(1)
"Shit!" yelled Starr.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit."
She banged the steering wheel with her hands. Her yellow Pontiac sat dormant on the shoulder of the I80 West freeway. Tears drenched her baby blue chenille blouse. Normally she was very composed and put together, but at a terrible moment like this her emotions pushed her to the edge.
She cared nothing about the Cutlass that nearly sideswiped her. Nor the Highway Patrol officers that slowed to look at her as they passed.
A half-eaten hotdog rolled from the console to under the seat. The smell of beer filled the interior. Was this the end? Could things get any worse than this? Hunted Ghost was supposed to win in the fifth race. The dream that told her so was so vivid, the kind that made you question real life. So why did that fucker come in third?
What crazy lie was she going to have to tell her Bobby when he asked why she didn't pay the car note or buy any groceries? How was she going to hide slipping off the wagon after the two of them made a pact to never drink again?
Starr opened the glove compartment, reached in, and blindly swept inside with her fingers. After pawing dusty papers and loose coins her hands found the small, round plastic bottle. She pulled it out and grimaced, Jemma Dean Brandy.
She thought she had thrown all of the airplane minis away when she forever cast booze from her life three months earlier, but somehow it was always impossible to remember all the bottles. The blonde hula girl on the label still winked an emerald eye at her, same as she always had. Was taking this drink going to send her back on a wild ride like last time?
Fuck it, she thought. Anything is better than this kind of fear and misery. She popped the cap and chugged the contents. She open the passenger window, threw the empty outside, started the engine, and hauled ass back into the lane.
As Starr took the 880 home, the alcohol coursed through her brain. Her throat burned as the fear and worry dissolved. This was nothing. She would figure this out. Even if she didn't have the answer now it would come to her in due time.
All she had to do was relax. And what could be more relaxing than another drink?
The emergency ten she kept in her sock got her a few more airplane minis and enough gas to get home, but then what? Just sit there and wait for her man? Let him come home to a meal of saltines and ramen noodles after working a double shift at the factory? Starr began to panic.
Starr looked in her makeup mirror. Sliver eye shadow stained her cheeks. The glue from her false eyelashes had begun to melt, but her hair was still freshly weaved. Her tits were still double D. Her belly was still soft but small and her ass could hold a shot glass if she stuck it out right. Her tasteful blouse showed just enough cleavage while her Old Navy jeggings revealed her true sex appeal.
Starr wiped off the ruined makeup and pulled off the failing eyelashes. Newly collected, she flashed a wicked grin at the mirror. The foxiest lady in Alameda County smiled back.
She pressed the gas pedal knowing full well that wherever she parked all eyes would be on her. Once she'd been admired and noticed it wouldn't be too hard to find a man to help her out. No, he wouldn't be fool enough to take care of all her financial woes, but he might still buy her some drinks and share a few laughs.
By the time she got home she'd be far too gone to care about anything Bobby might have to bitch about. The only question was where to go.
(2)
Frankie's Hideaway was a sports bar on the outskirts of East Oakland. Its chipped green paned and barred windows recalled an older, more violent time in the city's colorful past.
Tina sat at a side table waiting for customers. She was sipping a whiskey sour with her back to the wall and a firm eye on the door. She wasn't expecting trouble at work today, but you never knew what could happen. Last week her friend Ronnie had been shot dead with 9 bullets right around the corner from here. The police seldom came, which was good for business, but too often it made for early retirement.
Things were slow. The tricks wouldn't be getting off for a few hours yet. Might as well settle back and chill for a while.
Frankie, the gray haired owner, gave her a wink. Maybe she could pull some easy money out of him. She turned her head to smile at him. He eyed her up and down deliciously. Tina licked her fire red lips salaciously and drained her drink to the half melted ice cubes. Frankie swiftly built her another and trotted it up to her table.
Tina offered a soggy five dollar bill. Frankie waved it away.
"This one's on me."
"Sit down," ordered Tina.
Her green tinted contacts quickly sized up the beer- bellied former playboy.
"You seem a little lonely tonight," she said flatly.
"I could use some company," he replied.
Tina took a long hard pour of her new drink.
"Cut the bullshit," she demanded. "You want to get fucked."
She grabbed his leg and stroked his dick through his slacks. She rubbed it hard and slow the way she knew he liked it. He throbbed and swelled in her hand.
"You want me to bust open these slacks, shove your cock in my throat and kiss your balls without gagging. You want to sink your head into my titties while I grind my fine ass against your thighs. Now how much company do you need honey?"
"I'll let you know when I get off."
Tina's leopard print acrylics roughly scratched his groin. She stopped stroking and clutched Frankie's testicles.
"No," she said.
"If you want to get so much as a whiff of this fine redbone pussy then you better speak up now.... Now what's it gonna be pops, cold and empty or curled up and comfortable? You know I'll take good care of you."
She slipped a well-practiced Cheshire cat grin on her face.
"Just keep on with it," whispered Frankie in his throaty, pleasure voice.
Tina unsnapped the button on his pants and pressed her right hand under the strap of his boxer briefs. She slowly worked her palms up his meaty member letting the slick juices of his desire lubricate her fingertips. Her newly wetted hand shuffled him from shaft to tip as her thumb massaged deeply along his length. His shoulders and thighs stiffened a little. He drew in air through his teeth.
Frankie's eyelids fluttered as Tina rubbed his dick head like a magic eight ball. She was good with her hands, almost too good. Each sensuous stroke split Frankie's desire between wanting release and never wanting this feeling to end.
He finally made up what was left of his mind.
"Milk me," he muttered. "Fucking milk me."
"Yeah?" answered Tina. "You want me to milk your big, thick fucking cock?"
"Fuck yeah."
"You ready to bust all over my hand?"
"Make me."
Tina's hands worked faster as her fingers coaxed every neglected inch of her trick's pulsing brown snake.
"Who's the sexiest bitch on this block?"
"You are," he panted.
