By Larry Tritten
When Mary unlocked the front door of the bar at ten o' clock she was hoping that it would be one of those days when not a single customer showed up until she was well into her shift., Her mood, as glum as the lone tree that stood on the rocky hillside behind the bar, would not adapt easily to her job's requirement that she be upbeat and convivial. Today's clear warm weather, with its gentle sea breeze and sunshine that gave the yellow sand of the beach across the road a &olden glow, was wasted on her, although normally she was an aficionado of pleasant weather. Damn the weather, she thought, and especially damn men. The lonely cry of a foghorn would suit her fine right now.
On her way to work, driving the old Ferrari along the coastal road, she had savored the word manhater, but knowing from experience that she couldn't really stick with that attitude for more than a few days. She would, as she always had in the past when the purple passion of a gale force relationship became livid and pale, go back for more. Her brief experiment with Lesbian love had lacked the sizzle of passionate involvement with a man. In any case, the bottom line was that all experience, bad as well as good, was a source of material, for while she was a bartender by economic necessity her identity was as a comedienne. She was already, in fact, subconsciously starting to milk this latest breakup for lines she could use in her act. Now, as she thought about it, it occured to her that there was no word in the English language that meant specifically man-hating, a word with a psychological connotation that paralleled that of misogynistic. A misanthrope was someone who hated mankind, but the connotation there was that women were included in the hatred.
When she had put the money in the register, Mary fortified herself behind the bar. What a fucking sexist language, she thought, and was irritated enough to pour herself a shot of Jack Daniels, then frowned at the whiskey, thinking she'd like it better if it were Jackie Daniels. Booze was always male. Jack Daniels. Jim Beam. Johnnie Walker. Old Grand Dad. . . What was wrong with Old Grandma? And beer. Samuel Adams. Budweiser. How about Betty Weiser? What she needed was a Bloody Mary, which sounded exactly appropriate now. But it wasn't a good idea to be seen drinking on the job.
Stay out, all of you, Mary thought, eyeing the front door. She hoped she would be spared the beach bum who sometimes came in and hung around for a couple hours, nursing a cup of coffee while making the most infinitesimal small talk possible.
She turned on the TV set on the safe at the end of the bar. Humphrey Bogart materialized in crisp black and white. Casablanca? But no, that was Mary Pickford with him, which meant the movie was The Maltese Falcon. And it was Mary Astor, Mary corrected herself.
Tonight I'll be dating my Vibrator, Mary thought idly. Just me and my plastic cock between the sheets. No, she didn't hate men at all, or she wouldn't own an imitation phallus that had tapped the sweet n' silky soft surface of her cervix like a velvet hammer a couple of thousand times at least.
Jesus, Mary thought, I'm getting damp just thinking about it. Of course you are, she told herself. It would be an understatement to say that she was highly sexed, and it was the great fucking she was going to miss maybe even more than certain of the non-sexual elements of the relationship. How long would it be now, she wondered, before she again felt the plush soft tip of a real cock inside her? Absently, Mary picked up the remote control device and changed the channel on the TV set. Bo Derek appeared, Bolero playing seductively on the sound track. That would be 10. Did Bo get fucked by Dudley Moore, who was married as she recalled, or did monogamy hold the fort? She couldn't remember, though she remembered that Tom Ewell failed to score with Marilyn Monroe, the dazzling neighbor he was captivated by when his wife was out of town -- a bit of '50s bullshit Puritanism that undermined her enjoyment of The Seven Year Itch. She changed the channel again, then watched a masked man putting a silver bullet into a six-gun. Amazing how well that slight domino mask concealed his identity from all and sundry, who were perennially baffled by it. They must all have IQ's that matched their hat sizes, Mary thought. Ten gallon IQ's.
The door of the bar opened and a man came inside. He looked young enough to pass for someone in his late teens, although something subtle about his bearing in combination with the comfortable, experienced way he inhabited his dark blue pin stripe suit, with pink silk tie, suggested that he was more likely in his mid or late twenties.
He-settled down at one end of the bar and said, "Hi."
Mary gave him a businesslike smile. "Hello."
"I'll have a bottle of Bud," he said, counting a few ones out of his wallet.
Mary set the beer on the bar, and he said, "Mind if we replace the Lone Ranger with with some juke box music?"
"Be my guest."
