Sudden Clarity

San Francisco, California. Friday, 8:00 PM.

I'm wiping down the counters of the bar where I work, Nut Buster's, in anticipation of the Friday nightlife. I glance in the dirty mirror near the entrance to the kitchen with a yawn; I look like hell. I'm exhausted already, and my thin white muscle top has faint stains under the armpits. I'll throw on a flannel later. Running a hand through my spiked hair, I sigh and push open the kitchen door. Half an hour until we open, half an hour to clean and prune and transform this shady hole-in-the-wall into a hopping nightclub.

10:00 PM.

I have this rule: never cross the bar. Bad things happen when you cross the bar. But this thing looks so good; eyes like the ocean, a juicy fruit punch smile, a halo of sweet golden hair, and curves to rival Jessica fucking Rabbit. Her name is Clarity, I'm told. She's from Georgia. Nobody seems to know if she's available or not. Another day, I'd write my number on a napkin and send it over with a drink. Cast a few long glances her way, catch her eye, give her my signature crooked smile and a cocked eyebrow. But not tonight. Not when I haven't slept in three days, look like I got run over by a truck. With any luck she'll be back tomorrow night.

11:30 PM.

She's coming over here she's coming towards me she's looking at me quick look away relax you're behind the bar, of course she's coming towards the bar, it's her turn to buy drinks or she wants some extra ice or she needs a light she's taking a smoke break why are you freaking out, she's just a cute girl there are cute girls here all the time why are you freaking out?

I take a deep breath, wipe my hands on my already-dirty jeans and prop myself against a stool, trying to look cool. Look cool be cool Clarity saunters over to the bar and drapes herself over it, her gratuitous breasts pressed together by her arms, which are full of beer glasses. She sets them in front of me.

"'Nother round, please-and-thank you," she says. Her voice is honey, dripping off her pink wet tongue. "Table 6. Darlin', if you don't want me seducin' you just say so," she adds, raising an eyebrow. I realize, mortified, that she's talking to me and I haven't looked directly at her since she came over.

"Ah, no! I mean, you're fine. I mean. Yes. Coming right up." Burning red, I trot over to fill the glasses and promptly trip over my shoelace. I hear a few snickers from behind me, but I'm not sure if she saw.

12:00 AM.

After seeing to Clarity and her group I'm so tired and mortified that I ask Buster, the owner of the bar, if I can leave early. I'm off my game, need sleep, need sleep. He takes pity on me and I bike four miles back to my apartment, open the door, crash on the couch. I don't even take my shoes off.

7:00 PM the next day.

I slept until 2:00 this morning. That's fourteen hours. That's a new record for me. I took the time to shower today, and to dress myself in clothes I didn't find in the Salvation Army. I may have blown my chances with Clarity, but that doesn't mean I can't get laid tonight. Feeling kinky, I slap on some black eyeliner and a leather cuff. I'm glad I slept last night, it's nice to be actually awake for once

8:00 PM.

"Marc, hey," calls one of my coworkers, Amal, when I walk in. "This chick asked about you last night. Said her name was Clarity, and to give you this and a nice juicy kiss." Amal hands me a note and puckers up their lips comically. I shove them aside and hungrily unfold the note. "Figured you wouldn't be too keen on that part," they joke, leaning over my shoulder. "What's it say?"

"Dear cutie," I read.

"I'll be at the bar around 11 tonight. Save me a seat (preferably on your lap)."

It's signed with a red lipstick kiss and a phone number. I grin. "Someone's getting laid tonight," states Amal, a hint of jealousy creeping into their voice.

1:00 AM.

I've been waiting not-so-patiently for two hours. Clarity hasn't come in. I get off work in an hour. I shouldn't drink on the job, but I've already downed two shots of tequila and a few beers. I'm jittery, anxious. Horny as fuck. If she doesn't show up soon I might have to go jack off in the bathroom.

Just as I'm contemplating this very idea, the door opens and who should prance in but the woman of my dreams. She's wearing a scanty red dress; her tits are practically begging to be sucked on and her fishnet-clad legs could kill a man where he stood. I don't have a clue how she walks so elegantly in those heels, but I appreciate it wholly. She beelines to my spot at the bar and perches on a stool in front of me.

