a quick stop at a bar

She leans across the bar, and I look up at her, too quickly, startled by the way she has invaded my space. The loose strap on my heels had distracted me, but now here I am, my nose inches away from hers. She has short, spiky black hair and I read her as queer immediately. Her face is frozen, and her brown eyes are hard. She doesn’t read me, probably assumes I’m just another straight girl…at best, cruising for a science experiment; at worst, wishing for a male bartender to have some fun with. John’s is usually a breeder crowd, with the occasional queer. Tonight it’s spotted with straight couples and a drunk guy or two.

“What’ll it be?”

I look at her, too long, just long enough to settle my flustered feeling. She doesn’t drop my gaze.

“A jack and coke. And a maraschino cherry, if you have one.”

She’s thin but stocky and all attitude. It’s hard to tell in the dark if she’s packing or just likes her cargo shorts a size too big. When she turns to pull a new bottle of Jack down off the wall, I find myself glancing down at her ass. Can’t help it. It’s Sunday night and God knows I have more important things I could be doing. But I crave the feeling of a hard oak bar and open French doors ushering in twilight. I want small, dark places, and some attitude. If I have it my way, I’ll be leaving this bar with scratch marks tracing down to the small of my back.

“Here you are…. Ma’m.” I laugh as I hand her my cash.

“Please. Don’t call me ma’m. I’m not older than you, and I don’t have you down on your knees…” I wait to see her expression change. “Yet.”

I can’t help but laugh.

I watch her collect her jaw off the floor as she puts my money in the till. She grabs a rag to wipe down the bar, and I wonder for a moment if she’ll come back to talk. She comes my way, nonchalantly, after a few minutes.

“So what do you do when you’re not here?”

“School, mostly. I guess.”

“You guess? Undergrad, Master’s? Tulane, Loyola, UNO?”

“Massage school.” And…there’s my in.

“Really? Who do you practice your homework on?” I’m taking a chance. Too aggressive will run her
off, but I like the chase.

“Um….” I back off quickly. She’s not biting.

“What’s your favorite class? My good friend just graduated, she’s teaching a tantric class now, keeps trying to convince me to go.” I try a different way.

Her eyes spark a little. “That’s pretty cool. Our school doesn’t really do tantric – too sexual for their taste. But I’ve always wanted to learn more.”

“She taught me some small stuff… it’s not much, but something. Can I…?” I reach toward her hand, taking her palm into my hand. I rub the pressure point in her palm slowly, then stroke up her forearm. I can’t help but smile at her. Her eyes soften, and I can tell she isn’t sure what to make of me.

“What about you? Where do you work, what do you do?”

“I’m in school, too, getting my Masters in gender and sexuality studies. I work in community outreach and education for a civil rights non-profit. I help coordinate a resource website for queer women in Louisiana. And sometimes, I even find time to sleep and eat.”

She laughs. “You’re a busy woman.”

“I suppose.” I’m still holding her palm. “I’m not busy right now.” It’s her lucky day. Or mine.

“We close up in twenty or so. Stick around.” She pulls her hand away and starts toward a man sitting at the other end of the long bar.

“Why so early?”

She glances back. Finally the spark stays deep in her eyes. “It’s Sunday. Always close early.”

Perfect.



The other customers wander out and she shuts off the TV’s and the background music in the bar. She locks the three sets of French doors, but I can still see the night sky rising above the houses across the street. She walks by me as she circles the bar, moving in almost too close, and I can feel the light rush of air between us. The bar has sunken almost completely into darkness, table candles blown out, only four accent lights on the fourteen-foot ceiling shining down the back wall behind the bar. The shelves and bottles lining the back wall cast long shadows, some glowing eerily.

She makes herself a drink. I think it’s something with gin, but it’s hard to tell in the light.

“What are you up to tonight?” I can’t tell if she’s nervous. I can barely see her face. I wait till she has come closer, almost leaning over the bar, before I reply. I hook a finger in the collar of her black tank top, stare deep into her eyes, and pull her toward me.

“You.”

I pull her lips to mine and bite softly on her bottom lip. She shivers. I pull back, push my rocks glass down the bar, and climb up. The wood is worn and feels almost soft beneath my knees. I swing my legs over to her side of the bar, letting my heels hang down. I’m sitting, propped on the bar, and she pulls my knees apart, slides her hand up my neck, and pulls me in for a kiss. I wrap my ankles around her waist, my dress sliding up around my thighs, and I can feel her whole body against mine. She pulls away to kiss my neck, and when her teeth scrape against my flesh, I can’t help but let out a low moan.

