by Claire Adams
“Would you mind just leaving the sports page on the counter? New York newspapers are thicker than what we had back home. I can never find the damn thing.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I tell him.
He’s out the door a minute later, and I’m on the phone with my friend Mike.
“They can’t be that bad,” he tells me, somewhere around minute 15 of my diatribe.
“You have no idea,” I tell him. “Today was a cakewalk. Yesterday, I had four 20-year-olds come in here, not so much to look at the room as a living space, but a spot for their weekly swingers’ club meetings. Don’t even ask me what that entails, and I’m not saying that because I haven’t been very well-informed. Then, there was the cat lover.”
“Cat lover doesn’t sound so bad,” Mike chuckles.
“Oh, did I not mention that she brought the cat, and that the cat was actually an old cardigan with a thin leash around it?”
“Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “We’re still going out tonight, right?”
“Nine o’clock,” he says.
“Beautiful.” It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. “I think I just need to get out there and get shitfaced.”
He laughs. “You always say that, but after cocktail number one… well, I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen you finish cocktail number one.”
I ignore him. Tonight’s a night to get hammered and make some bad decisions. “I’ll see you there.”
I hang up the phone and try to visualize what life is going to be like. You know, as soon as I’ve clawed my way out of the hell that has been this week.
* * *
By the time Mike and I are at the club, I’m starting to forget about the relentless cavalcade of freaks and psychos.
Ultra-repetitive dance music can do that to a person.
Just to prove that I’m not such a cheap date, I order my customary cocktail—a tequila sunrise—and a sidecar.
I’m not entirely sure what a sidecar is, but it always seemed like the thing to order at a bar.
“I’ll bet you a shot of vodka I end up drinking at least one of those,” Mike teases.
He’s lived here his whole life. In fact, he’s the one that got me the interview for my current position.
Mike and I met when I was 17 and I came through Manhattan on a school field trip. He helped me find my hotel after I got lost trying to find Tiffany’s.
What can I say? I loved the movie.
“You’re on,” I tell him, and down the sidecar in a single tilt.
It’s a terrible idea—I realize that before I finish the thing—but it gets Mike’s attention.
“So, how much of the sunrise do I have to drink before you give me my shot?”
“Hell, I’ll buy you the vodka now just to see what you taking a shot looks like.”
“Drop the money,” I tell him.
As his back is turned, I take in a few slow, deep breaths, trying to fight the urge to vomit right here.
He turns back to me, shot in hand.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s see it.”
“I’m not drinking it straight, though,” I tell him. “You’ve got to at least get me a chaser.”
He turns his back again and I sit down on the bar stool.
I think I’m already feeling the alcohol setting in.
I’ve never been much of a drinker.
“You doing okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “What’d you get me?”
“Cola,” he says. “Now, let’s see this shot.”
I scoff and take both the shot and chaser in my hand.
“Take a deep breath,” he says. “Hold it in and don’t let it out until you’re drinking the chaser.”
“You’re acting like I’ve never taken a shot before.”
“Have you?”
I’d rather not answer that question, so I take a deep breath and down the shot of vodka. It’s a sensation unlike anything else I’ve experienced.
It’s not a pleasant one.
“Here,” Mike says, patting my cola hand, spilling a little in the process. “Sip it slow so you don’t get a ton of carbonation in your stomach.”
I do as instructed, trying to make my expression portray nonchalance. That falls apart as I take a short breath before the vodka taste is completely out of my mouth.
“Hold your breath,” he says. “Drink the soda.”
He’s laughing.
Mike and I became pen pals when I got back to Waterloo.
He’d given me his phone number and address in case I found myself lost again. We’ve always been closer friends than anyone I ever spent time with back home.
When Dad died, he was the one who got me through it.
Now, though, he’s laughing at me, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.
By the time I get halfway through the cola, Mike puts his hand on the glass.
“That’s more than enough,” he says. “You don’t want to get sick.”
“I thought that was the point of the chaser.”
“The point of the chaser—” he sighs. “Who cares? You did it! You took your first shot!”
The people at and around the bar look over at me with surprise and confusion. It doesn’t help matters that Mike’s holding his hands above his head like I’ve just accomplished the unthinkable.
“Now,” he says, “do you still want that sunrise? Really, I’m just looking forward to those two shots.”
I was hoping he’d forgotten about the other drink.
“Two shots?” I ask.
Maybe if I keep talking, I won’t gag.
“Yeah,” he says. “You’ve still only finished one of the drinks you ordered. If you don’t drink the other one, it’ll take you one shot to be even, one shot as the spoils of my victory.”
“First off, your math there is a little fuzzy. Second, I can’t drink that now,” I tell him. “It’s been sitting on the bar, barely guarded, just waiting for a roofie.”
“You are so full of shit,” he says, “but that’s all right. I’ll take the free drinks.”
I didn’t bring that much money.
New York still kind of freaks me out, so I only brought enough for cab fare, club cover, and a couple of drinks. If I don’t want to walk home or have Mike pay my way, I’m going to have to down that other drink.
