And there she was. Shoulder-length hair a shade darker than mine, with a short skirt covering an ass I could eat breakfast off of, swaying perfectly with the beat. Moving her arms in unique ways, but not too out-there. Encroaching on other people’s space just a little, making it her own. What her face looked like didn’t matter to me; all women are beautiful in their way. Thin or Rubenesque, tall or short–I don’t really have a ‘type.’
She picked up a nearly-empty Corona from the edge of the stage and drank, then set the bottle back down, now just wispy foam and a slice of lime.
I hoped that the way she was owning a tiny slice of the stage didn’t mean she was here with the band. I’d never know if I didn’t talk to her. And it would be rude to let the owner of an ass like that go thirsty.
I polished off my own beer and waved the bartender over.
Less than a minute later, I was holding a matched set of Coronas and heading over to play Waterboy.
I walked up behind her and leaned in, dragging my arm across her waist to set the beer on the stage next to her empty. She jumped when my chest brushed her back, turning her head so fast that if I were shorter, I’d be sporting a broken nose right now.
Her irritated scowl relaxed when she saw my face. (I get that a lot). I’d kept my hand on her beer, and she leaned back into my outstretched arm. “Are you the new waiter?”
“That depends,” I smirked. “Are you a good tipper?”
“I’ve been known to… tip well,” she said with one brow arching over her lust-filled eyes. It was a look I knew well.
“In that case, I’ll be your waiter. All night long.”
Her name was… irrelevant, actually. I honestly can’t remember. I’m sure she told me, but devoting more than one brain cell to remembering it wasn’t worth it. She was definitely only a fuck, no possibility of oral. If that makes me a dog, so be it. She didn’t seem to mind that I called her honey and baby and beautiful. She knew my name without me having to tell her. Then again, anyone who buys groceries in this town would probably recognize me, since I’m currently staring out at them from the magazine rack at the checkout counter.
That meant, of course, that we would be going back to her place. It’s not that I was afraid to have people in general know where I live, but I was a little concerned that women with whom I’ve been naked and whose names I don’t recall know where my house is. And since it’s a house, and since it has a mortgage, that means I can’t just up and move if some pleasant diversion becomes obsessed and/or decides that she is destined to become Mrs. Tack Morgan.
Frankly, the thought of anyone having that title gave me the skeevies.
But back to my dick and its spelunking expedition.
We drank, we danced—mostly, it was her doing the shimmy on my zipper—and when we’d both had enough of her rubbing her ass on the boner I’d had since the moment I bought her a beer, she suggested I follow her back to her apartment for a nightcap.
Perfect.
When we got to her complex, she parked in a numbered spot and I hunted for a space marked for visitors. By the time I’d checked my wallet condom supply and gotten out of the car, she was waiting under a sidewalk lamp, twirling something on her index finger. When I got closer, I saw it was her panties.
We almost didn’t make it to her apartment.
I did my best to hold it together. We got on the elevator and before the doors shut, I’d slammed her into the back wall, one hand riding up her thigh, the other pulling her tightly against my hard-on as I explored her tonsils with my tongue.
Thank God it was a short elevator ride, because she already had my fly open by the time the car stopped moving. If she had lived on the twentieth floor, one of those condoms would have already seen the light of day. Or the light of the overhead domes, as it were.
Turns out I was wrong about the oral. That woman possessed some major skills.
By sunrise, her eyelids were droopy and I was spent. I pulled the covers up to her chin, thanked her for a fantastic evening, and kissed her goodnight.
I’m not sure if she was still awake when I shut the locked door behind me.
Sorry to disappoint on the details, but frankly, I don’t remember them. Once the sex is over, it’s as easily forgotten as the women I have it with.
I slept the daylight away and put Saturday night on Friday repeat. This time, the girl named Honey Beautiful had short red hair and a pair of very tight, very low-cut jeans.
Chapter 3
*Dancing With Myself*
Happy ever-loving Monday morning. My shift went fast, since I couldn’t screw around while the music played. I had to skim the news for items of interest, and for stories that made me wonder what in the hell people were thinking. I had to fetch the traffic reports myself because the morning station runner had called off sick. There was a plethora of promo spots that had to be read on every break, and some non-tree-hugger had decided to print each one on separate station letterhead, then mixed up the stack so some were backwards or upside-down.