I sat at the shiny bar, swirling half melted ice in my glass of rye. I had meant to leave an hour before, but the sheer weight of embarrassment kept my ass firm to my padded bar stool like it had grown roots. I uncrossed and recrossed my long legs for the hundredth time since I had sat down. At least the bar top was just the right height that I could balance my crossed legs on one high-wedge heel and not feel all folded up like a whiskey-drinking preying mantis. I tugged at the hem of my short shirt, adjusted the straps of my top. No sense in giving the bartender a free show.
It was a pretty swank bar, all red leather, shining dark wood, and just the right amount of mood lighting. It was small, a hidden oasis with no sign outside to let you know it was there, and its anonymity made it popular with A-listers and high rollers looking for a bit of ... discretion.
Which was why I was there, and believe it, for a regular girl like me this place had not been easy to find. I must have walked past the door three times before I recognized the entrance to the no-name bar. The "quiet, secret place" where I was to meet a certain tousled blonde, Aussie accented, built-like-you-wouldn't-believe actor of a very popular former HBO series. Last night, after a chance encounter at a party I wasn't even invited to ... a little bit drunk in my best dress ... it had seemed perfectly plausible that this sexy man would find me irresistible and be eager to arrange a rendezvous here at this little bar known for its discretion. "Let's just get a drink." He said. "Then we'll see what happens."
And this is what happened. Pretty boy stood me up and I was left drinking alone in a bar known for A-listers and high rollers with two giggling drunk girls in tight dresses as my only company. I hate giggling. I hate pretty boys. I hated myself for going there, for staying, for looking up hopefully when the door swung open and let in the sounds of the street. And something else.
I knew who he was the moment I set eyes on him. Even though he wore a stocking cap pulled all the way down to his trendy pair of Ray-Bans (Really? At night? Actors.) I recognized him immediately. Ok, his height was a dead giveaway, I'm the first to admit it. But even if I had only seen his face I would have known him, actorly disguise notwithstanding. He pulled himself onto a seat several barstools down from mine, and I responded with a polite smile to his polite nod in my direction. I was not going to geek out about Peter fucking Dinklage. I had already let myself get swept up in the excitement of talking to one handsome HBO actor. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.
I signaled the bartender for one more drink (okay, I wasn't going to outwardly show signs of being impressed, but I wasn't leaving just yet because, Peter.Fucking.Dinklage) and watched out of the corner of my eye as Peter pulled off his hat and sunglasses. He ran his hands through his dark wavy hair and surreptitiously checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He looked good. He's a handsome guy, in a rugged, interesting kind of way. Eyes set just a little too wide. Strong brow and jaw. He's clean shaven in Game of Thrones, but that night he had a full, well-groomed, soft looking beard. I wondered briefly how it would feel under the palm of my hand.
The giggling girls to my left noticed him just moments after I did and began furiously whispering to each other, loud enough for me to hear, but I doubted Peter could, seated as he was further down the bar to my right, and around a slight curve. He and I were almost facing each other, so he had a good view of their antics, even if he couldn't hear them. It must have been painfully obvious that they were whispering about him. He was, after all, the only celebrity in the celebrity bar. And, they were pointing at him. So that was a dead giveaway.
I couldn't hear every word, but they were definitely discussing Peter's ... endowments, and I don't mean to the arts. They seemed to be in great disagreement over the size of his cock. "Regular sized" or "midget-sized, like, you know, stunted." I cringed inwardly at the ignorance of these women who it seemed had at least the intelligence to dress themselves and find this little bar to celebrity stalk in. I wasn't entirely confident as the the proper nomenclature, myself, but I was positive "midget" wasn't it.
Peter ordered a top shelf single malt from the taciturn barkeep and I felt just a little bit more attracted to him. There's just something about a man who knows his whiskey. I wondered what he was doing here all alone. He may not be your typical Hollywood type, but I would expect at least a mini-entourage. No pun intended. Or, he seemed the type to have a handful of close friends to hang out with on a regular basis. But then, this was New York. Maybe he was just passing through or passing time on his way somewhere else.