“All right,” I tell him, “but if I end up passed out in the back of some guy’s van, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he teases.
He’s kind of a smug bastard, isn’t he?
I force a smile and reach for the drink when the bartender grabs my hand.
“Maybe you should slow it down a bit,” she says.
“I’m good,” I lie. I am a cheap drunk.
“Well, I’ve seen you in here before and this is the first time I haven’t ended up dumping your drink.”
Mike just looks at me with that big, stupid grin.
“He’s my designated driver,” I tell her.
Mike’s not happy to be volunteered for such a position, but he seems content enough to see what I’m like drunk.
To be honest, so am I.
Chapter Two
Paper-Thin
Dane
“I don’t know,” she says as we’re walking out of the club. “My roommate really doesn’t like it when I bring guys home.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, then,” I say. “I’m still waiting for the callback on my new place. We could always go back to my hotel room, but—”
“Fuck that,” she says. “Did you ever see that show where they took a black light into a hotel room and had some guy explain all the different fluids and shit?”
“Yeah,” I say. I wanted to ask “Which one?” but it doesn’t really matter. I know where she’s going with this.
“All right,” she says. “We can go back to my place, but you’ve got to be quiet.”
&n
bsp; “It’s not me I’m worried about,” I mutter, trying to hide my smile.
“What was that?” she asks.
“I said that it’s not going to be a problem,” I lie. Eh, it’s close enough to the truth.
It’s bad form to brag about one’s prowess. It just makes you come across deluded. Better to let her find out, that’s what I always say.
“All right,” she says.
She’s buzzed, not drunk. I’ve never liked getting with a drunken chick. Too much hassle, nowhere near enough reward.
We get a cab. The driver cringes when Buzzed Girl undoes my pants in the backseat, but the man doesn’t say anything about it.
“Do you want me to go down on you?” she asks.
Now there’s a stupid question.
“Yeah,” I say, “why not?”
I’m sitting in the back, pants around my ankles. I refuse to drop my boxers in a cab, though. You never know what kind of shit happened on these seats.
To prove my point, she’s slipping my cock through the slit in the fabric, and I’m looking in the rearview mirror at the driver. This isn’t my first time in the back of a cab.
Sure enough, she’s about halfway down my dick on her first time down when he looks up and spots me watching him. I just smile and shrug my shoulders. The guy’s got to be lonely driving all night, may as well give him a show.
“Do you like that?” she asks.
I’ve never been a fan of that question in this context. Chances are, if I’m not telling you to stop, I’m not complaining.
“That feels great, babe,” I tell her. I don’t really like the term, but it’s a lot easier than trying to remember her name.
“Get another drink or two in me, and I bet I can deep-throat that,” she says.
It’s not a terrible idea, other than the risk that alcohol and gag reflexes can cause when put together.
“We’ll see,” I tell her. “I’m more interested in what you taste like.”
Yes, it’s a line, but it works.
In response to my “selfless act,” she’s all the more adamant in her action. Tonight’s not a bad night.
She pops me out of her mouth a moment to lick my sack. This is why I shower three times a day. I never know when it’s going to happen; only that it is going to happen.
“That’s fucking great,” I mutter, hoping the driver can’t hear me. I don’t like talking during the act any more than I like responding to that ridiculous question she asked a minute or two ago, but if that’s what she wants, that’s what she wants.
The driver glances up at the mirror, and I can see his eyes squint into a smile.
It’s when he angles the mirror down to get a closer look at exactly what’s going on that I put my hand on my companion’s shoulder. I’m fine with the driver having an idea what’s going on, even catching a glimpse here and there, but having another guy staring at my junk is just awkward.
“What’s wrong?” the woman asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Eager to please, loathe to offend: it is a beautiful thing.
I nod toward the mirror, and whatever-her-name-is throws a fit big enough to convince the cabbie to give us a discount for the trip.
I’m still hard when we pull up to her building.
We get out of the cab, and I grin as I wish the driver a good night.
I doubt his is going to be anything compared to mine.
Buzzed Girl is all laughs as the doorman opens the door for us, and I’m just hoping she’s not one of those chicks that’ll spend all of our time giggling and talking about how she never does this kind of thing.
I get that the super-innocence thing is a turn on for some guys, but I’m not one of them.
I like a woman who knows what she’s doing.
We get to the elevator, and although we’re not the only people in the car, she’s standing in front of me, rubbing her butt against the front of my jeans.
Yeah, I’m ready.
“Tell me about your roommate,” I say.
She stops grinding.
“What?” she asks. “Why?”
“I mean, if she hears us, what’s she going to do? I mean, she’s not going to call the cops or anything stupid, is she?”
“No,” Buzzed Girl says. She starts laughing again. It’s not a pleasant noise. “She hasn’t yet.”
Ah, a little depravity. That’s what I was looking for.
“Do this sort of thing often, then, huh?”