“Fuck me,” I whisper in her ear. I’m over being subtle tonight.

She pulls her mouth away, but I tighten my thighs around her waist before she can step back.

“On the bar?”

“Where else.”

I pull the edges of her tank top up, scratch what’s left of my nails in her lower back, and pull the shirt right over her head. I catch the cleavage in her black sports bra and the tone in her stomach from the faint glint of the lights over the bar. I lean in to bite at her nipple through the thick cotton, tracing up her chest and neck with my mouth. She doesn’t miss the hint. Her fingers push my dress up around my thighs, catch on the lace in my panties, and I lift my hips so she can pull my panties around my ankles. I almost fall of the bar, but laugh and catch myself instead.

“You ok?” She stops.

I laugh and moan at the same time. “Of course. Don’t stop.”

My panties dangling around one ankle, she slides two fingers in my cunt. Right to the point. My eyes roll back, involuntarily, and I take a deep breath and moan it out softly. I catch my heels on a shelf sticking out from the bar and lean back, arching my back and letting my head fall back. Her fingers curl in me, and I can feel the warm, wet juice drip on the bar.

“Harder. Please. Please…” She obliges me, kissing down the inside of my thigh as she pushes in and out and in again, deeper into me. She bites the soft, sweet skin inside my thigh, and I can feel my muscles tense and roll. I’m riding her fingers and I can’t help it. She pulls two maraschino cherries out of nearby jar, drops one in my open mouth, and drops to her knees behind the bar. She rolls her tongue across my clit and the lips of my cunt, and I can feel the cold, almost hard cherry and the rough patch of her tongue slide across my exposed skin. She bites the cherry, and the juice slides down my cunt, and I’m crying out in pleasure, my moans becoming higher pitched and louder, echoing and echoing in the empty bar. I can feel my toes curling against my sandals. Her fingers still sliding, curling, pushing, pulling inside me, and the walls of my cunt tightening with each movement.

I can barely hold myself up on the bar. My tailbone is planted deeply into the hard wood, but the rest of my body might as well be floating.

Just as I’m getting closer, closer, and my moans have almost turned to screams, she stops. What? Stopping? Don’t stop now. I look up and she has a shit-eating grin on her face. “What are you doing?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Hold on a minute.” The attitude is back. She unzips her cargo pants and pulls down a hidden pair of boxer shorts. She’s packing. This time it’s my turn to laugh.

She looks up, quizzical.

“I figured. I was right.”

“How’d you…?”

“I just pay attention, I guess.” I pull her back in for another kiss. I can taste my own cum, it’s salty on her lips, but I don’t really care. Cherry juice still lingers on my lips. She spreads my legs wide, but she’s too short – her hips fall below mine.

“Stay still.”

“What?”

She leans in closer, licks her right index finger, and slides it in fast. She pulls out slow, and a gasp escapes from my lips. “Stay still, ma’m. Don’t fucking move.” Her tone is hard and fast, and I smirk in the dark.

I deserved that one.

She comes back with a short step stool, perfect height. I like resourceful women, what can I say. She pulls a condom from behind the bar, slides it down her dick, pushes me back down across the bar, and slides inside of me, almost in one motion. This time I am screaming, I’m calling out for God, and I’d probably call her name if I knew it, but I don’t have time to care. My body convulses as she pounds her hips into mine, sliding her cock in harder and harder. I wrap my legs around her, catching my heels together, and pulling her deeper into me. I’ve lost all control of my body. My voice is hitting the ceiling, bouncing, echoing, bouncing, again. The walls of my cunt contract and expand as she fucks me and I can feel the heat rising, expanding, spreading through my body. I’m warm to the tips of my toes.

She slows, almost pulls out completely and pounds back against my hips, one….two….three…and on four I feel the heat explode in my body, waves of exposed nerve endings reverberating toes to fingertips and back. My body is seizing from beginning to end. Wave. Wave. Wave….

She stops and I can’t move. I am sucking in air and my nerves are spasming. “You ok?” I bite my lip and nod. “Yeah.” A few seconds pass, and I pull myself up on the bar. “I think I’m better than ‘ok.’”