The arguing, giggling girls' words suddenly became more clear as they passed behind me, tottering in Peter's direction on impossibly high, pinpoint heels. "You ask him! No, YOU ask him! Oh my gawd, I'm not going to, you do it ..."
Oh god.
I tilted my head at Peter and caught his eyes with mine.
"Incoming!" I sang out, loud enough for him to hear, I hoped, but not the girls, who were gripping each others wrists in order to keep their forward momentum going. I flashed him a preemptive apologetic smile. This was not going to be pretty.
The girls arrived at Peter's place at the bar and stood, swaying slightly, until he half-turned to meet them.
"So, you're like, that guy from Game of Thrones, right?" The braver of the two stood slightly in front of the other, the sequins on her micro minidress catching prettily in the amber lights of the bar.
Peter smiled at her indulgently like one would at a small child.
"You are right! I am, indeed. Or, at least, I am one of 'those guys' from Game of Thrones."
Sparkly Girl #2 suddenly spoke up.
"But! You talk American. You don't have an England accent like in the show."
"Aha!" Peter put his hands together, almost in applause. "You are very clever. I do not have an accent in real life. It is part of the acting I do. I *act* as if I have an accent. It was smart of you to notice."
I smirked into my drink. His sarcasm went right over their heads and floated, lost, somewhere near the ceiling.
Unfortunately, his praise and attention gave the dynamic duo confidence, and they decided to cut to the chase.
"So, um. Can we ask you like, a really really personal question?" I couldn't see the girls' faces, their backs were to me. But I could see his. His indulgent smile did not reach his eyes. I could tell by their body language that they thought they were being flirtatious. It was painful.
"Well, ladies, I suppose that depends on the question."
This seemed to stump them. I could almost hear the slow mechanism of their collective brain power trying to figure out how to tell him what the question was without actually asking him the question.
Sparkling Girl #1 decided to just plow ahead with it.
"This might seem like, really forward and stuff, but you're an actor, right? So you're used to like, personal questions, and anyway, you're always like, having lots of sex and stuff on the show, right?"
Peter waited, head slightly tilted, with the patience of a saint. He blinked. He blinked again. When he realized some kind of response was expected of him, he shook his head.
"Oh! Well, yes, that's something else I do when I am *acting.* I pretend to have sex with actresses, who are also acting, as the scene demands. I don't actually have sex on the show. Was that your question?" It hurt a little to see the slightest glimmer of genuine hope in Peter's eyes.
"Well, noooo..." Girl #1 drawled slowly. She cocked her hip in an even more exaggerated attempt at a sexy pose. "What we're dying to know is ..."
Peter raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
She leaned towards him and attempted, I can only assume, to whisper.
"Is your cock like, regular-person sized or ... or ... um ... you know." She finished with a wave of her hand, that seemed intended to take in his person as a whole.
Peter did know. I could see it on his face. I could see that this was not the first time some drunken bitch thought she had the right to ask him a question like that. As if his business was any of hers, just because of his celebrity. A flash of anger shot through me. I was embarrassed for him. For myself for having to witness it. I banged my glass on the bar. I started to slide off my stool. I didn't have any notion of what I intended to do, but I was not going to let these women continue on feeling they had the privilege to be assholes. Maybe he felt he had to be polite. He was famous. I didn't have that kind of restriction. A small wave from Peter's hand stopped me. I planted myself back on my stool, but I continued to simmer.
"Well. That is a really really personal question." Peter answered her amiably. "And if you must know, I will tell you, but you have to answer three questions yourself, first. It will be like a game. How does that sound?"
"Like trivia questions?" Sparkly Girl #2 had found her voice.
"Yes! Exactly like that. Trivia questions. Are you good at trivia?"
Girl #2 put her hands on her hips. "I'm totally good at trivia."
"Excellent." Peter rubbed his hands together. He seemed to be enjoying himself. I'm not sure I believed it.
"First," Peter held up one finger. "What is my name?"
Girl #1 spoke up right away. "I know! Tyr ..."
