I walk into the airport bar. Tables are sticky. It seems far too bright in here. I prefer more of a moon-lit-like-darkness. It is noon, though I believe time has no relevance to whether or not drinking is an appropriate action. If I am thirsty and beer is available, I drink.
I take a seat at the bar. Penetrate first layer of thick foam from beer on tap to get toward bottom of glass. In less than ten gulps, I am done. Direct bartender toward bottle of Maker’s Mark and order a double shot.
To my left, I notice an attractive woman with four-mile long legs stuck inside factory-tanned stockings. Semi-silk blouse with too many buttons and not enough pulled threads. There is one seat between us. She is alone. Looks tired. I can smell her skin from where I am sitting. Like vanilla ocean steam. She is drinking something red on the rocks. Absolute and cranberry?
I smile. My skin is dark and cracked from too many wrinkles and not enough air circulation. I recognize my lack of attractiveness, but I am confident. Good in bed. Large cock. Sometimes, oftentimes, that is enough. I have a stain on my upper thigh—the pants—I cover with my hand. My shirt matches my face: sleepy and crumpled.
She looks over at me. Her mascara is heavy. There is no separation between each lash. Both eyes have one black sheet of ink blinking up and down. She smiles at me and I notice a trace of lipstick on one of her teeth. I make my move.
"Plane delay or just a quick drink to get you through the flight?" I ask.
"Fucking delay. Been here since 9 a.m. Who knows when I’ll get outta here."
Clearly she's been at the bar for quite awhile. It's sometime after two in the afternoon and her words are like a people in a mosh-pit slamming into each other. She's a mouthful of slurred sounds. I can feel myself harden beneath my zipper.
"What are you drinking?"
"Vodka and cranberry," she answers.
I was right on. I signal to the bartender to get her another round, adding a shot of Maker’s Mark for myself.
"Whiskey," she slurs. "A man who knows how to take it down."
"And are you a woman who can do the same?" I ask, without skipping a beat.
She laughs. Her tongue licks the remnants of lipstick off her front tooth. Flips her hair back. Why do women do that? It’s like the universal signal for look at me. She has an interesting mole on her neck. Or maybe a piece of food. I try not to stare.
"Yeah, I can take pretty much anything in. How much time you got?"
I had already reached my destination. I wasn’t exactly waiting for anything. I had arrived in Los Angeles two hours earlier. This was my second bar and the woman before had not been this easily penetrable. I had to work a little harder. I preferred a bit of a challenge, but I was tired and two shots away from drunk. She’d do just fine.
"All day," I answer. "What do you have in mind? I’m Frank, by the way."
"Charmed," she reaches out her hand. Her fingers and skin reveal the length of time she has been a cigarette smoker: apparently since birth. "I’m Helen," she says.
"Helen, there is a booth over there in the back. Care to join me?"
She answers by grabbing her drink and lifting herself off the stool. Her navy blue skirt comes up several inches above her knees. Long slit on the side allows a peek at upper thigh. Helen walks toward me. I am still sitting. She runs her long, painted fingernails along my leg. She does not notice the stain or perhaps she doesn’t care.
"Oh, look at you," she says to me. Or my cock. I can't quite tell.
I lift myself off the stool and we walk toward the booth. Place drinks in front of us, as hands play hide-n-go seek beneath table. I feel her stockings end right at the tip of where her thighs begin and attach to the rest of her. She isn’t wearing underwear. Saves me some work and fabric maneuvering.
She barely flinches when I take two fingers pressed firmly together and stick them inside her wet pussy. My dick is about ready to burst through the teeth of my zipper like a land mine or explosive devise completely detonated.
Helen releases tiny whimpers from between her lips as I move faster inside of her. Around her walls. Pressing and pushing. Her eyes are closed. Teeth biting bottom lip.
She—is—just—about—ready—to—YES! All over my fingers, which I slip out of her and begin sucking on. Her pussy tastes sour, but still fresh and thick. She is breathing heavy, still. Twitching as an invisible current is shocking her. The after effects?
Eyes open and she moves closer to me. Fingers unbutton and unzip me. My titanium cock shoots out and into her hands. She curls her knuckles around me and jerks me off. Helen pauses to lick her palms and offer aid of lubrication. Comes back to me. Up and down and squeezes and up and down and faster and around and I am so close and I am there and she is so fucking good at this and I wish this was her mouth or tits or cunt and—and—fuck!
I scream, but no one looks because this is an airport bar and what else is there to do when waiting to take off or go home? Helen releases grip and casually grabs napkin from beneath drink to wipe hand. I wait a few moments before placing cock back inside pants, pulling zipper up and pressing button into place.
Helen smoothes skirt over her thighs. Fluffs hair, then pushes it back down. Grabs mirror from purse and licks lips toward reflection. Reapplies lipstick. I watch her. Front tooth grabs hold of some of the color. Slightly discolored teeth compete with the new red one. My eyes fall down to the stain on my pants, and I realize a there's a new one there too.
Originally published February, 2008