Sour Dick-Sucking Lips (Part 1)

The entire story can be viewed in this PDF file.

I look up at the metal chandelier in the main room and notice it has twelve tiny bulbs in the shape of raindrops, set imperceptibly low. It’s so low this place will go out of business before having to replace them. There is more light coming from candles placed on eight tables halfway encircling a small dance floor, where late 20-somethings move to deep house as if they were having a mild seizure. I feel like I’m in a dark cave and rabies infested bats are about to descend from the ceiling and inflict pin-sized bite wounds on the crowd. Those who didn’t feel the bites in the commotion and seek treatment would eventually die after the virus hitches a ride on a nerve into the skull to feast on brain matter. I already have the rabies vaccine so I’d yell maniacally during the bat attack with my arms high in the air so everyone would think I’m the leader of the bats. I’d trip them going down the stairs and laugh at the hilarious heap at the bottom.

I return to reality and squint around the room, searching for pussy. It’s impossible to make a correct decision when the most important feature of a woman, her face, is deliberately hidden from view. That must be why this bar is so popular. I remember the last two girls I got out, their faces a far model from perfection when hit with a halogen bulb, and I relax, ready to thank the owner of this shithole for doing me favor. I’m in a fantasy world, and the joke is on everyone here that the person they’re talking to doesn’t have a leathery face. I do an imaginary toast in front of my nose and finish the last of my Johnnie Walker Black, by now watered-down from the ice and tasting almost like flat cola.

I don’t know where my friend is, but last I saw him he was talking to a blonde slut with big jugs on the patio. I walked away because there was nothing for me. Neither of them noticed. I lean against the DJ booth, currently occupied by a mop-headed guy from Eastern Europe with not an ounce of muscle on his skeletal frame. He bobs his hair to the music like a dufus, getting all into it, and a 300-pound man directly facing the booth gives him a thumbs-up sign. I notice I’m starting to sweat, but I don’t want to take of my jacket because I hate the shirt I’m wearing underneath. The only reason I have it on is so my fashion-forward friend takes a break from making derogatory comments about my limited wardrobe. I wipe the sweat off my face and in a flash a girl, alone, enters my view.

My eyes must have adjusted to the darkness because I see her clearly. She has long black hair, a petite nose, enormous dick-sucking lips that seem out of place with her olive complexion, and small, expressionless eyes. She begins to turn away from me and in that quarter-second profile view all I can see besides her thick, shaggy hair were these two lips that protrude unnaturally from her face. By the time her back faces me my legs are moving and my right arm rises from its resting point besides my hip. I tap her three times on her left shoulder, and she turns around and looks at me.

“Let me guess,” I say, pausing to build suspense, “you are from Argentina.”

“Nope,” she says. Her lips curl up slightly, and that encourages me to continue. It’s obvious to me that my appearance meets her minimum requirements.





“The world has over 180 countries, and I know them all. This could take a while. Give me a hint,” I say with a slight smile.

“I’m a mutt,” she says.

“I’m a mutt too. Go on…”

“Quarter Somalian, quarter Filipino, half-white.”

“Wow… I mean…” I try to regain my composure, “I would have probably never gotten that.”

“Probably not, where are you from?”

I go into the whole Persian / Turkish thing, telling her that explains my thick, luscious eyebrows and generally hairy complexion. She laughs and I realize I’m no longer leaning against anything, but standing near dancers who are bumping into me and not apologizing. It’s much easier to figure out where to put my hands if I’m leaning against something. I take two steps away from her towards the bar. At the moment I step back, I leave my right arm suspended randomly in the air as if it was a bridge, and ask her where her friends are at, an innocuous question that gives her an acceptable excuse to follow a strange man two steps towards the bar without admitting to herself that she is showing too much interest. She does not realize how much knowledge of human persuasion it took to pull that ridiculously simple feat, and at the time I don’t realize it either. At some point it became too laborious for my brain to process every little trick it learned from either books, movies, watching other men, or personal experience. My body is simply a vehicle for my brain to act, and in that way I’m a robot.

Much of my body weight rests on my right elbow, which is planted on the bar. My left hand casually drapes across my abdomen. My left leg is ramrod straight while my right leg has a kink at the knee. In college Art History class I learned that this type of body position, with one hip above the other, was a great step forward in art. There is a name for it that I don’t remember but being able to reproduce this stance in stone was impossible for most of human history.

