Wrong About Him

I am sitting at the bar alone, sipping a soda. Other than the employees and me, the place is empty. The TVs are off. The upended chairs are on the tables. A few servers stand out back, smoking weed that skunks its way inside. I run my hands across the black linoleum and leave smudges from my slightly damp fingers. I look around, and the bartender on duty gives me a patient smile. She knows I am waiting, hoping.

He always comes in toward close to drink with his friends--his coworkers.

He is, at best, a drunk. I'm not sure I respect him. Hell, I don't even know if I like him. But I want him.

I know he's probably drinking somewhere. I know he'll probably drive here, wasted.

His kid is with her mother. He misses them both. He'll never recover from that. He had his whole life in front of him. Now, it's only booze and weekend visits.

At first, I was out to compete against those memories, against the other women sliding their phone numbers on napkins across the bar like some bad rom-com. What I want now is a few hours--some time to make him smile when I tell stupid jokes. I want to see if he gives the same smile when he's stroked the right way.

But that smile is a lie. It's the same smile he gives every woman. It's his gift. Make every customer feel appreciated and wanted. That smile gets him better tips. I was too new to drinking to realize it was a schtick, too desperate to stop the fall.

I'm over it. I lie to myself as I wait for him.

I hear the door open, then his laugh. I grab my drink to hide the quiver in my lip.

What am I doing here? What am I thinking? He'll come in with his friends, he'll see me, he'll say "hi," he'll give me a drunken hug, and then he'll forget I'm here. And I'll have waited for nothing.

I'm not even fooling myself. I swallow hard and decide to leave, planning to pass him on the way out and act like I wasn't waiting for him the whole time.

I get up as he rounds the corner. He's alone, but he's on his phone. He tells whoever he's talking to goodbye.

He sees me.

"Hey there!" He says. That fucking smile. The fucking flutters. "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah, I've gotta get home."

"Oh, come on. Have a drink with me!"

I can smell the whiskey on his breath. I act like I hate the stink.

"I don't think you need more booze."

"Psh. The night is young! At least have a Guinness with me."

He sits in the seat next to where I was. The patient bartender--his coworker--pours a Guinness before he even asks. She looks at me and shrugs as she slides it to him. I give her a nod, and I sit beside him. She shakes her head, and I imagine it as a shake of pity.

She pours another Guinness and puts it in front of me. I go to pay for us both, and he tells me I don't have to pay at all. This is his work, after all. I roll my eyes at him and pay anyway.

"How much have you had tonight?" I ask him.

"Enough," he says, looking up at a television as if it were on.

He once confided in me that he drinks too much. I can tell he regrets saying it because he thinks I started caring about him after that. He's wrong, though. I cared long before that.

"One beer. Then I drive you home," I say.

I sip my stout and enjoy the smooth, thick texture on my tongue.

"I'm fine. You worry about me too much," he says.

I look at him and try to gauge how drunk he really is. He seems lucid, just happier. His eyes aren't glassy. His face isn't red. Maybe he's just had a few shots. Still though, I think, no way I'm letting him drive home. He's got enough priors. His kid doesn't need daddy going to jail again.

We sit and talk, taking our time with the beer. He seems to sober up some, but with that comes his somber, guarded demeanor. He's put his bartender front back on, keeping me from digging deeper.

The staff signals they're locking up for the night, so the on-duty bartender tells us she's leaving. We stand, thank her, and walk to the door. We step outside into the cool October air. The roads are mostly empty except for the parked cars at nearby drinking holes.

"Let me drive you home," I say to him.

"I'm fine," he says.

"And if you get pulled over?"

"I won't get pulled over."

"Is that what you thought during your last DUIs?"

"Wow. Really?" he says. A scowl registers on his face, then he laughs it off. "Fine. But this is not an admission that I'm drunk."

"Never said it was."

We walk to my car, and I unlock the doors with my remote. He gets in the passenger side and puts on his belt. I get in and do the same. I start the car, and my Bluetooth kicks in. It's playing a song he played at the bar once. He looks up at me and smiles again. This time, it seems genuine.

"Did you plan that?" He asks.

"How would I have planned that?" I ask.

"Sometimes, I think you hang out at the bar, hoping I'll come in."

I swallow hard, but I play it off.

"And do what?" I ask.

"I don't know. Blow me or something."

I burst into laughter, and he does the same. Mine is a defensive laugh. I'm not sure what his is.