The man took a drink of beer, then went over to the juke box whose glass and silver was easily upstaged by a large seascape painting by a local artist on the wall above it -- a somewhat cubist ocean in an unlikely combination of mint green, pastel lilac, and confectionary orange. He made a selection and stood deliberating while California Dreaming started to play. He punched a couple more buttons and returned to the bar. "I'm on my way to California," he said, as if explaining the choice of songs.
"Give my regards to Beverly's Hills."
At once he smiled broadly as if the throwaway line was killingly funny.
"Are you telepathic?" he asked:.. "I'm going out there to see my girl friend, whose name is Beverly. . . She, uh. . ."
Mary stared at him curiously as he hesitated, grinning at her with vast amusement.
"She just had breast enlargement surgery," he said. "Might be more like Beverly's Mountains now."
Mary's smile was involuntary. "Come on," she said.
"I'm not kidding!"
Their eyes met and Mary found herself observing that his smile was terrific, huge and genuine, and something to envy on this cheerless day.
"Her idea?" she asked, making conversation.
His smile faded slowly. "She makes X-rated movies," he added.
Mary met his gaze. "Really?"
"Why? Do I look like an old-fashioned girl?"
"Well, no, m'am," he said, his tone lightly parodying a cowboy's argot. "Fact is, you look downright up to date. And ready for any future at all."
Their gazes met, Mary enjoying the bold compliment, both of them smiling very casually.
"And like someone who will never need a rhinoplastician to improve on her appearance," he said.
Mary let the compliment settle in her mind, slowly, marveling at the tactful phrasing. The implication was that she had a great pair of breasts, which she noticeably did, but the phrasing did not gauchely single them out.
"Let them work on the rhinos who need it," Mary said, realizing that the saucy banter was giving her libido a subtle transfusion.
Mary and the stranger shared a smile, and in the process she was aware that his gaze was very skilfully and confidently closing a distance between them that some men might not be able to traverse in months, and the whisper that came up from the cellar of her libido said something that his expression told her they both knew was a truth only very keen people could share.
For a moment Mary felt as if she were in a sort of gypsy spell. The stranger was smiling slightly, a bit of a devil's smile. Stranger. The knowledge they shared in their mutual gaze, a quiet truism in the minds of all sexually sophisticated people, was that sex with an attractive stranger was the ultimate high.
Mary was so completely aware of the incipient heat in her cunt that she fancied she actually feel it throbbing.
"I'll bet you're a fount of sweet nothings," she said, with a hint of an alluring smile. "Sweet nothings," she repeated, grinning. "A synonym for bullshit, isn't it?"
The stranger gave Mary the kind of look some women only get on their honeymoon night.
She drew in a measured breath, not looking away from him. They had met just a few minutes ago. But there are people who are so much on the same wave length that their communication is almost instinctive, and virtually telepathic. Mary's expression said many things. Eloquently.
Now one of those things of a nature strange enough to transcend Horatio's philosophy but which sometimes happen on Earth, if not in Heaven, began to happen. Mary came around from behind the bar and walked toward the rest rooms in back. Without looking back, she went into one of them, not the proper one, and stood there beside the towel dispenser on the wall looking at the golden second hand on her watch moving from 6 up toward 12 in jerky little increments.
By the time it passed 12 and was on its way to 1 the door opened and they were suddenly and impulsively in each other's arms, his fingers sifting through her hair as he gently cradled the back of her head in his hands to look into her eyes for a fraction of a second, her hands curling up over his shoulders. In the dim red light from the ceiling bulb Mary stared for a moment with admiration at the length of cock that had filled her hand with its surging resilient hardness, then her mouth was being ravished with a soul kiss and she could feel her jeans being deftly slid down to her knees, two fingers wedging softly into the pliable rift of her cunt, separating the labia already slick with a promise of the buttermilk bounty brewing down in the dairy well of her womb. The stranger's mouth browsed over Mary's face, touching her lips, chin, tremoring eyelids. "Kiss me again," she whispered, and her fingers drew up along the length of his cock avidly, his fingers strumming the pink pearl of her clit. His lips parted with gentle deliberation around the soft pad of her upper lip, a kiss ensuing that was all sweet shared tasted, and he whispered, "An angel's kiss," to which Mary replied, delivering the words barely audibly into his mouth so they could share their spicy taste "F--uck me..."
