"I want a beer," Clay said.
"And what else," I asked.
He had a look in his eye, then he smiled, blushing before he said the next sentence.
"Some cock," he whispered.
I was cleaning glasses, prepping for my shift turnover when he and I caught conversation. Clay, being an older, white guy, was alone and looking aloof.
"She dumped me," he said.
"Who," I asked when he first started talking.
We began a dialogue of how his girlfriend of 10 years decided she needed to be with someone else.
"She's not into big guys," he said before he began weeping.
It was awkward of him drowning away his sorrows at the bar, during a happy time of Memorial Day, the gate of the summer in the Outer Banks. I chose to cheer him up and continue draining his pockets by encouraging him, and feeding him bourbon.
"You know you're a dirty dog for this," he said after his second round.
I poured it on thick for he looked miserable when we first kicked off the conversation, but by the third round, he was giddy and goofy, and saying wayward things to this "Gold Star."
"I want some cock. I didn't stutter," he said as a woman sat beside him.
Blanton didn't make him bashful for he looked the girl in the eye and spoke, and she politely returned the gesture before ordering a drink, and shielding herself with her phone.
"You honest about what you just said," I asked Clay.
"What's that? Getting cock," he said as he drew attention to himself.
I had to coax to cool down, but he was too twisted to listen, laughing heartily while looking in my direction.
"I bet you have a nice cock," he said.
"Clay, keep your voice down, there's kids in here," I said to him.
"I'll keep it down, if you show me it's up," he replied.
I warned him that if he didn't quit, I'd ask him to leave. He concurred, and quieted down to the point of putting down the alcohol, and pulled out a cigarette.
"What's your plans after you leave here," I asked.
The day was still young, and he couldn't be slurring the streets after a few rounds.
"Probably head back to the time share," he said. "Jerk off a little."
That made the blonde get up and sit at a table, and I gave him a look.
"Sorry, you asked me what i was doing," he said.
I watched Clay smoke his cancer stick, and was in admiration fo the elder, Caucasian bear. I figured Clay to be in his mid to late 60s, with his clean shaven bald head, and Santa beard. He carried a midwestern accent synonymous with someone in Minnesota, or Wisconsin.
"I live up in Alexandria, Virginia," he told me as he'd retired from working for the government. "I'm just down here for a couple of weeks, to just do nothing, perhaps get laid."
"Define get laid," I told him.
"Get a nut. Have sex with someone else. Orgasm. You know, the usual," he stated before he chuckled.
I for one was a fan of his stature as he mimicked a trucker. I kept him occupied in dialogue for I suddenly was in the mood to help him reach his goal. I walked closer to him, and whispered in his ear to repeat what he said earlier.
"I'm definitely serious, Allen," he said. "I wanna try my first cock."
I made him explain his sudden choice of sexual preference, and he claimed it was long embedded.
"Been wanting to try guys for years," he said.
His ponderance came from when he was a teenager, when he saw other guys in gym class during showers, and was often jealous of what they offered.
"Been hooked to try one ever since," he told me.
He gave me more of his life story, on how he was married and had four kids, then divorced his wife for her being an infidel. His latest woman did the same, and caused him to indulge in some libation, and bring out his true self.
"I'm gonna get me some cock today. I wanna flush it out of my system," he said.
