Whether we like it or not, we're labeled. Sure, we all have our individual names, personalities, and peeves, but we all fit into those little groups that society uses to define us.
MILF, Douche, Prissy, Ghetto, Nerd, That guy/girl. Like the skin of a snake, we eventually grow out of our former identities, some into different persona, others into the same one, intensified. This is the story of two identities that would never cross paths on a normal day. Their names aren't important because in the end, those will be forgotten anyway.
DOM pushed his way past the group blocking the entrance, squeezing past the cigarette machine, towards the bar, signaling the bartender with two fingers. Ordering a shot and beer back, he turned to the crowd. It was college night, even though the closest campus was almost fifty miles away. The music pumped the groups of party people into a dancing frenzy, elbows and hair flying all over the place. Getting his drinks, he tipped his thanks with a large bill and slugged the 1850 down in a hurry. Letting the burn grasp his throat for awhile before cooling it off with a Corona, he surveyed the territory for suitable prey.
There were women in here old enough to be his niece, if he had them. Whoever said 40 is the new 20 was probably just like him, desperate that he's missing out on the new era of free love. His competitors had him beat in most areas. He was four cans short of a six pack, a few strands short of comb over, and his style and culture was left in the eighties, before most of these girls sprouted their first set of buds or earned enough money to buy them. He took another swallow from his bottle and tried to look confident, but it was clear that he was out of sorts.
To him, Ed Hardy was the guy in his Civics class he use to pick on, he wore his pants up over his ass, and still had more briefs than boxers in his dresser drawer.
These were not females he grew up with. They were bold, fast, and had more balls than most of the men. There were some in the herd that still held onto moral anchors, but the rest were anything goes types. This was a new breed: trisexuals. They would try anything once, twice, or thrice without any thought or consequence. Even dyed in the wool lesbians weren't above taking a dick in the mix if the mood were right. This was the pro leagues and DOM, unbeknown to him, got moved down to single A ball. He did a double take at a black-haired pixie, her arms slathered with a tattooed amalgam of color. If not mistaken, he masturbated to her antics the other night, as she straddled a monstrous dildo on web cam.
He became the
DOM
, when the eyes of the coeds twinkled in amusement at his failing pickup lines and out of sync topics. He was a heterosexual version of
Herbert the Pervert
, chasing the young tail. Even though he didn't wear the raincoat in a dark theater or drive a white van, looking for hitchers, he was a Dirty Old Man. He was more worried about his stocks in this economic downturn than the red carpet antics of Kim Kardashian. Every once in a while he would strike hook-up gold, taking home a supple piece for the night. He would tire of them after the first nut, the fake dirty talk and over the top orgasms, thankful when they made up an excuse to depart in the morning after the buzz wore off. He had enough cash flow as a single man, no alimony or child support to weight him down but he stayed far from
Sugar Daddy
mode, not picking up more than a bar tab or drunken fourth meal.
** It took awhile, but the Thudercat finally got in. She stood in line and tried not to scream her disapproval as she was continually passed over for younger, prettier versions of herself for entrance to the packed bar. She heard the whispers and silly catcalls as she stood in line. At one time she was the one doing the whispering and giggling, now she was the butt of the jokes. Her once held titles of
Jail Bait
and
Gold Digger
, segued into an unofficial
MILF
. She was once like the pretty aunt that sexually implosive boys fantasized about with semen stiffened socks, stuffed between bed frames. That mantle quickly came to pass and she was retired into Thundercat status. Unlike
Cougars
, she was single, living paycheck to paycheck, and desperate for weekly companionship. She should be at home with a husband, children with homework to check up on, but all the partying, drinking, errant fucking, and experimentation left her out in the cold. No one brought the party girl that sucked them off in the parking lot of the Waffle House, home to meet the family. Single, educated, but not enough job experience to move up the career ladder, and worn over left her a desperate woman still looking for a golden ticket to save a ho land.
Were it out of pity or the sudden departure of the squealing bachelorette party, the bouncer finally waved her inside. With a wink, shake of her hips and a folded ten spot pressed into his sweaty palm, she sauntered into the social orgy. She needed a drink to wash away the stench of loneliness.
DOM was working on his third beer and fifth rejection. He didn't push the issue with the last one. The tramp stamp emblazoned on the small of her back was an enticing lure, but her communication stank like left out tuna. He lost interest when he mentioned a 401k and she thought it was a Benz series. He was ready to call it a night, his mojo has already beaten him home, and he didn't know what was more pathetic, him or the brainless flesh sacks he tried to ply with liquor and quick talk.
He drained the last of his Corona and made a move to leave when his stomach was pressed against the hardwood of the bar top by another faceless body.
"Who do I have to blow to get a fucking shot?" bellowed a voice behind him accompanied by the scent of White Diamonds. That was a grown woman scent, expensive, far mature than the stable he's been inspecting.
He craned his head to locate the source of the voice. A redhead; tall, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her thickly painted lips looking over his shoulder with a futile attempt to wave down the barkeep. She was much older than his usual picks, the cigarette caked vocals and slathered makeup doing little to help her once youthful features. Her pink halter strained to hold her naturally enhanced breasts, one nipple escaped her bra and made a pointed appearance. His began to play connect the dots with the exposed freckles. Her meaty thighs were wrapped in a simple black denim skirt, skin a tad pale from lack of tanning sessions. Subconsciously, he shook his head in approval as he sized her up. He turned back to the bar and signaled the bartender, now his best friend after the heavy tipping session.
"Two tequilas, a Corona, and a Cosmo." he shouted over the din of the music. Within a minute, he had his order placed in front of him. He turned around with one of the shots in his hand and offered it to her.
"You don't have to blow me," he grinned as she took it from him. "A little conversation will do."
He took a step back, giving her some room next to him at the bar. She sidled in and held the shot in front of his face.
"Well, I'd never thought I'd meet a gentleman in this place."