"So you got a name, sweetheart?" she asks, like we've been talking for a while.

"I'm Marc," I answer. There, I can say two words to her without stuttering or making a fool of myself, I note. Let's see how long that lasts.

"Marc. That's sweet. Listen, cutie, you gonna take me home tonight? I need a nice warm body and I'd like if it was yours."

My eyes widen. "I- hell yeah. I mean yes. I would like that too." Well that wasn't too bad.

She laughs. "You're funny. When you get off work?"

"Right now," I tell her, and head for the bar exit. It's 1:30; nobody will notice if I leave half an hour early.

"Hold up, hold up," Clarity shouts. "A drink first. I insist." She holds up her wallet. "On me."

Who am I to say no to alcohol? "Sure, but no money," I tell her. "Free drinks for the bartender, right?" I wink. Do people even wink anymore? That was dumb. "Tequila alright?"

She nods and I grab the bottle, the salt, and a lime. She licks her hand, I lick my hand, I sprinkle salt. She licks her hand, I lick my hand, we pass the bottle, bite the limes. Rinse, repeat. Three shots apiece. Less than a minute. I grin. "It's like we've been doing this for ages." She giggles a tequila giggle, a little high already. "Better call a cab, no one's driving after that."

2:00 AM.

We're on my bed. Sloppy tongues, alcohol breath, neither of us drunk enough to miss what a mess my apartment is but neither of us sober enough to care. Clarity's golden hair floats around her head on the pillow. Her eyes are closed, she is an angel. I kiss her eyelids one after the other and then her plump pink lips and then her soft neck. She moans quietly. I slip my hands under her dress and touch the backs of her beautiful thighs. She shivers into me and I smile. Close my eyes. Let her body take me away.

Gently, slowly, I maneuver her dress up over her head, revealing a lacy black bra and matching panties. Her stockings are thigh-highs. They stay on. Everything else comes off.

I reach under her and undo her bra fastener. It pops open in a few seconds, and I lift the bra over her head. Her breasts are perfect angel breasts; soft and big with dark pink nipples and the lightest of stretch marks gracing the sides. I lick my thumb and stroke a nipple and she jumps. She puts a hand under her waistband. I say, "Let me."

Her panties peel off, roll away from her perfect hips, down her perfect thighs. Dangle from an elegant foot for a moment and then fall to the ground. She spreads her legs with a groan, and I take it as an invitation. I make myself at home between her thighs. The dark scratches of hair that cover the space between my own legs are thinner between hers, and lighter. She's so soft everywhere, I want to touch her everywhere, kiss her everywhere. Her pink cunt glistens, quivers, waits for instruction. I breath hot air onto her clit, slowly.

"Ohhh," she says. Like an understanding. "Oh!"

I move my hands up her body, feeling her, but I don't touch her where she wants me to. Not yet. She shivers every time I brush a nipple or touch her neck. Eventually I give in. I plant a single kiss on her warm stomach. She inhales sharply. She's made me want her, and oh she's good at it. I kiss again, a ways up, and then again between her breasts. On this last I wrap my hands around her breasts, one each, and squeeze them. God, I love them. Clarity is heaven personified. Or, at least, her body is.

"Ohhhhh." Louder this time.

I let go my left hand and lick from the base of her breast to the zenith, the pinnacle; her hard pink nipple. My tongue barely grazes it the first time. "Ah!"

The second time, I kiss. Hard, my mouth open. I run the tip of my tongue over the ridges and bumps of her areola. "Ah!"

The third time, I bite it. Barely any pressure, just teeth and skin and I suck and tongue and she moans. A good moan, a real moan. "HhhuuUUUUuuumm!"

Now I give her what she wants. Her hips gyrate against me already; I press them down onto the bed, her breast still in my mouth. I stroke her wet, slippery cunt once, twice, three times. She cries out and I slip a short-nailed finger inside of her. Crook it against her insides. She is lost in a raw deep sea of noise, her own pleasure and mine mix and I add another finger. I don't remember pressing my own lips to hers but here I am and she's sweet, so sweet and so lost and I tongue her clit and move my finger a smidge and she screams; not a shrill, scared scream but a whole scream that comes straight from her core and

I love it and

she falls to the bed and

I fall to the bed and

I kiss her

deep and

we breath and

we

are

lost