nicknamed her âEnvyâ on account of those piercing green eyes, and believe me, they very much wanted what she had. I temporarily lost track of her, and I guess my head on a swivel got a bit obvious because while I was pouring a draft, she came up behind me and popped herknees into the back of mine, causing me to buckle and spill what I was pouring. Two guys in front of me hooted and I caught my balance just in time to see the back of the suede skirt and boots headed through the wooden gate that separated the bar from the dance floor.
The next time she came back for a tray, she said something like, âI guess I make you weak in the knees.â To which I responded, âItâs not just my knees.â Like I said, with her, there was no use hiding anything.
And that was about the extent of the foreplay.
Willy had a keg freezer out back where I would head to make a beer run several times on a busy night, or whenever I needed to cool down when the bar just got too stinking hot. One night in mid June, some garage band was belting out a cover of Journeyâs âFaithfullyâ when I decided to head in that direction on account of the heat.
I heard the sound of the pistol firing just before the rear door to the bar closed behind me. Then I opened the freezer without noticing that she was right on my heels. But once weâd both cleared the threshold and were amidst the stacked cases of beer and kegs, there was nothing in doubt. Hiking up the suede skirt while seeing each of our breaths, I mentally calculated that there were 10 minutes left in the setâwhich was about five more than I needed.
âUnless theyâre playing âFree Birdâ next, you better hustle back,â she laughed afterwards as we both stood there, flushed, breathing heavily and readjusting our clothes.
âFree Birdâ? I could only hope to equal the 15 minutes it took Lynyrd Skynyrd to perform that song live. But on that night, I was more in the range of the radio play version of âSweet Home Alabama,â and feeling embarrassed about it. Performance had never been a problem in high school, orwith the usual hook-ups Iâd pull out of Shooterâs. But this was different.
For starters, anyone who looked at the two of us would have thought we were an obvious mismatch. She had a sense of maturity about her and a refined, well-coiffed look, even in that goofy uniform. I, on the other hand, usually sported a beat-up pair of jeans, a faded concert t-shirt, and unkempt hair that hung almost to my shoulders. At just a tad over six feet, with a 32-inch waist, I could probably be best described as lanky. I didnât work out and paid no attention to my diet, but was still at an age where I could get away with that. Mine was a deliberately sleepy, disheveled look that had always worked well for me with chicks. I had lots of friends who were girls, and the jocks at school had let me get close to their women because they viewed me as unthreatening. The girls found me to be a sympathetic ear for their guy troubles, never suspecting that I was willing to listen to their bullshit in large part because it often meant I could nail them. I played the role of the sensitive guy and it worked.
But Envy was tougher to manipulate than someone in homeroom. She was far more confident and in control than anyone with whom Iâd gone to high school. You could see it in the way she so easily dismissed the Dale Earnhardts who hit on her at the bar night after night. Theyâd undress her with their eyes and say all sorts of inappropriate shit, and sheâd just tune them out and scoop up their $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s. Her appearance on the whole exuded class. It was the self-assured way she walked, even while juggling a tray of longnecks. Her makeup, much lighter than that of the typical female crowd at Shooterâs, was always perfectly applied, and gave her a natural, effortless beauty. And even in a beer shed, she
The next time she came back for a tray, she said something like, âI guess I make you weak in the knees.â To which I responded, âItâs not just my knees.â Like I said, with her, there was no use hiding anything.
And that was about the extent of the foreplay.
Willy had a keg freezer out back where I would head to make a beer run several times on a busy night, or whenever I needed to cool down when the bar just got too stinking hot. One night in mid June, some garage band was belting out a cover of Journeyâs âFaithfullyâ when I decided to head in that direction on account of the heat.
I heard the sound of the pistol firing just before the rear door to the bar closed behind me. Then I opened the freezer without noticing that she was right on my heels. But once weâd both cleared the threshold and were amidst the stacked cases of beer and kegs, there was nothing in doubt. Hiking up the suede skirt while seeing each of our breaths, I mentally calculated that there were 10 minutes left in the setâwhich was about five more than I needed.
âUnless theyâre playing âFree Birdâ next, you better hustle back,â she laughed afterwards as we both stood there, flushed, breathing heavily and readjusting our clothes.
âFree Birdâ? I could only hope to equal the 15 minutes it took Lynyrd Skynyrd to perform that song live. But on that night, I was more in the range of the radio play version of âSweet Home Alabama,â and feeling embarrassed about it. Performance had never been a problem in high school, orwith the usual hook-ups Iâd pull out of Shooterâs. But this was different.
For starters, anyone who looked at the two of us would have thought we were an obvious mismatch. She had a sense of maturity about her and a refined, well-coiffed look, even in that goofy uniform. I, on the other hand, usually sported a beat-up pair of jeans, a faded concert t-shirt, and unkempt hair that hung almost to my shoulders. At just a tad over six feet, with a 32-inch waist, I could probably be best described as lanky. I didnât work out and paid no attention to my diet, but was still at an age where I could get away with that. Mine was a deliberately sleepy, disheveled look that had always worked well for me with chicks. I had lots of friends who were girls, and the jocks at school had let me get close to their women because they viewed me as unthreatening. The girls found me to be a sympathetic ear for their guy troubles, never suspecting that I was willing to listen to their bullshit in large part because it often meant I could nail them. I played the role of the sensitive guy and it worked.
But Envy was tougher to manipulate than someone in homeroom. She was far more confident and in control than anyone with whom Iâd gone to high school. You could see it in the way she so easily dismissed the Dale Earnhardts who hit on her at the bar night after night. Theyâd undress her with their eyes and say all sorts of inappropriate shit, and sheâd just tune them out and scoop up their $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s. Her appearance on the whole exuded class. It was the self-assured way she walked, even while juggling a tray of longnecks. Her makeup, much lighter than that of the typical female crowd at Shooterâs, was always perfectly applied, and gave her a natural, effortless beauty. And even in a beer shed, she
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