The Dare

Using the passenger-side visor mirror, Liz carefully applied the viva glam satin lipstick she had picked up from a mac cosmetics store a few weeks ago and hadn't worn, yet. She rarely wore makeup, but she loved the color and knew there was an awards dinner next month for their daughter's soccer team. Tonight, the chance to apply this color, along with her violet plum mascara and a touch of blush, came sooner than anticipated, and for a far better cause she hoped.

Mike pulled into the lot of the Penn Tavern and turned to her.

"Are you ready?"

Liz sighed and closed the cap on the lipstick and put it in her purse. Looking again for a final check in the mirror, she fingered the gold chain he had bought her a few anniversaries back.

"So the dare is, I wait for a guy to hit on me, and determine his reaction by rubbing his crotch, right?"

"Well, that does seem like the gist of it. I want to prove to you that other men see you as attractive as I do."

"Hmmm...and if the other man mistakes my grabbing for mutual attraction..."

"Leave the bar and come join me at the pool table."

"And if no one hits on me?"

"That's not going to happen—but if it is a slow night, again, just come join me for some pool. Either way, we usually have fun with our 9-ball bets!"

Liz chuckled---"remember, my daddy had a Brunswick in our basement when I was growing up---you don't stand a chance, hustler."

"Alright, we'll see. Ok, you head in first, go right to the bar."

Mike yanked keys from the ignition, exited and moved to open the door for her. She smiled as he took her hand and helped her out. Smoothing her skirt Liz gave him a nervous smile. Mike leaned in, placing his soft hands on her hips and kissed her full on the moth. As they kissed, his fingers inched down to her legs then slowly up her skirt. She molded her body to his as Mike pressed his palm between her legs.

The thrill of this erotic moment taking place in a public parking lot as cars drove by and people strode past them into the bar, set Liz's heart beating faster. Mike broke off the kiss and commented, "These are soaked...can't have you sitting in them" And with that, gracefully pulled her lace undies down her legs and over the boots. Kneeling he glided the flimsy garment off as she lifted one booted foot and then the other, the crisp February air flowing over her moist sex.

"Ok, now you're ready."

She snuck one more quick kiss, and left the car, looking back only once. A lump in her throat and expecting a smoke-filled honky-tonk, she inhaled a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Inside took her breath away. Glass and oak were everywhere—a mixture of mirrors and wood that presented an elegant bar/restaurant that belied the tavern moniker.

Being past nine, the restaurant portion was closed off with a sign, so she veered right toward the typical horseshoe-shaped bar, marching toward the overly loud rock music and yells of guys bemoaning the fortunes of their sports team. Three new-looking pool tables, an electronic dart board, and a long wooden shuffleboard table were in an open room just behind the bar. A small stage stood a little off the room, but no band was present; instead, a jukebox bellowed out nineties grunge.

Liz placed herself carefully down on a tall leather stool with a wooden back in an empty section of the bar, and became instantly aware that her miniskirt left very little covering for her legs. Instinctively, she crossed her legs. Beyond the highly polished bar lay the usual tier of flat screen TVs, mirrors, and bottles of every known liquor.

Immediately a bartender—cute, blond, early twenties, built like a high school quarterback—placed a coaster in front of her and asked what she would like. Her usual was a jolly rancher, but felt that was a bit too little girlish for the environment.

"Cosmopolitan, please. Oh, and can I get a menu?"

"Certainly, ma'am." He swerved away quickly, smoothly. Ma'am? Liz clucked to herself—boy, when Mike was wrong, he went for the grand slam. Instead of finding her hot or sexy, this hunk spotted right away she was OLD with a capital O. What the hell was she doing here?

She turned slightly to see Mike, oblivious to her, walk past toward the pool tables. A cute young thin in a too tight t and a shorts carrying a platter greeted him familiarly as he draped his coat over a chair. The waitress laughed at something Mike said, and scurried off.

Liz knew Mike said he had taken clients here several times, and a good waitress always remembers the good tippers—Mike ALWAYS tips well, something about him bussing tables in college, but still...Liz was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable.

The bartender returned with her drink and a menu. "I'll be right over here, Ma'am, "indicating the more crowded end of the bar, "when you are ready to order, just holler."

More 'Ma'am'. God, did he call every woman over 20 that? Or just the ones her age? Damn, stop feeling old and sorry for yourself, Liz. You have a mission---a dare, to be precise. You haven't lost one, yet, to the bastard, and you aren't going to do so tonight.

She took a deep sip of her drink for courage, enjoying the unexpected strong taste, and glanced around. There were five or six guys in sweatshirts and hoodies to her right, eyes all on the tv screen in front, yelling, slapping backs, etc. TV showed a few sports—college hoops, a Flyers game, and a preview of an upcoming NASCAR event—they were probably watching the college game. There was even a TV playing Hannity, or Beck or one of those other talking head idiots. She hated politics and sports, so not much on the tube to distract her.

A couple sat a few seats over from the guys, in their late twenties, full of puppy eyes, unmindful of the hoots and hollers just to their left. Liz couldn't tell if they had been together long or just met. To their right, a graying business man, open collar, no tie, sat reading the Wall Street Journal while daintily eating a filet mignon. The far side of the bar blocked from view by the wall, but she imagined not much else. A handful of couples at the booths surrounding the bar, munching on appetizers and focused on each other. And a guy sat at a far corner table, drinking a large glass mug, riveted to screen above. He looked thirtyish, wearing an outfit straight out of a J. Crew catalogue, black short sleeve polo with khaki pleated chinos, loafers, no socks. She knew because that was what Mike like to wear when he wasn't wearing fancy Armani suits to work.

She sighed. Not much chance of completing this dare. Peeking over at the pool tables she saw Mike laughing and playing 8-ball with another man. A blond, mid-twenties, wearing a Nickelback concertt-shirt and very drunk, stumbled over to Mike. Liz sat up a bit straighter...like the waitress, this one seemed familiar with him. She couldn't read lips but Mike's response set the woman howling with laughter. The tart placed a hand on his arm and..

"Excuse me, mind if I sit here?"

At first, Liz tried to move her head to see past the hulk that had entered her line of sight to Mike. Then realizing she was being spoken to, she looked up into his face.

"Uhm, sorry, what did you say?" It was the J. Crew model. He had evidently moved from his table to the stool next to hers.

"I asked if anyone was sitting here, or if I might join you. I am very sorry for startling you."

Perfect enunciation, surprisingly fresh breath, his face only inches from her. Clean shaven. Closely cropped black hair. Bright blue eyes. White, gleaming teeth. Stocky, but not fat. She could smell slight scent of aftershave, probably Old Spice. Not Axe—Mike wore Axe all the time.

"Sure, I mean, no one is sitting there, have a seat." Nervous. Smooth, real smooth, Liz. You forgot about the dare, and now you are scaring this guy into thinking you are some mental reject who doesn't know her left from her right.

"Thanks." He turned his face and signaled for the bartender. "Another Yuengling, and...", he turned to Liz, "would you like another?"

And so it began.