She watches the men come and go. Every night she's stood by the toilets, waiting for them to go take a piss in the hopes that the more fragile among them will give in and fuck her. I'm sat at the bar drinking my fourth beer of the night—some Austrian special, tasting of copper and salt. It doesn't hit me like it used to. I guess I'm growing wise to it, or I'm a fulltime drunk and the misery outweighs the dizziness.
As I look at the football score on the cheap 90's TV, I hear a squeal that reminds me of a fox that used to lie outside my bedroom window when I was a kid—anointing me with the knowledge that animals fuck too. I turn back to the toilets and she's laughing and joking with some haggard old dude with a wild grey mop on his head and those deep tired eyes you get from years of working the night shift. She never normally goes for older guys but I've never had her down for having a specific type. His thick, working man hands rest on her shoulder—one of his fingers has woven inside the black lace bra strap on her left shoulder whilst his thumb massages her collarbone. She bites her lip and looks him dead in the eye as her hand reaches for the wood in his jeans.
"Sir, another beer please," say, watching her groom yet another easy lay.
She grabs his hand, looks around the room and leads him into the gent's. I'm the only sad fuck that's watching and probably the only one that really cares. I think about leaving. I think about staying and going over to her, finally getting my courage in check and allowing the jealousy to subside long enough for me to get inside her knickers—inside her. I wonder if she wears slender pink lace, with frills just above the bottom of her ass cheeks or whether she wears one of those thongs that fits in her beautiful crack—I've spent too much time sitting here wondering.
10 minutes later, they both appear—the guy looking more dishevelled that she does. He says goodbye, kisses her on her rosy cheek and disappears as if it never happened. She looks at her empty glass, brushes her weathered hair behind her ear and heads to the bar. I can see her coming and every inch of me seizes up. There is a certain confidence in her step that makes her approach even more appealing. She licks her dry lips and wipes the beads of sweat from her forehead and orders a drink.
"Hey, can I get a Vodka and Coke please—no ice?" she says to the barman.
I'm still staring—looking at her smooth skin up close and smelling a mixed scent of perfume and sex. She looks so different this near to me. I can see the colour of her eyes, the mascara that's slightly smudged and the top of her areola as it sits outside the confines of her bra, in a classy way and not a filthy, whorish way. She looks like she sounds—ravaged and wearily elegant. As she takes a guzzle of her drink, she looks over to me and smiles. It gives me palpitations; ever since I saw her in this pub over a month ago, I've been in awe of her—amazed by her. I've watched her walk into those toilets over thirty times with thirty different men, praying to be one of them but being too weak to approach her and here she is—sat next to me for the first time and I can't open my mouth to tell her how much I want to feel those soft, large breasts against my body and her tight little snatch around my erection.
The bell rings as the barman tugs on its rope—closing time. Before she gets down off her seat, I notice a small white stain on her skirt and can't help but stare at the skin on her inner thigh—little red patches cover them, indicating she's played host to many a man's thrusts and humps. She stands up and adjusts her skirt that has risen up since she's been sat on the high, awkward bar stool and turns to leave. It's going to be yet another night that I'm the creepy voyeur and not the star of her travelling show. I envision yet another night of internet porn and passing out due to the drink.