"Well, that escalated quickly," I say. "Yeah, let me just show up at your work, act like a stalker, play a song you like, and give you a blowjob. That makes a lot of sense."

"When you put it that way..." He says, then trails off. He looks out the window. His smile fades. I've overstepped. My joke doesn't work. I've lost him.

I put the car in drive. "Where am I taking you?"

"You mean you don't know where I live?" He tries to sound like he's joking.

"Why would I know where you live?" I ask.

"You tell me," he says. He gives me a serious, irritated look.

"I don't know where you live."

"I didn't tell you about the DUIs," he says.

I open, then close my mouth. I fake a cough.

"OK, I might've googled you, but I legit don't know where you live."

He nods and grins. It's the fake smile again. I hate this game.

He gives me his address, and I head that way. Soon, we're in front of a four-story, brick apartment building. It looks exactly like it did in the pictures I claimed to have not seen. I also pretend I don't know he lives on the third floor.

I leave the car running and unlock the doors. He sits for a moment, looks up to his building, then back at me.

"Coming up?" He asks.

"For what?"

"I bought a bottle of that tequila you liked."

I look at him and scrunch my eyebrows together.

"That expensive stuff?"

"You said it was 'floral.' I could tell you liked it."

"So," I pause, "you bought some."

"I thought it'd be a nice touch if you and I ever hung out."

I'm stunned. I'm confused. I shake my head, then raise my eyebrows.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I'll come up."

I turn off my car and lock it after we both get out. We walk across the front path to the entry door. He uses his key to open the main door, and we walk in. The building smells heavily of weed, and I almost cough because it seems so thick. He doesn't seem to notice or care.

I ask myself what I'm doing there. I'm not sure there's anything I like about him anymore other than his looks and fake charm.

We go up three flights of stairs, and he walks to the end of the hall. I hear loud music coming from more than one door, and it doesn't feel all that different from the bar. I wonder if his coworkers live here too.

He unlocks his apartment door, and we walk in together. He closes the door behind me. The sound of the music fades some. The smell of weed dissipates.

His place is not at all like I expected. It's clean. It's not a bachelor pad despite him being in his 30s and single. I see some kids toys here and there. He puts his keys on the kitchen counter, and he takes off his coat. He reaches out his hand and offers to take mine. I take it off and hand it to him.

"Have a seat," he gestures toward his couch. I step toward it, uncertain as to what I'm doing here.

I'd always thought about being with him, about being in his space, but I never imagined what the actual space would be like or what it might be like to be on his couch. Or what I'd do if it actually happened. I sit, sinking into the couch, and I enjoy the feel of it. He puts on some music, a band we both talked about liking, and he sits directly beside me.

I feel a little sick, and a beer burp threatens. I play it off as he's sitting down, and I adjust my hair. I put my hands in my lap like I'm innocent and don't know what's coming.

"So..." I say.

He reaches across us both and puts a hand on my chin. He turns my head toward him.

"What is it that you want from me?" He asks.

"Why do you think I want anything from you?"

"You drive me crazy. You're too familiar. You know when I work. You know my favorite music. You know my child's name. You know my ex's name. You know I drink too much."

"You offered up all of that. I never asked you for any of that. Nor did I google it."

"Yet you remember it all, and you use it."

I shake my head. "How do I use it?"

"To get to me. To make me feel like you care about me."

"I do care about you," I say. Against my better judgment.

"Why?"

I want to change you. I want to fuck you. I want to fix you.

He turns toward me and leans in. Soon, I feel his breath on my neck. He kisses my neck, and I close my eyes. My body shakes with ecstasy and rage.

I get up from the couch. I grasp at my own hands and walk toward the door to leave, forgetting everything I brought.

"Wait," he says, as I reach the door.

"I can't do this."

"I just want to know why you care," he says.

"I don't know why!. You're beautiful! You're fucking tragic. You're charming and ridiculous. You're broken. You're sexy as hell. I have no respect for you because you're a goddamn drunk, but I can't stop wanting to be near you."

"What do you want from me?" He asks again.

This time, he gets off the couch and walks toward me. I can see the bulge in his jeans, and I try not to stare, looking up at the stucco ceiling. He reaches me and puts his hands on mine. He takes my hands and puts them on his face. I feel the stubble of a few days unshaven. It's how I like him most.

I smell him again--a sweet scent mixed with booze.