It was the most exciting thing in the world to be on her back on the cold floor, with her head at the opening of the toilet stall, one hand anchored on a hard cook, and feeling almost enchanted with desire. He pulled her jeans to her ankles, yanked them free, and slid his hands under her buttocks, lifting her slightly and pressing his face between her thighs and into her pubic thatch, finding the humid rift of her sex with his mouth. Mary's eyes were shut and in the dark vales of her libido a midnight sun blazed with hot light. The stranger's mouth splurged into her cunt and he feasted for half a minute, then paused to bring his face up and kiss Mary excitedly; then she was enjoying the taste of the ginger briny acerbity of her cunt as their tongues played while his cock replaced his tongue in her cunt. The cock pressed deeply inside her, sluicing a trickle of come out of her cunt like warm nog to facilitate the mobile linkage of their genitalia.
Mary's mind became a mudslide of exquisitely dirty thoughts-the richly exciting dirtiness of fertile loam and salacious rutting, with no hint of shame or indecency about it; up from the funky lairs of her imagination came startling, debauched images-of the stranger interrupting the fuck to wipe his squelchy cock across her face and in her hair, of him bracing her up against the toilet on her hands and knees to fuck her so savagely that in her passion she was tempted to lick the rim of the toilet bowl. But in reality she found herself being fucked with a kind of studied gentleness and skill that was luxuriously intimate, and even more so as their hands clasped tightly in shared enjoyment. In the sky of her imagination Mary was in a satin glider sailing over the lavender plains of Rancho Mirage.
She opened her eyes narrowly to the face above her, smiling dreamily, and tried for just the right words --a cachet of blasé salacity: "D'you want. . ."
He licked her mouth, exultantly.
". . . t'come in, . . my cunt or -- mouth?" She slurred the words so dazed with arousal was she.
Then they abandoned words in favor of a more exciting language that simply consisted of staring intently into each other's eyes to share the hot pleasure of their fucking. They seemed suspended in time like that for perhaps five minutes, then the stranger slowed his tempo, easing up, slowing, and suddenly he reached forward with both hands and in one motion tore Mary's blouse open and rent apart the flimsy fabric of her brassiere so that her big tits were spectacularly revealed even as he brought his cock out of her cunt and looming toward them. Fusillades of hot semen hit her tits in successive bursts, the gloppy tendrils streaking across her dark aureolae, one streamer actually reaching her chin and looping a smidgen of its savory taste over the ridge of her lower lip and into her pleased mouth. Then Mary was lifting her mouth to absorb the cock, to clean it fastidiously with her tongue, and as she licked it thoroughly from shaft to glans, replacing all of its succulent cunt soilage with a sheen of warm saliva, she was strumming her clit and coming continuously, her cunt and brain teeming with rapturous sensations.
After a long while, Mary released the cock and whispered to the stranger, "Shall I close the bar? We can fuck for hours. . . Do everything . . . " In the aftermath she lay completely still, feeling as drunk with an almost mystic pleasure as if she had just had 37 other worldly cocktails.
He looked at her admiringly.
"I'd love to. . . but I'm on a really tight schedule. . ."
Mary stared at him hazily. "Well, that last torpedo hit me amidships, admiral, and sunk me, but with a few reapirs I'll be sailing the salty seas again in no time."
"Don't hate me," he said apologetically. He bent down and gave her mouth just a whisper of a kiss. "You're pure traveler's joy, but any more of this and I'm afraid I'd be a zombie."
Mary smiled wistfully, then chuckled. "Hate you?" she said. "I love men!"
He pressed two fingers into the warm splay of her cunt, drew them out, licked them, then used them to snag a glue-thick furl of his spunk off the underside of one of her tits, and fed the stuff into her mouth, smiling as he watched her unhesitantly swallow it with wicked gusto.
"Don't think it hasn't been fun," he said.
Mary laughed. "Here's your dick," she said, giving it a squeeze, "what's your hurry?"
A few minutes later she stood out in front of the bar and watched him drive away, her smile only fading after the car dwindled to a dark point down the road and vanished. The ocean was a striking glass green, the sky blue and cloudless but full of gulls keening loudly as they soared overhead. It occured to Mary that all of the buttons of her blouse had been torn off, but she didn't care, not a bit. There were a couple of shirts-that someone had left hanging in the storeroom at the back of the bar, and she would wear one of those, but without, of course, cleaning the come off of her tits. She wanted to feel it on her flesh all day long while joking and laughing with the customers and being generally more upbeat and convivial than any of them would be able to remember her ever having been.
Did you spot all 37 cocktails in the story? For a cheat sheet, use your mouse to select the text in the box below:
Gentle Sea Breeze
Damn the Weather
Between the Sheets
Sweet N' Silky
Kiss Me Again
Whisper of a Kiss