I’d known Riley for years now, known his name for… Oh months at least.  That’s the thing about being a bar regular, you know people without knowing them.  You recognize them, you talk to them from time to time but it’s very easy to not learn their name.

Riley was a fixture, decoration practically. He never held much conversation with me, never showed much interest except when he was really drunk.  Then he would flirt with me in a vague and fuzzy way.  The flirting of too long looks and blurry smiles, eyes shining that inebriated shine.  He would give me a look, a lick of a smile, perhaps a respectful drink lift.  And that was it.  It’s not that l didn’t notice his Irish good looks, forward blue eyes, biteable lips, they just seemed tangential to me.

Until one night, emboldened by liquor but somehow still in focus he jokingly mentioned Paddles (the place, not the implement.)  And my world seesawed ever so slightly in his direction.

See, Paddles in an SM club.  And no matter what the jaded perverts say, Paddles is the real deal. It’s not a fetish party where prodommes and goth kids come to pose.  Paddles is for perverts.  And when you mention Paddles the way he mentioned Paddles, you’re a pervert no two ways about it.

He kissed me that night.  We were very drunk, but it stuck in my memory.  I called him after that.  I didn’t hear back.

I see him at the bar again.  Not that I’m looking for him.  He just happens to be here every night.  So he’s easy to find.

He sees me, smiles wanly, and gets a drink. 

Does he remember kissing me?  Does he regret it?

He stands near me for once, away from his accustomed corner.  He stands silent, sipping his fast nervous sips.

“How’ve you been?”  I ask him.

“Good.” A few sips go by.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah.”

I measure time by the jukebox songs.  I wait I verse and half a chorus before I muster up the joke

“So how drunk do you have to be to talk to me?”  He laughs his shy surprised laugh and seeks an answer in the ice of his drink.  I don’t think he says “gosh” but he may as well.

“Uh… five, six more maybe?”  I don’t think he’s exaggerating.  “A couple more shots and we can talk about the weather maybe.”

“Well drink up then.”

Damn.  I meant to be coquettish.  I’m pretty sure I’ve failed.

But we have a few drinks.  Then we have a few more.  And we talk.

“So we’ve known each other for… how long?”  I ask.

“Years, I think.  Like, four of em.”

“So why’d you wait this long to tell me you’re a pervert?” He laughs again, choking on his drink. F in coquetry.  Absolute fail.  I really am bad at this game.

“Well, I, for part of that I was married.  We just recently divorced.”  He confesses, “and by ‘recently’ I mean ‘two years ago.’”

“Time flies, huh?”

“Yeah I guess.”

“So…” I try to sound casual “Top? Switch? You don’t seem like a bottom.”

“Shots!” He cries out.  I’ve scared him, goddamn, I’ve scared him.  F in casual!  Christ why has flirting these days become more like coaxing a stray cat out of a tree than anything resembling seduction?

The shots make several appearances in the evening.  I find myself making out, not with Riley but, with Ginny the bartender, which is just fine by Riley.

“My dear,” Ginny says between kisses.  She kisses me, slow and deep, lips sticky with lip gloss and tasting of cookie dough and Jack Daniels. “Could you pass that on to Riley?”

I’m not inclined to deny Ginny anything.  I kiss him.

Whisky blurred he presses into me, running his pink tongue through the slit of my lips.

“Give that to Ginny.”  He orders softly and I sure as hell ain’t saying “no.”

Ginny accepts my kiss with her southern comfort smile and says

“Sweetie, you have such beautiful hair.”  Her eyes shift slyly to Riley.   “You should take it down.”

She has the sparkle of champagne bubbles and should be denied nothing.  My hair falls in sweetly scented still damp curls, cascading down my back.  Behind me I hear Riley laugh, almost, like he’s been tricked into losing a bet.  A lusty breathless chuckle leaves him as he leans forward to my ear.

“Ginny happens to know that I have something of a hair fetish.”  He explains.  Then he twines his fingers in my hair and gives it a good, solid, yank.

He pulls my hair and an unexpected wave of bliss crashes through my body.  It knocks me on my ass and makes be grateful for my barstool.  If not for these few sticks of wood I’d be on the floor right now, kissing his boots and begging for more.  My head spins and my cunt pulses and my body screams

“Now!  Now!  For the love of Christ, NOW!  If this man doesn’t pick you up and bend you over this bar right this second then he ain’t no kind of man!”  Because my body doesn’t care about the other people in the bar or what kind of ordinances might be in place.  And in the darkest heart of my desire I truly want him to take me now, because there are people here, because we’d be breaking laws, because this bar is disgustingly filthy and covered with drinks of varying origins.

He takes a slow sip of his whisky, neat.

“It’s spicy,” He whispers. “Not unlike you.”