He puts his hands on my hips, and I can't not look into his face. His blue eyes are worried. It's the most honest he's ever been with me.

"I want you," I say.

"That's all you ever had to say."

He leans in, and his lips touch mine. He tastes sweeter than I expected, but the booze is his aftertaste. I feel his hands slide from my hips to my ass. I don't know what to do with my own hands. I feel his tongue work its way into my mouth, and his hands squeeze. His grasp awakens from the fear. I wrap my arms around his neck and play with his hair. He moans, and I feel myself get wet.

He stops kissing me and let's go of my ass. He takes off his shirt, and I look at his pale frame. A small patch of hair runs from his chest, over his slight belly, and into his jeans. He's just on this side of skinny. He's perfectly average, and I love it.

I follow suit and take off my shirt. With hardly any hesitation, he grabs my breasts in his hands and squeezes them like he did my ass. He kisses the tops of my breasts, then reaches behind me to unhook my bra. I can't say I'm surprised at how easily he does it. I remind myself I'm another in a long line of girls he's picked up at the bar. I'll play the part even if it'll shatter me later.

We let my bra fall to the floor, and he grabs my breasts again, licking my nipples like the rim of a glass. He sucks each one, slow and hard. I put my fingers back in his hair and let my own head fall back.

I feel him let go of my breasts and reach for my jeans. He undoes the top button, and I help him unzip, then take them off. I'm in only my underwear now, afraid he's going to stop and laugh at me, then throw me out wearing almost nothing.

In a panic, I reach for his jeans. I want us to be equal. For him to stop having all the power.

He lets his arms fall and watches me.

I undo his jeans like he did mine, and I push them down. His erection tents his boxers. He takes them off, and his cock bobs in front of me, between us. He grabs my hand and leads me to a room. He switches on the light, and the reality hits me.

We are in his bedroom. He's brought me here. This is the room I wondered about so many times.

I want to taste him, but I want him inside my pussy. I want his tongue circling my clit, making me cum. I'm paralyzed by possibilities. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at me, realizing I'm not moving.

"Is this OK?" He asks.

I nod, but I'm not looking at him. I'm looking at his dresser. There's a picture of his daughter. He follows where I'm looking. He gets up and turns the picture around. He comes back over, sits on the bed, and pulls me toward him by my hips.

He looks up into my face.

"Hey," he says.

I look at him.

"Are you sure?" He asks.

I wasn't expecting him to be cautious. It's damningly sweet. I look at his eyes, his hair, his stubble. I reach up and put my hand on his cheek.

"Absolutely," I say.

He smiles, then starts kissing my stomach. I feel his hand reach between my legs and stroke my lips with light touches. His fingers are warm, and I realize I'm shivering. He puts a warm palm on the small of my back and lowers his head between my legs. I part them and feel his stubble against my thighs.

I feel his lips kiss me. I feel him lap at my cunt, broadening his tongue. He sucks on both labia, then licks again. This time, he pushes his tongue between my lips and just brushes my clit. I bite my bottom lip and smile as he buries his face into my sex.

I reach down and run my fingers through his hair, tugging it slightly. I hear him moan.

I feel powerful.

He licks and sucks more, teasing me. I try pulling on his hair a little harder, trying to get him to focus on my clit. The power struggle is real, but I win as he licks my clit again and gives it a light suck. A small cry escapes my lips and betrays how much I'm enjoying this moment. I hear him moan again. I never took him for a generous lover.

He pulls me onto the bed with him, then slides down to lean on the floor. I feel a finger put pressure on my entrance, and he lets up kissing and sucking my clit to slide into me. I loosen my grip on his hair. He runs his finger in and out of me, then slides in a second one. He turns his fingers upward. I arch my back and moan. Again, I feel his tongue on my clit. My moans get louder.

With his hair in my hands again, I try not to hurt him, but his attention to my body intensifies. My entire being is at the mercy of his hands and tongue. I let go and grab the duvet. I clench it in my fists as he circles my clit with his tongue and presses upward with his fingers, stroking.

I feel the tension. I feel the spreading warmth. I feel a release. I cum hard, loud, and wet.

"Oh my god," he says.

He keeps going, and so do I, unable to feel anything except pleasure.

Once he lets up, he pulls his fingers out of me and climbs onto the bed next to me. Every inch of my body feels like it's vibrating, and I can't find any words.

