I'm in trouble now and it looks like there’s no way out. I peer down the cue that I'm holding in my left hand, lining up a white ball in front of a solid blue one. There is a sea of green felt, dotted only with solid balls - all mine. The one solid ball that doesn't require a direct hit from me is the black one, which, unfortunately, lies squarely between the white and the blue one. I am sunk. The blue target is positioned in front of the pocket, and had the 8 ball been somewhere else, I could take the shot pretty easily. I draw my cue back and forth across my left hand, forefinger curved around the narrow end. The short, jerky in and out motion brings to mind another in and out motion of a physical variety and I get a sudden urge to go freshen my drink. I look around me, at the room, the furniture, the lights, anywhere but the pool table, where my fate lies behind a fat, black 8 ball. It looks like a linebacker to me now, because I am almost eye level with it. I have stretched my body almost prone across the table. Never mind that the dress I'm wearing, short enough when I'm standing upright, is now perilously close to being a belt. I try to remember how I got into this situation.
The evening started out well enough, drinks and dinner with a business associate slash friend. Jack was a mentor of sorts for me, and we had spent a lot of time talking shop. Jack lived in Texas, so we mostly talked on the phone or by e-mail. His voice reminded me of caramels, slow and sweet. When I said this was my last night in town, he asked me to dinner. That sounded great to me, and we shared some good conversation and great food. After dinner Jack invited me back to his place to shoot some pool and I thought, why not? It wasn't late yet, and I was leaving the next day so all I really had to do was pack and catch a cab to the airport. We got to his house and after the obligatory tour, we settled into the game room.
He had a pretty nice place, with a separate room that was furnished with a pool table, some comfortable chairs and a small bar. Jack went out of his way to make me feel comfortable, and I watched him as he fussed over snacks and drinks. A good-looking middle-aged man with graying hair, he stood about 5 9", and weighed in at about 180. He was dressed casually in slacks and a button down shirt for our dinner, and I must say, he wore his clothes well. We were still in the dance-around-each-other stage, and frankly, it was getting a little tiring. I was actually thinking that perhaps I should do something to liven up the evening a little, when the doorbell rang. I didn't know it at the time, but the ringing of that bell was more like a gunshot at the start of a race, with everything going faster and farther, until there was nothing to see but dust.
Jack excused himself to answer the door. Soon, I could hear footsteps and another man’s voice as they approached the game room. I had just blended up some margaritas with the mix I found stowed in the cabinet and had poured the frothy lime flavored drink into two of the goofiest margarita glasses I had ever seen. I'm from the southwest, where margarita glasses take on ridiculous qualities. The stem of the glass was made to look like a cactus, green and ribbed, with little cactus arms jutting out from the sides. There was no way to actually hold the glass by the base, because you couldn't get a firm grip on the stem. The bowl was oversized, and fashioned to look like a sombrero. There was even a little coned center, where the hat was fitted over the top of the cactus. The bowl looked like it could hold better than three cups of liquid. The whole architecture of the glass was suspect, too. Neither of the glasses would sit square on the counter, and rocked slightly when I set them down. Clearly the manufacturer had never heard of the form follows function rule.
Just about the time the two men, Jack and his visitor, walked through the door, I was picking up a glass and taking my first sip. Suddenly, the cactus and his hat burped a large quantity of icy tequila into the open neckline of my dress. I squealed, both from embarrassment and the shock of the cold liquid. My dress, wet and cold, hugged itself to my chest like a long lost sister. My body reacted to the ice in the normal way. That is to say, the high beams clicked to on. Jack and his guest looked at me in stunned surprise. Apparently, neither of them had ever seen a woman spontaneously enter herself into a wet T-shirt contest. Jack recovered first. He looked at me for a second and then threw back his head and roared with laughter. His friend, trying to be polite, turned his head to one side and snickered quietly. I began to giggle, then to laugh, and, with that great whooping sound you make when you've let yourself really go with hysteria, I collapsed against the bar. Between huge, gasping breaths I managed to say, "well, that really broke the ice!" This sent Jack into another fit of laughter and his visitor, who had yet to be introduced, was now barking out great big belly laughs too. After the first wave of snorting and giggling had finally passed, Jack tossed me a bar towel and I sopped up what I could from the front of me while he cleaned up the splotches from the floor. I did what I could with the dress, but it was surely ruined. I had selected a very nice sleeveless red silk number that was pretty without being too business-like. In fact, it may have been too short for a casual dinner out, but I had nice legs and a nice tan, so I wore it. Showing off my legs was one thing, but now, with the neckline of the bodice plastered to my chest, I realized that I was pretty much displaying all the curves my body had to offer. There was not much I could do about it at this point besides asking for a change of clothes, and that just seemed prudish. The guys didn't seem to mind, in any case. I caught both of them appraising my figure when they thought I wasn't looking.
