking the brand but from its reputation as THE high-end scotch. This particular bottle was the 25-year-old variety, and sold for upwards of $400.
While Bill was pouring, I made a decision. "This one's on me," I told him, digging out my wallet and handing over a pair of $20's. "And I'll have the same." Bill gave me an odd look when I ordered the Scotch. I usually only drink beer, but 'The Customer Is Always Right, ' and soon the first sip of Talisker was searing its way down my throat.
My new drinking buddy thanked me with a little toast and knocked back a healthy slug. He returned to sullenly staring into the amber liquid in the glass.
"I've got girl troubles, all right," he stated suddenly. Without looking up from his glass, he continued. "But not the way you probably think. I've been with some of the most beautiful women in the world: models, movie stars, professional cheerleaders. They're all gorgeous, my friend," he paused to finish off his drink with one swallow. "But they are as hollow as this glass."
His words resonated with me on different levels. Aside from the bragging tone and the tall-tale aspect of his claims, I could relate to his plight. In my own relationships, few and far between as they had been, I had always sought out my partners for beauty rather than personality, and it was always me doing the chasing. The relationships lacked adventure and spontaneity. We went out for dinner or a show, then back to one or the other's apartment for sex. I was never one for the club scene, and none of them wanted to leave the city for anything outdoorsy. Growing up in the suburbs, I had been a Boy Scout and still enjoyed camping, hiking and rafting on occasion but rarely had anyone with whom to go. I was always proud to be seen with a hottie on my arm in public, but in private the relationships would eventually get stale. In the end I had always gotten bored and surly, and one or the other of us had broken things off before long.
"In fact," he waved grandly around the bar, "I could have any of these women right here, right now, with no effort at all."
I snorted. This guy was in his early 50's— or maybe just really hard-lived 40's— with thinning hair, gaunt complexion and a gut. Granted, his suit was nice and I'm pretty sure the Rolex on his wrist was real. He could probably find a cougar or a heifer to take home in the Benz or Lincoln he likely had parked outside ... but ninety five percent of the women here tonight were out of his league, even with his money. At my snort, he gave me that sideways glance again and went back to tinkering with his smartphone.
"A hard sell, eh?" he asked. "All right, take for instance the blonde over there. The one in the red dress."
He gestured to the far corner where a cluster of Young Urban Professionals had taken up residence in the booths. I had vaguely noticed the group when I came in. There were maybe a dozen of them, gender-segregated between two booths, and all seemed to be having a good time. The girls were all gorgeous, mid-to-late twenties, with perfect hair, perfect teeth, and perfect make-up. They all sported dark tans, brilliant white teeth and dazzling jewelry. Their male counterparts in the next booth were also tanned, clothed and coiffed impeccably. The blonde in the red dress, however, stood out from the crowd. As beautiful as the rest were, she was above and beyond, with a model's face and a knockout body. She had arrived with a tall ex-jock type a few minutes before.
"Okay, what about her?" I asked, knowing that this guy was about to tell me he could score with her.
"She just got engaged, to the one she came in with." A closer look showed me that he was right. The other girls were gawking over her new engagement ring, a rock that I could see even from across the bar. Her new fiancée was getting handshakes and one-armed 'bro hugs' from his compatriots as well.
"I could get a blowjob from her right there at the booth. All I need to do is ask."
"That's a hell of a way to treat a guy who just bought you a drink," I laughed. "You could at least tell me a lie that I might believe." I took another sip my drink and got up to leave. I'd had enough of this blowhard.
"You're right, my friend, that was rude of me. Stay just a bit longer," he implored. Again, he fiddled with the smart phone. I decided to give him another chance and sat back down.
"I don't suppose you're going to prove it to me?" I half sneered.
"Actually," he said, now working his phone with both hands, "Since you mentioned it, I do need to thank you for the drink. You can go get the blowjob."
At that point I started looking around for the hidden cameras. This had to be one of those "Punk'd" shows, or maybe the one where the hosts sit backstage and feed crazy instructions to the contestant through a hidden earpiece. Either that, or this guy was simply setting me up to get my eyes clawed out by a table full of post-debutantes, followed by a royal ass kicking from their ex-jock boyfriends.
Yet despite my trepidation I suddenly felt confident that I could indeed do just what he said: To walk across the bar and get a blowjob from the hottest girl in the place— the hottest I'd seen in months! —just by asking. I finished off my Talisker and started across the bar.
As I approached the booths— with an awful lot more confidence than I should have— one or two members of both groups eyed me curiously but let me walk right up to my quarry. Maybe I could avoid getting sent to the hospital if I buttered them up a bit first.
"Excuse me miss. I, uh, couldn't help but notice that you just got engaged. I just wanted to, uh, congratulate you and buy the next round for you and your friends." That got me a chorus of high pitched WOOOO's from the girls' booth and similar but deeper hoots of appreciation from the guys.
"And, uh, while I was here," I continued, quietly so only the bride-to-be could hear, "I thought I would, uhhhhhm, ask for a blowjob."
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes got as big as frying pans.
'This is it, ' I thought. 'She's gonna scream and I'm gonna get beat to a pulp.'
"That would be SO cool!" she squealed. "Kevin honey, he's going to buy us all drinks, and he wants me to blow him!"
The booths both erupted into hoots, hollers and catcalls at her announcement.
Without any more fanfare, the girl grabbed the lapels of my sport jacket and spun me around until my ass fetched up against the edge of their table. Immediately one of her friends crawled up onto the table to my left and whispered heavily in my ear.
"Oh, mister, you're gonna love this. Carly gives really good head. Trust me, I've seen her in action!"
She followed her statement with a low moan and stuck her tongue in my ear. Meanwhile, the bride-to-be, Carly, was working my belt buckle loose and pushing down my trousers.
I looked around frantically, expecting at that point to see the other patrons of the bar crowding in. They would have their phones out, snapping photos and shooting video, and my face would be all over the internet in an hour. Amazingly, they were ignoring us as if this sort of thing happens every night!
"I don't want to kneel down on this dirty floor," Carly suddenly whined. "It will ruin my hose!"
'Now it will happen, ' I thought. She got my pants down for everyone to see, and now it's over.'
.... There is more of this story ...