I Don’t Pick Up Guys At Bars

I entered the darkened room, uncertain as to what to expect. I could hear the sound of a low bass beat from the apartment above, but other than that there was no other noise. I hesitated for a few moments, and turned around to exit through the very door I had entered through only seconds before.

“Wait,” came the voice through the darkness. “Why are you leaving?”

I stopped, and tried to catch my breath before answering. “I’m not sure I should have come here at all.” I hated that my voice sounded so shaky and small. “I told you before; I don’t usually do things like this.”

“But you want to, right?”

I couldn’t deny that. My mind traveled back to just two nights previous, when I sat at the bar, alone, drinking my rum and coke and looking at the dancers on the floor as they gyrated to the music. I had subconsciously been swaying with the beat of the music, when the same voice that was speaking to me now had interrupted my thoughts to ask me to dance. I had simply nodded, and without even looking to see who had offered the invitation, I had led him onto the dance floor.

When I got there, I had turned around to see whom my partner would be. Just as turned, there was a dramatic pause in the music, almost as though I had been on a movie set and everything was planned just so. I had to admit, I was turned on almost the moment I laid eyes upon the man who was soon moving to the driving beat of the music.

Always having been a person who felt more comfortable dancing than anything else, I immediately began to match his steps, feeling the throbbing bass deep in the center of my womanhood. My girlfriends had always made fun of me; they all said I could probably orgasm just standing in front of a live band. The truth was, dancing to me was like having sex in public. Moving my hips, sweat trickling down my body, the feeling of someone else’s hot flesh pressed against mine, and all the while that vibration of the bass drum driving into the core of my being.

When the song ended, I took a moment to catch my breath, and asked him if he wanted a drink. He followed me to the bar, watched me order, and after I took a long drink directly from the glass, he looked at me with this strangely intense gaze. With his eyes holding mine, he took the glass from my fingertips, and slowly licked the place where my lips had just been.

Without losing my gaze, he tipped the glass and drained it. I could almost feel his kiss before it happened as he set the glass down and leaned toward me. And my God, what a kiss. He skipped all of the gentle coaxing and nudging, simply dipping his tongue into my helpless mouth with a suggestive rhythm. When he pulled away, I had tried to look away in my embarrassment, but he rather roughly turned my face back towards his.

“This is my address. Be there on Sunday night. Don’t disappoint me.” He pressed a piece of paper into my hand and turned to leave.

“But wait, I-”

“You what?”

“I don’t do this. I don’t pick up guys in bars.”

“I know,” he said. He leaned forward and nipped my bottom lip. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

And he had left. I sat there until the bar closed, and I had wandered around for the next two days, looking at his address so many times I had it memorized. I had stood in the mirror, trying to see what he had seen, trying to rationalize things, trying to tell myself to forget this and go on with life, but something in the way this man had touched me made me forget anything close to rational and get into a cab and go to the address printed on the scrap of paper.

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