Introductions were made, and I found out that Jack’s friend was named William, but everyone called him Bubba. The name fit him like a glove. I mean, Bubba was a pretty big guy. At 6' 2", he could see over Jack’s head by a good 5 inches and he probably outweighed Jack by 70 pounds. A big, solid Texan, with a big, booming voice to match. I offered to make more margaritas, but Bubba suggested we just skip the sweet lime juice and ice, and go straight to the heart of the drink. Jack nodded and I said sure, I was game if they were. He pulled out three shot glasses from the cabinet, lined them up in front of the mirrored bar, and poured a couple fingers of Cuervo Gold in each. As Bubba busied himself behind the bar, I watched Jack as he finished cleaning up the mess I made. He was clearly at ease with Bubba, and his whole demeanor had changed since the time he left to answer the door. Earlier, during dinner and at his house, Jack seemed comfortable, but kind of - polite - with me. I got the feeling that he was trying to make a good impression. He asked me questions, lots of them, but didn't volunteer much information to me about himself. He appeared to be having a nice time, but we had somehow failed to click. Since the arrival of Bubba and the margarita toss, though, Jack had loosened up quite a bit. He was laughing easily, and joking with his friend. And, a funny thing happened. Once Jack relaxed, so did I. I never did find out why Bubba showed up in the first place. It could have been that Jack invited him, or he just popped in unexpectedly. Either way, it was apparent that Jack and Bubba were good friends, and their camaraderie made it easy for me to let loose myself.
We each went through the tequila ritual, rubbing a slice of lime on the back of our hands and shaking salt over the moist spot. Jack raised his glass and clinked the other two. Then, instead of licking the salt from his hand, as is customary, he leaned over and slurped the salt from the tender spot between my thumb and forefinger. I looked at him in surprise and could feel a grin spread across my face. It was a spontaneous move, and I was delighted. I turned to Bubba and raised my eyebrows as if to say, "Well? What are YOU going to do?" Bubba took the glass from my other hand, rubbed the lime on the fleshy part of my thumb and dusted the spot with salt. He licked the salt from my hand, and then tossed back his shot. Now, it was my turn. I took each of their hands in both of mine, and starting with Bubba, I slowly licked the salt from his skin. Jack’s was next and, instead of licking the area, I used my teeth to scrape the salt from it, biting and nibbling down the length of his thumb. Jack picked up my tequila and held it to my lips. I tilted my head back while he poured the amber liquid into my mouth. Bubba pushed the slice of lime up to my teeth to suck the juice from it after I swallowed my share. The evening had suddenly gotten much more interesting.
The tequila loosened us all up a bit more, and within a short time we were laughing and flirting with each other. I was beginning to feel the charge of sexual electricity as the alcohol spread through me. The guys were having a great time, and so was I. Jack proved to be a very witty man and took great delight in teasing me. No slouch in the wit department, I gave back verbal jabs as we slowly began sparring, trading banter and barbs, mostly laced with sexual references. Sometimes the guys ganged up on me, two big boys against one lone girl, after which I would stick out my lower lip in a pout. Sometimes Bubba traded sides and helped me get digs into Jack. The alcohol was skewering our logic and our sensibility. The two men decided that I could no longer sit down unless there was a lap under me, and they passed me back and forth like a child.
We each did another tequila shot, but this time, I poured a healthy dose of it into my mouth and quickly leaned over Jack, releasing the Cuervo past his lips, and covering them with my own. We kissed, tongue and tequila, until both of us had swallowed most of it. Not all made it to the proper destination, but instead leaked out the corners and ran down our chins. We both found this method to be hilarious fun, and did our next two shots the same way. Bubba still drank his tequila the old fashioned way, from a glass. However, he made a big production of finding new spots of exposed skin to lick the lime and salt combo from. Bubba would point out an area of my body, and then would confer with Jack about the location and the ease of accessibility, whether it would be a ticklish spot or a tender one. The more I protested, the worse the two of them got. In mock seriousness they discussed whether the area would be rough, like sand paper, or smooth like glass, whether it would smell or taste differently. We laughed with the great abandon that only a good alcohol buzz can give you, everything just seemed extremely funny. When they finally settled on a new spot I offered it up for seasoning. One time when they selected my knee-pit I flopped belly down on the bar and while they took turns pressing their mouths to my legs I laughed until tears were running freely down my cheeks.
