After a loveless, childless marriage, which thankfully lasted only a few years, I divorced Dan, a worthless, cheating bastard and got on with my life. I had difficulty believing I was now an emancipated woman! I was young, goddammit, and still in my twenties, but not for much longer.
Dan-O had done such a number on me that for years I was allergic to serious relationships but, admittedly, I had, and still have, a very strong libido. Celibacy was not an option. Finding a man, or at least a life support system for a healthy cock to satisfy my needs, wasn't difficult, but the ecstasy didn't last long. After John or Robert or Michael or...what was his name, again?...took care of business, he'd be off and I'd find myself back at the Billiard Parlor, a local hangout for singles looking to meet up, trolling for fresh meat.
One particular Saturday night, which was also the day after my thirty-third birthday, I sat in my usual spot, a small, round table in a dark corner of the bar, sipping a drink with Nancy, my best friend, trying to stay sober enough to converse with any comers who approached our table. Such was our weekend habit for longer than I care to remember. Maybe it was because I was a year older than the last time I sat at that very same table, but that particular night was a little more depressing than usual.
"Over there." Nancy almost pointed at a prospect, but refrained. "He looks pretty good." She and I shared an office downtown at the Larson Insurance Agency as stenographers. We also shared the same personal situation, meaning we were both divorced, but still young-ish and needing attention. We met on the job and, after a few lunches, discovered how much we had in common, becoming fast friends.
"He's new, isn't he?" I squinted, trying to make out the tall figure on the other side of the dimly-lit room. Yes, I was nearsighted and wore glasses, but never at the Billiard Parlor, or "BP," as we regulars called it. The drink was stronger than I expected, made by a pale, skinny bartender with bottle-black hair who'd sampled me a few times in the past and was perhaps ready for more. Although he was barely second-string, I made a mental note regarding his availability. Mostly, I wanted to put my head on the table and close my eyes.
"He's been here before." Her eyes remaining on him, my plump, brunette girlfriend sipped her umbrellaed drink. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed. He's kinda cute."
"Honey." I gazed past heavy eyelids to look at her profile. By now, I was slurring my words, "They're all getting to be the same."
"Yeah, I guess." Nancy finished her drink and was now futzing with the little umbrella, vacantly staring at the tiny accessory as she slowly opened and closed it, her mind wandering. "Sad that there's nothing new under the sun."
I noticed her shiny, red-painted fingernails as she stroked the umbrella's handle up and down. In my polluted state of mind, it looked like she was jerking it off, just like a slender, little penis. She gazed at me with her dark, doe-like eyes.
"Don't you hate it when you can remember their cocks, but not their faces?"
I merely chuckled, downing the rest of my drink in a single gulp, then scanned the smoky room, filled with the aural churn of a hundred or so voices of both sexes, all seeking companionship, if only for the night. Both ragged billiard tables were occupied by gents trying to show off their social and sporting skills, or lack of them. The clack of balls connecting was followed by the high-pitched twittering of a woman pretending to be impressed.
I gripped the table's edge as my surroundings shifted a bit. Oh, yeah, now I had a full buzz going! There was no way I could stay awake until the bartender got off at 2:30. Disgusted, I pushed away from the table, chair squeaking.
"Let's blow this fucking joint."
"You said it, sister." A familiar exchange that was becoming more and more common as weekend blurred into weekend. Nancy and I held each other steady as we staggered out to her blue Chevy Nova. We took turns driving each weekend and it was her turn.
I leaned against the passenger-side door, forehead resting on the cool metal roof, as she circled around to the driver's side. She pulled a wad of jangly keys from her purse. I listened as metal clinked against metal as she looked at each one closely in the low light for much too long.
"Too many goddamn keys for a single woman," I murmured to the gravel.
"Hush, now." She inserted a small, silver key into round lock, twisting it. Pulling the door open, she slid into the driver's seat. I got a nice glimpse of her ample breasts as her thumb and forefinger pulled up on the silver plastic shaft allowing me entry, forcing a drunken smile.
Creamy goodness.
Nancy pulled me onto the firm bench seat, buckling my seat belt with a loud click. She buckled herself, turning the ignition.
"I'm sorry." My face pressed against the door glass as we left the dim, multicolored fluorescent glow of the BP parking lot, the subdued roar of the car's V8 rising and falling as she shifted through the gears. "I'm sorry, again, that nothing materialized." She glanced at me before returning to watching the road.
"Why are you talking like it's your fault? That's ridiculous!" Driving home from the BP, she always took great care to keep to the posted speed limit, especially at that time of night when there were many bored cops just itching to write someone a ticket. Although she was the designated driver that evening, Nancy probably wasn't much more sober than me. "Sister, there was nothing in that room that appealed to me, and no amount of alcohol was going to create a Prince Charming out of that funky bunch. I'm glad we left when we did."