He props his head up with his arm as he lays on his side next to me. His bicep pops slightly, and I notice the hair in his armpit. He feels more masculine to me than ever. He's smiling in a way I've never seen him smile before. It's pride.

"So, that happened," he says.

I nod.

"Done that before?" He asks.

"No," I say. "Don't get cocky."

"Oh, it's too late for that. You think if I fucked you now that you could keep going?" He asks.

"No idea. Let's find out."

He doesn't hesitate to climb on top of me, to raise my legs against his chest and my ankles over his shoulders, and to sink his cock into me. He slides in with ease. He moans with me at the first thrust.

His eyes are closed, and I admire his beautiful face. In this moment, I don't care that he's a drunk or about the bartender act. He's more than I hoped he would be.

He opens his eyes a bit, and he smiles at me, the same proud smile from before.

"We should've done this a long time ago," he says.

He starts thrusting deeper into me, then grinding. His balls smush against my ass, then slap as he picks up his pace. His warm hands grip my hips, but he stops moving. I open my eyes to see the serious look on his face. I move my hips a little, and he grabs my hips harder.

"Don't move," he says.

"Oh," I realize he's fighting cumming, and I grin.

He takes a deep breath, pops his neck, then pulls out of me until his tip is pressing against my clit. I want him to rub until we both cum.

Like he's reading my mind, he rubs his dick against me, watching his almost purple head slide against my bean.

"That feels amazing," I say.

"If I cum too fast, give me a bit. I can do it again," he says.

He keeps rubbing, and the familiar build of pleasure spreads through my hips again. I want to cum with him inside of me. I reach down and put his cock back inside me.

"Shit," he says.

His cock twitches inside me. I realize he's cumming. He's almost completely silent except for his hard, fast breathing. Some cum spills out of me. It's almost enough to send me over the edge, but I pump my hips away and into him as he cums. He lets out a tiny whimper and shakes.

I watch as his face slowly relaxes.

"That was hot," I say.

"That was embarrassing," he says.

"Cumming early is the sincerest form of flattery," I joke.

"You know how to make a guy feel better," he says, rolling his eyes.

He pulls out a little, then pushes back into me, and more of his cum squishes out. I love the feel as it slides down my ass.

He takes my ankles off his shoulders and lays my legs on the bed. He lays on top of me and kisses me. The whole time, his still-hard cock is inside me.

He rolls off me and pulls out, but grabs my hips and encourages me to get on top of him. I do, straddling him and rubbing my cum-slick cunt over his dick. He reaches up and grabs my breasts, squeezing each in his hands. I reach back and put his cock inside me again. A little cum gets on my fingers, and I make eye contact with him as I lick it off.

"You're a little nasty, aren't you?"

"That's mild," I say.

"I feel like that's a challenge."

"Let's start simple. Tell me what to do," I say.

"What?"

"Tell me what to do," I repeat. He looks at me like he's confused.

"I feel kinda silly," he says.

"Do you want me to fuck you? How do you want me to fuck you?" I ask.

His face goes from a confused grin to a knowing one.

"Grip me hard," he says.

I squeeze my cunt muscles. I relax them. I squeeze again.

"Jesus," he says. "Grip and fuck me slow."

I do what he says, but I control him. I squeeze my walls almost like I'm clamping onto his hard dick, and I lift my hips off him centimeter by centimeter. I lower myself back down just a slowly. His eyes roll back a little, but he fights to keep his cool.

I lift up and down again a little faster this time. I do it once more. His grip moves from my breasts to my hips. I feel his fingers slightly dig into my skin and push down, as if trying to get his cock into me deeper than before.

I grind my hips forward toward his face and back toward his feet. I move in a slow wave.

"Fffffuuuck," he hisses.

He pulls and pushes my hips in the same motion as I'm grinding them, and he lets out a quiet sigh. He's looking at me like an artist memorizing a face.

"Fuck me hard," he says.

I grind my hips faster and harder, rocking against his body. I feel his cock move inside me, my clit rubbing. I squeeze him harder. He groans. His head falls back, eyes closed.

I think of all the times he slid a drink my way without me asking or knowing what it was. I think of all the times he made me enjoy something I didn't think I would.

I return the favor.

He lets go of one hip and places a thumb between us on my clit. He doesn't move it and instead lets me grind against him. The orgasm starts deep in my pelvis, swells into my hips, and fills my pussy with heat. I let out a yell. I feel my pussy contract fast, and the pleasure surges throughout my body.