“What do you think?” she asks, rubbing up against me.
The whole scene makes the elderly man standing next to me shift anxiously. I can almost hear him praying for the elevator to just reach his floor so he can get out.
“There’s just not a good answer to that,” I whisper.
For once, I’m the one trying to be discreet.
“I guess you’re about to find out,” she says.
She turns around to face me, and I can see the man next to me turn his head.
For a moment, I’m worried this chick is going to drop my pants right here in the not-so-private elevator, but she eases that particular fear with a deep kiss, her arms wrapped around my neck.
I’m a fan of kissing. It’s probably my favorite part of the whole game, you know, except for everything else.
That said, this chick is biting my lip hard enough that I push her away.
“Fucking ease up,” I whisper. “Planning on taking that home with you?”
“Only if I can bring the rest of you, too,” she whispers in my ear.
With those words, my goal for the evening has just become trying to nail her roommate.
It’s a lofty goal, but unless this chick can come up with something less clumsy to say to me, I don’t know that I’ve got much choice.
I pride myself on my game, and having a partner who’s not pulling her own weight is a turnoff.
If the roommate thing doesn’t work out, though, I guess I’ll manage.
“Two more floors until we reach heaven,” she whispers, palming the front of my jeans.
“Shh…”
She thinks I’m worried about the other people in the elevator.
In reality, I just want to get her to stop saying such ridiculous shit.
The elevator slows to a stop, and I’m wondering what God this man standing next to me pissed off so much to end up on the floor right beneath—you know, whoever this woman still groping me said she is.
He hurries out of the elevator and Buzzed Girl turns around, rubbing herself against me a little bit more before we get to her floor.
The sweetest sound in the world is that elevator door opening again.
“You have no idea what kind of shit you’re in for,” she tells me.
It’s a challenge.
We’re on her floor and she’s testing me to see how I’m going to react to such a bold statement.
Believe it or not, that kind of thing is enough to make a lot of guys nervous.
“We’ll see,” I tell her.
As we approach her door, she grows quiet, serious.
I was beginning to think the woman didn’t have any spatial awareness. It’s good to know that’s not completely true.
She unlocks her door and puts a finger to her bottom lip.
I wonder if it’s too soon in our 45-minute relationship to gauge her interest in a threesome with her roommate.
“So, tell me more about this roommate,” I whisper as we get into her room and she shuts the door behind us.
“Oh, she is so boring,” Buzzed Girl says. “All she ever does is go to the gym and do yoga. She’s such a flake.”
Be still, my beating heart.
“So you feel threatened by her,” I say.
If I have any chance of making this happen, this is how it’s going to go down.
Buzzed Girl’s eyes narrow.
Tonight is going to be a good night.
* * *
I don’t have the slightest idea what Buzzed Girl said to Yoga Chic
k, but now I’m lying back on the bed, closing my eyes for a moment so I don’t just immediately trigger.
Yoga Chick has one of her legs behind her head to allow Buzzed Girl better access to her pussy. All the while, Yoga Chick is swallowing my member.
Buzzed Girl’s a little competitive, but that’s not a bad thing—at least right now it’s not, as she’s replacing her mouth with a couple of fingers on Yoga Chick’s clit and the two vie for a better position between my legs.
I’m not taking sides.
Buzzed Girl works her mouth up the side of my erection while Yoga Chick plays with my tip, her tongue warm and soft as she slides her mouth up and down my shaft, clearly trying to get Buzzed Girl to go back between her own legs.
There’s a power dynamic here that’s simply fantastic.
“Who’s better?” Yoga Chick asks, frustrated at Buzzed Girl’s continued trips up the side of my length.
“Now, there’s a question that I’m clearly not going to answer,” I tell her.
I’m the only one laughing.
Yoga Chick takes that as a confirmation of her own victory and moves up, putting one leg on each side of my mouth, lowering her slit enough for me to get to work.
Buzzed Girl, thinking herself to be the victor, snorts derisively at her roommate and doesn’t take her mouth off of me as she reaches into the nightstand and pulls out a condom.
The way she’s positioned, there’s just enough space between Yoga Chick’s ankles and ass for me to watch Buzzed Girl undo the wrapper with one hand.
“Oh, yeah,” Yoga Chick moans, in a clear attempt to make her roommate jealous. “That’s it, baby,” she goes on. “I love the way you eat my pussy.”
Not to be outdone, Buzzed Girl slips the condom over me and climbs on top.
She’s moaning now, and the two continue to grow louder.
Maybe they think it’s some kind of secret, but this is what’s really turning them on: the competition.
I’m just glad to be a part of it.
“I’m going to come!” Yoga Chick yells, and I’m just hoping she’s not a squirter for reasons which should be obvious, given her positioning.
“I’m going to come!” Buzzed Girl yells back.
I’m starting to wonder if they’re just trying to verbally outdo one another, right up until the moment I can feel both sets of legs shaking and the muffled sounds of their groans as they kiss somewhere above me.
