survived a rough life, like me, and men who’ve seen the worst this world can offer. Men who’ve seen war.
There are hardly any women who come in here. Mostly, the guys watch ESPN or Fox News and mind their own business, which is exactly why I like this place. There’s a small booth in the back corner I can fall into and disappear. No one knows me or wants something from me or wants to accompany me. I can sit in the wood booth and simply be.
The dark bar has several customers scattered at the random tables and amongst the bar top. This is weird for a Friday afternoon.
Paul, the old timer behind the bar, recognizes me immediately and pours me a glass of whiskey. When he’s working here, I definitely get my money’s worth. No glass is ever half full. Whiskey is always filled to the brim.
“Here ya are, Jason.”
“A little busy in here today, huh? What’s the occasion?” I take a sip from my glass.
“Oh, Howard hired a new bartender. They’re waiting for her to arrive. It’s brought everyone out of the woodwork.” Paul just rolls his eyes, and I snuff a laugh. Typical men.
The smell of fried bar food and the sight of crushed peanut shells on the floor blends nicely with the feel of this place. Old wood tables with chairs, late seventies colors, fixtures, and décor. I don’t think Howard has changed a thing since he opened it in 1976. The only thing that is new is the plasma TV hanging on the wall.
When the vibration of my cell phone tingles my side, I pull it out of my pocket and read a text message from Kurt.
Flight to LA is booked. I’m leaving in the morning. I will assess the damage and meet with the insurance company. From what Marco said, the damage is probably significant. The club will be closed for at least a month, maybe longer.
Great! Vixen’s Room is the hottest gentlemen’s club right now in Los Angeles. If it’s closed, the patrons will go somewhere else, and quite possibly, they could find a place they like better, and that will be the end of Vixen’s Room. I suppress my anger and take a long sip of my whiskey. This is all I fucking need.
I text back: Keep me posted. And we really can’t afford to be closed for that long. I will pay to have it up and running in two weeks. Fuck the insurance money. Get it taken care of.
I slam my phone on the table and choke back the rest of the whiskey. I need to be drunk and I need to get laid, in that order. I can handle the first; it’s the latter that has me filled with wishful thinking of my blue-eyed enigma, Mariah.
Two hours and four large glasses of whiskey down, I have fulfilled one of my two goals for the afternoon. Paul makes a good, tall whiskey and now has me feeling pretty intoxicated. The crowd has thinned out somewhat, and I find it funny that a bunch of old fuckers will sit around, waiting for a woman to wait on them. Please, how hot could she be, especially to work here with a bunch of old fucks staring at her tits? She’s probably in her fifties, trying to reminisce her time spent as a groupie in the seventies, sucking dick and dancing at discos.
I can hear the sound of chairs screeching against the floor and then notice everyone crane their necks. Ah… the new bar wench must be here. I lean out of my booth and peer around the side when I see her . It’s the woman from Saturday night, Mariah. And coincidentally, she is the new bartender. What a turn of fate this is. Looks like I will be able to fulfill my needs after all. I can’t help the gleam coming from my face, knowing I will get to be inside her again, and this time, I have no intentions of letting her get away.
Three fucking hours later, the crowd is virtually gone and Paul announces to Mariah to take a twenty-minute break. I’ve been waiting everyone out. I haven’t gotten a drink, either, in the last three hours and now my buzz is wearing off.
I watch as Mariah walks down the hallway for the bathroom. I quickly turn my shoulders and
There are hardly any women who come in here. Mostly, the guys watch ESPN or Fox News and mind their own business, which is exactly why I like this place. There’s a small booth in the back corner I can fall into and disappear. No one knows me or wants something from me or wants to accompany me. I can sit in the wood booth and simply be.
The dark bar has several customers scattered at the random tables and amongst the bar top. This is weird for a Friday afternoon.
Paul, the old timer behind the bar, recognizes me immediately and pours me a glass of whiskey. When he’s working here, I definitely get my money’s worth. No glass is ever half full. Whiskey is always filled to the brim.
“Here ya are, Jason.”
“A little busy in here today, huh? What’s the occasion?” I take a sip from my glass.
“Oh, Howard hired a new bartender. They’re waiting for her to arrive. It’s brought everyone out of the woodwork.” Paul just rolls his eyes, and I snuff a laugh. Typical men.
The smell of fried bar food and the sight of crushed peanut shells on the floor blends nicely with the feel of this place. Old wood tables with chairs, late seventies colors, fixtures, and décor. I don’t think Howard has changed a thing since he opened it in 1976. The only thing that is new is the plasma TV hanging on the wall.
When the vibration of my cell phone tingles my side, I pull it out of my pocket and read a text message from Kurt.
Flight to LA is booked. I’m leaving in the morning. I will assess the damage and meet with the insurance company. From what Marco said, the damage is probably significant. The club will be closed for at least a month, maybe longer.
Great! Vixen’s Room is the hottest gentlemen’s club right now in Los Angeles. If it’s closed, the patrons will go somewhere else, and quite possibly, they could find a place they like better, and that will be the end of Vixen’s Room. I suppress my anger and take a long sip of my whiskey. This is all I fucking need.
I text back: Keep me posted. And we really can’t afford to be closed for that long. I will pay to have it up and running in two weeks. Fuck the insurance money. Get it taken care of.
I slam my phone on the table and choke back the rest of the whiskey. I need to be drunk and I need to get laid, in that order. I can handle the first; it’s the latter that has me filled with wishful thinking of my blue-eyed enigma, Mariah.
Two hours and four large glasses of whiskey down, I have fulfilled one of my two goals for the afternoon. Paul makes a good, tall whiskey and now has me feeling pretty intoxicated. The crowd has thinned out somewhat, and I find it funny that a bunch of old fuckers will sit around, waiting for a woman to wait on them. Please, how hot could she be, especially to work here with a bunch of old fucks staring at her tits? She’s probably in her fifties, trying to reminisce her time spent as a groupie in the seventies, sucking dick and dancing at discos.
I can hear the sound of chairs screeching against the floor and then notice everyone crane their necks. Ah… the new bar wench must be here. I lean out of my booth and peer around the side when I see her . It’s the woman from Saturday night, Mariah. And coincidentally, she is the new bartender. What a turn of fate this is. Looks like I will be able to fulfill my needs after all. I can’t help the gleam coming from my face, knowing I will get to be inside her again, and this time, I have no intentions of letting her get away.
Three fucking hours later, the crowd is virtually gone and Paul announces to Mariah to take a twenty-minute break. I’ve been waiting everyone out. I haven’t gotten a drink, either, in the last three hours and now my buzz is wearing off.
I watch as Mariah walks down the hallway for the bathroom. I quickly turn my shoulders and
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