Mixed Grill

Jim stood in the entrance and breathed in deeply the countless familiar smells of the bar—the cigar and cigarette smoke, the steak sizzling on a griddle, the beer soaked carpet, and the stale sweat. It had been so long, he'd almost forgotten what they were truly like.

He quickly found a table and ordered the meal he'd been waiting for the last six years, a mixed grill with salad and chips, all drowning in ketchup and malt vinegar, accompanied by a pitcher of ice cold beer.

Freedom smelt good. It tasted even better.

He'd dealt with items one and two on his list—time for number three. He scanned the room and saw her standing at the bar. Tall, blonde, well built—just his type. She'd be perfect. He sauntered over.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Vodka. Thanks." Her voice was husky, her smile predatory. He could almost taste the cigarettes on her breath.

"I'm Jim."

"Paula."

"Nice to meet you, Paula. What's that perfume?"

"Obsession."

"I like it."

He turned on the charm and they had two more drinks.

"Fancy a shag?" He asked, half an hour later.

"Yeah. Why not?"

They took a taxi. Jim gazed out of the window at a world that had changed so much and struggled to take it all in. Paula, meanwhile, took all of him in.

They stumbled through her door, lips and hands busy. With the urgency of the condemned, they undressed each other. Shirts ripped, buttons popped, shoes kicked, buckles loosened, trousers and skirt dropped.

She yanked down his boxers. "Maybe I could finish blowing this bugle."

He didn't last long.

Her turn.

After all this time, fresh pussy—it would smell so good and taste so sweet. He pulled down her panties.

"Fuck me! You're a bloke!"