There is no art in ordering drinks. I despise people who feel the need to make a production out of it; announcing too loudly the name of some fabulous libation that they feel is very exotic, like a Buttery Nipple or Sex on the Beach or some other lame-ass, fruity concoction. And worse yet is the creep two stools down who ordered a PBR Tall Boy and then asked for a glass. But I guess it goes with his sartorial aplomb because he really did look smashing in his baseball cap with thick, gold chain on the outside of his shirt combo. I really meant to get the name of his haberdashery before I left.
I stuck with plain, raw whiskey and I knew that I could only get about two down before I had to get back home and not make any trouble.
It was too cold, frankly, to do any serious stoop-sitting and I needed to nurse my vices in a warmer environment and ruminate in the relative solitude of a mid-week bar room.
My Fellow Domesticates were waiting for me at home and I knew that any prolonged absence on my part would lead to yet another round of heated, accusatory assaults on my character, morality and general proclivity for getting hammered in the middle of the week.
I just sat quietly and watched the people in there with me; all the local freaks with nowhere else to go on a Wednesday.
I noticed a sleek little brunette who was being relentlessly hit on by a butch lesbian. It was an interesting display. The little brunette was all slick defense and subtle deflection and the parry and riposte of sexual ambiguity flared all around her. I could tell she had no interest in Experimenting and I wondered why the close-cropped dyke couldn’t see it as plainly as I did.
Not to mention the two Toughs who came bursting through the doors like wild, rampant cowboys out of the old west, bringing the mad swagger of their certain sexual dominance in with them. It swirled around them like a cloud of bad gas and, of course, they set to work at once hitting on the lesbian and the shy, little brunette. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that they were cock-blocking a fellow vaginal enthusiast.
Against the bar, presumably holding it up, was the usual line of sad losers who showed up every night and rested their stylish paunches against the cool brass of the rail. I tried to ignore them as I pondered the odds of how many of them would be here forever and I turned away when I realized that I had no desire to see into any of my possible Futures.
It got a bit more crowded and louder and it started to remind me of that scene from Star Wars and the last thing I needed was to lose an arm to some crazed weirdo and his young friend waving their laser swords around indiscriminately. I didn’t want to risk it, even considering the miracles of modern prosthetics.
I knew it was nearing my time to exit gracefully.
That’s when I noticed a story about the new Flying Car on the TV behind the bar. I’d been hearing rumors about it for years and now…here it was and on the very cusp of my mad desire to acquire a Rocket Sled. I slammed my fist into the bar and groaned as they referred to the Moller M400 Sky Car as being, “Personally Affordable.” I knew what that meant…if you had to ask…well. And it wasn’t even sexy. There’s no way I was ever going to get really laid if I had to resort to driving a Sky Car. Even the name is totally queer. Why not call it something like, “The Sex Bomber” or “Vagiceptor 3000?” Who came up with Sky Car?
I paid my tab and headed for the door and tried to listen in on the conversation between the Brunette, the Toughs and the Lesbian. I secretly hoped it would all end in a wild night of orgiastic pleasure for all of them; a foursome that would change their lives forever and make the lesbian finally get over hating her father and appreciate the Penis and force the two Toughs to come to grips with the fact that they were, in fact, both full-on, raging Bull Fruits. And then, of course, I could swoop in and pick up the little Brunette and keep her all to myself. (After I fitted her for Silver Space Boots.) But no…I had to get home.
I got on out of there and thought about maybe writing something…but no, I thought. Maybe I should let my young son take a shot at it. I bet he has some great stories.
And I breezed on out with the whiskey churning in my belly and singing in my head; feeling like I always do: slightly shaken but certainly not stirred.