He kisses the back of my neck and I feel the whisky trickle down my spine. It curves around my side and softly slides down the curve of my breast.  In the heat of the bar, this Tennessee Williams heat, the cool of the liquor is bracing.  It hits my clit with a different shot than the hair pull, like the cool mint in a Mojito.

He unzips my dress, slowly, deviously, then strips me bare.

I am exposed now to the whole of the bar, skin glowing in the dim light.  The room is shadowy, and somehow blurred.  I turn to kiss him and whisky pours into my mouth.  His lips are parted, pressed against mine, and I can’t believe how damn cool the liquor from his lips is.

He lifts me onto the bar and steps between my parted legs.  He pulls my hair again, arching my back and forcing my breasts to face him.  Ginny, behind me now, slips a lime between my teeth before her hands slip down my body to cup my breasts.  He spreads my legs farther apart, forcing his crotch against mine, then bends down to lick the salt sweat of my body in a line from breast bone to pubis and back again.  He sips tequila from Ginny’s mouth and bites the lime juice out of mine.

“That tequila had quite a kick to it, Ginny, maybe it’s time for something a little sweeter.”

“Manhattan, my dear?”  Ginny quickly suggests.  I wonder if they’ve done his before.

“A Manhattan would be perfect.”  I’m not in on the joke.  I think, perhaps, I am part of it.  Ginny’s back in the wink of an eye, bourbon in one hand, sweet vermouth in the other.  She leans against me, the sparkling heat of her body on mine, and placing each bottle just below my collarbone, she begins to pour.  The liquor streams cross between my breasts, mixing as they flow down my torso to Riley’s waiting mouth.  His tongue caresses the cherry of my clit.

He sucks and licks, lapping liquor and pussy in equal parts while Ginny nibbles at my ear lobe.  The room is spinning and not because I’m drunk.  The walls of the bar seem to fade and blur, melting away as I succumb to the oblivion of pleasure.  I don’t care if other people are there; I barely know what people are by the time Riley starts fucking me.

My body is sticky and dripping and my back against the bar is in a puddle of god-knows-what but I couldn’t care less or even do more than register it as another sensation as Ginny’s tongue does delightful things in my mouth and Riley’s cock does downright amazing things in my pussy.

I break away from Ginny’s lips to scream in ecstasy while Riley pounds a rocking fast beat into me.  I can feel him closing in on an orgasm but mine is quickly outpacing his and it hits me with all the quickness and violence of a bar brawl.  I scream and buck against Ginny’s body while Riley hammers himself over the edge.

He pulls out quickly and comes across my body, letting me sink, dripping, to the floor of the bar.  Then he starts in on Ginny.

He climbs onto the bar, taking her head in his hands.  He kisses her deeply, hungrily, then pulls her on top of the bar.  She lies on the bar and he’s on top of her now.  I’m trying to find a way to join in but their fucking is closed somehow, inaccessible.  I run my hands along the soft fuzz of his hair and he looks up at me.  We kiss for a moment and his body rocks with the motion of fucking her.  We only kiss for a moment though, before he turns back to her, tasting her lips, pulling her hair biting her breasts; lush and succulent in his teeth.

He is all moans and color, delirious ecstasy, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s better than me.  I touch Riley for a moment, run my hand slick along his back.  He doesn’t seem to notice.  I back away and watch them, their smooth skin and beautiful bodies locked in a frenzied dance.  She sparkles in his arms and he seeks to lose himself in her, shatter himself into her oblivion.  And at this moment neither of them could possibly know nor care if I still exist.  They don’t even hear the door as I walk out.

This is, of course, all a dream that I have after Riley packs me into a cab and I go home drunk to take advantage of myself.

F.

I text him a couple times, send an e-mail or two, hear nothing back.  I actually send him a text asking if he also has to be drunk in order to text me and he replies, at 3 in the morning,

“Maybe so, however, I’ll try.” 

I ask if he wants to get dinner, wait a few days, and give up on him.

I see him at the bar again and don’t know what to say.  Neither does he, I guess, because he doesn’t talk to me till he’s drunk, drunker than I’ve seen him before.  Which is kind of saying something.  He stumbles to me, a few paces from his corner, and asks if I want to come home with him.  And I say

“Sorry, sweetie.  I don’t mind sharing you but I’ve never thrived on threesomes.”

He is, understandably, confused.

“Nevermind.”  I tell him.  “Call me when you’re sober.”

That’s the thing about being a bar regular.  You know people without knowing them.  You know a side of them, a side you all more or less share.  When you’re a regular a drink is not a beverage, it’s a pastime, a hobby, a friend.  For Riley it’s even more.  I could be his lover but Liquor would be his Mistress.  And she has owned too many of my men before.

  He would never kiss my lips without tasting of whisky.  And he would never call my name without slurring his words.  She is his hobby, his girlfriend, his reason and his courage.

And who am I to compete with that?

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