I am so into my own bullshit that I have trouble paying attention to what a girl tells me in a loud bar. This girl is no exception and I drone on about myself for some time—about how I’m a free-thinking wanderer that takes risks, but indirectly so it doesn’t come across as bragging. I mention the countries I’ve visited and the scientist job I threw away, like I’m proud of being broke but with intimate knowledge of the bed bug life cycle. She digs it, of course, and I let her add her own plain thoughts every minute or two, but I interrupt often because if she talks too much she will take charge of the conversation and I will get off task. I want to get to know her as a person just a touch more than the DJ, whose sedate music is somehow whipping women in tall black boots into a frenzy. It’s a disgusting sight but in the capital of the free world I can’t find any other bar that I fit better in.

Out of thin air GQ appears and reminds me that we have to go to a party down the street. I put my index finger up and five minutes later ask her if she wants to have a drink with me at a later date. She looks down and lets out a little smile. She has yet to ask me my name so I’m forced to ask first. Rachel. It’s cute that she is shy in an endearing way, that she is not a weathered professional working on her 100th cock. It won’t be long now until girlfriend circles throw a party for this momentous occasion: “100th Cock Party,” says the Evite with an cartoon image of martini glasses complete with olives and lemon twists. And condoms if they were allowed.

I text message Rachel in exactly two days, on a Monday night. I ask her if she wants to grab a drink on Wednesday. She replies that she is busy but if I rather hang out on Thursday. Her counter-offer was an extremely good sign, and it did calm the irritation that came from taking a full two days and a dozen back-and-forth text messages to get her out for a simple date. She took up to two hours to reply at times, and when I took twelve hours to punish her she simply took more (fourteen hours and twenty minutes).

I instruct her to meet me at an inexpensive bar that prides itself on not having bottled beer. She arrives a few minutes after me in a hipster outfit: red-checked flannel shirt, colorful wool gloves, and tight skinny jeans. I finally catch a glimpse of her round though short ass, and decide it’s more than acceptable. Her lips are glossy, a dark pinkish color and her annoying bangs cover her right eye. Every five minutes she jerks her neck to the right so that she can see me with full vision.

We sit on back-less bar stools in front of a large wooden column. Intimacy is more easily achieved with a booth because I can sit next to the girl and casually wrap my arm around her lower back. Most girls don’t even notice this. It’s a little more tricky at the bar. I have to initiate innocent contact with my legs until an hour or two in I pretend my finger is an imaginary pen and doodle on the part of her leg below the meatiest part of her thigh. This touch is too non-sexual to be objected by the girl, but not fifteen minutes later my hand will rest on the top of her thigh. Like a frog bathing in a pot of slowly boiling water…

As the night goes on my hand moves up, while our legs become stuck in a permanent state of incidental contact. In a booth the kiss is usually simple because the sides of our bodies are already touching, but on bar stools there will always be at least a foot of space between us. Bridging this space can be accomplished through a variety of means, the easiest of which is pretending I didn’t hear something she said and need to move closer to catch it the second time. For effect I squint my eyes. Then I just look at her lips and go for it, not knowing or caring what her reaction will be. I can’t think of a recent time it has failed, but I know it has in the past.

Rachel sits dewy-eyed, drinking a chocolate-espresso stout, while I tell her my thoughts about life that come from hundreds of hours thinking and staring into space, alone. Her eyes tear up after I went on about South American poverty, predictably, like other girls have, and it’s at that moment I know she’s ready: she has entered that a vulnerable, emotional state that is ripe for taking a risk, and in this case that risk is getting fucked by a brand new, fresh cock. By this point I already doodled on her leg. In capital letters I wrote “I WILL FUCK YOU” but of course she doesn’t realize this, and my hand has crept up to within five inches of her crotch. It’s here I’m careful because any sudden movements when I’m so close to the hole can freak her out and null out hours of work. I remove my hand from her thigh and spin my bar stool to face her directly. Our legs interlock. My right hand rests on the left side of her hip at the spot where no matter how much weight a girl loses there is that mass of squeezable fat that makes it easy to hold onto her tightly when fucking from behind.


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