Her answer didn't surprise me, and it was no shocker that the BP had been a bust that evening, as it had been for many in recent months. The clientele was changing, and not for the better. She pulled up to the red traffic light on Evans Avenue. A right turn would've taken me home. A left turn would go to Nancy's. It was then that our thoughts coordinated. We had become very good at reading each other's minds. I mouthed her words a split-second before she said them.
"Stay over?"
She knew the answer.
I nodded, eyes closed.
The traffic light changed. Bathed in the green glow, she turned left, and we proceeded down Evans Avenue. Within ten minutes, Nancy made a right onto York Street, entering an older, working-class neighborhood where she lived alone in a small, tidy home. I felt the car turn onto her driveway, the electric garage door whirring, acoustics changing as she pulled inside.
"Come on, girlfriend." She pulled me from the car, and we managed to make our way into her kitchen. I leaned against the harvest gold refrigerator as she filled two tall plastic tumblers with tap water.
"You know the drill." She handed me one, keeping the other for herself.
With loud gulps, we both emptied our respective tumblers. She filled them again and we finished those, too, trying to minimize the morning's hangover.
"Meet you in the bedroom." Nancy patted me on the butt as she refilled our tumblers for later, being more of a mother at that moment than a girlfriend or sister. Having her touch me down there, however casual it was, made my nether regions flush with warmth, forcing another inebriated grin as I made an uncertain path down the hallway.
I slipped out of my flowered dress, something cute and simple I found on sale at Newberry's a few weeks ago, trying, in my uncertain state, not to wrinkle it. What kept it from being too demure was the neckline, not plunging, but on my frame, it managed to reveal a few extra inches of cleavage, more than I would ever expose at the office or a proper social gathering. However, this was worn for BP and BP alone, so I didn't mind showing off a bit more tit than usual. Gotta give the prospective client a little sample, eh?
The dress was placed on a metal hanger and tucked into Nancy's bedroom closet leaving me in my matching lavender bra and panties. I drunkenly eyed myself in her floor-length mirror as the lacy bra slipped down my arms to reveal a nice pair of breasts, not large, but not small, either. I liked them, and every man I bedded did, too. Sheer panties slipped down my legs to be kicked off, revealing a soft, springy bush I kept trimmed, something for me to pet when I masturbated, which was often, or for some nameless lover to nuzzle before he got to my sweet spot.
Nancy had a habit of sleeping in the raw, so I followed suit, something relatively new for me, joining her in bed as we pulled the bedclothes up around our breasts, leaving our arms free. I watched her ample bounty shift to the side as she reached over to switch off the lamp on the nightstand, admiring her thick, erect nipples surrounded by large areolas.
"God, I'm exhausted," she exhaled. On our backs, we lie only inches apart as I sensed the closeness of her body, our eyes adjusting to the dark room.
"That makes two of us," I replied, examining the spots swimming before my eyes. Within a few minutes, I could see enough to make out her face and breasts. The thin, white drapes glowed with silver-blue moonlight. She slid over, closing the gap between our bodies. Her hot skin pressed against mine, and it felt nice.
This wasn't anything new or unusual. As I mentioned, Nancy and I had been friends for several years, going through many good and bad times together, our lives sharing a similar path. Physical closeness, at least in my mind, came with the territory. We shared the usual secrets that girlfriends do. We thought nothing of relating to each other episodes from the long list of anonymous lovers who had made their way between our legs, the good, the bad, and the totally fucking weird.
Workload permitting, we'd take a long lunch once per week, and there was this little divey café where we could park ourselves in a tiny booth near the kitchen and speak freely. Few people, if any, heard us, with the exception of the waitresses, which we kept entertained.
"This particular very proper gentleman," Nancy arched her eyebrows mockingly, "wouldn't get naked until the lights were off."
"Oh, please," I'd groan. We'd finished our salads and delicious little pork chop sandwiches and were now sipping coffee, wishing it was bourbon. "I've had so many of those, I lost count. 'Princes of Darkness' I call them. God forbid they be seen in the light with all their shortcomings."
"Isn't that the truth? Well, this 'Prince' tripped over a chair finding his way to my bed!"
"Oh, sweet fucking Jesus!"
"Took a while to get the mood back, know what I mean? Even then, I understand why he wanted it dark. After a bunch of awkward positioning and grunting, goddamn, I almost had to ask if it was in. I mean really!"
I nodded, laughing into my hand, casting my eyes up to the well-worn, sixty-something waitress refilling my cup. When done, she stepped back, but not out of earshot. I decided to give her a treat.
"Of course, on the other end of the spectrum," my voice dropped a bit, remembering fondly one particular stud who should've been given a prize for his performance, "there's one I called 'The Piledriver.'"
