Blurred Lines Pt 01

Friday night, Greg and I are trying a new bar. There's supposed to be a good live band there, so we're expecting a crowd. We find parking a few blocks away, and as I get out of the car, the edge of the car door drags on the high curb, so I quickly get out to take the weight off that side and minimize the damage to the bottom of the car door. My heel lands in a deep crack at the edge of the curb, and I lose my balance. I reach out to grab the top of the car door as I'm stumbling, my glasses fall off, my shoulder is bent a little funny, and I shift my feet to avoid falling over, and hear a nasty crunch sound. I regain my balance before falling over, but everything is blurry. I'm extremely farsighted; without my glasses, I can't focus on anything closer than about thirty feet from me. And I feel like a total klutz.

"Audrey, you OK?" Greg asks me as he rushes over to my side. I stand, wiggle my shoulder a bit, pick up each foot and flex the ankle.

"I think I'm all right. But my glasses, maybe, not so much." Greg bends down and picks them up. He lifts them up to show to me, but I can't focus on them. I reach out to touch them, and I feel twisted metal and rough cracked glass.

"They're toast," Greg says.

"Nuts. I liked that pair. And I didn't bring a spare. Well, at least they weren't that expensive." They were an older pair, that I bought for dating, to look sexier in. (Hey, some guys dig chicks with glasses. Like Greg. He says they make me look smart. Whatever floats his boat, I suppose.) They were comfortable, but they never stayed put, which is probably why they fell off.

"An inauspicious beginning to the evening. Do you want to skip the bar and go home?"

"Nah, we came here to listen to music. If we're not too close to the stage I'll be fine. Just help me walk there."

"OK." Greg puts the broken glasses on the dashboard of the car, closes and locks the door, then stands there with his hand on his hip. I'm confused for a moment, and then he takes my wrist, and passes it through his elbow. Ah, he was offering me his arm.

"Thank you, dear," I say. We start walking to the bar.

Greg is about five foot ten, has short wavy dark brown hair, is twenty nine, in good shape, and wears black plastic framed glasses, which not many people can pull off, but look great on him. (Maybe I'm a little biased. All right, a lot biased.) He works for the metro police department, as a forensics investigator. He's really good at his job; he was promoted about five months ago, is now leading his team. And, happily for me, there's virtually no chance he'll be involved in a shootout.

His promotion gave us enough of a salary bump so that we could consider ditching my income and having kids; we've been trying for about four months, without success so far. We're making a point of getting a last hurrah, going out and doing the fun stuff that couples without kids can do, hence the trip to a new bar to catch some live music.

Greg and I have been married a little over three years, and dated for a year and a half before that. I'm Audrey, twenty seven years old, about five foot six, and think of myself as kind of mousey. Between my wispy light brown hair, wire frame glasses, and the splash of freckles on my left cheek, I certainly don't have the looks for modeling. I'm not scrawny, but certainly not heavy, and have some nice soft curves. Spin classes keep my legs pretty toned, and my B cups are big enough to not be a liability, but small enough to not be a pain in the ass. Greg says I'm beautiful and he loves my body, but I think he's just being nice.

I work in the HR department for a local mid-sized business. It's a job, not a career, and once I'm about six months pregnant, the plan is that I'll take maternity leave, and then become a full time mom. I know I don't want to spend the rest of my life working in HR, and while I'm raising our babies, I'm going to spend some time figuring out what I'll do next, maybe get some school or training, and then start a new career after the youngest starts school.

Greg is totally supportive of this - he has a career he loves, and wants the same for me down the line. And while I have friends at work, I'm so ready to get out of that place. Naturally, I'm totally aware of my cycles, and want to make sure we have sex every month at the right time. Ovulation should occur tomorrow or the next day, so I'm hoping we can fool around after we get back from the concert tonight. He likes to call the whole thing 'Operation Progeny', which makes me chuckle; it's just a fancy name for screwing a lot.

We get to the bar without incident, although I'm a bit nervous about walking in these three inch heels, especially since I can't really see where I'm going. (I usually wear flats, with just a little lift, or gym shoes.) There's a very short line, and in about five minutes, we pay the cover charge and are inside. The band hasn't started yet, so the bar area was pretty busy while the concert side had some space. We find a few spots to stand in at a high table.

"Let me get the drinks, honey. What would you like? Chardonnay?"

"No, not tonight. How about a planter's punch, or some other fruity rum drink."

"Sure. Walkin' on the wild side, eh? I'll be back in a few." Greg starts working his way to the bar. Since I can't really see anything, I listen to the music. The band isn't on, so it's just recorded stuff. I recognize Robin Thicke's voice, realize they are playing "Blurred Lines," that hit from a few years ago, and I chuckle at the irony. Then I hear a deep voice from over my shoulder.

"Hi. I see you're without refreshment. Can I buy you a drink?" I turn a bit, and see what is probably a tall man with black hair, a blue shirt, probably collared, and tan pants. I can't really tell anything else about him without my glasses.

"No thanks. My husband is getting me one as we speak."

"Are you OK? You look, I don't know, nervous or something."

"My glasses broke. I can't really see very well. But otherwise I'm fine."

"I could keep you company until he gets back."

"No, that's OK. If you're trying to meet someone, I'm not your gal."

"Too bad, you're really cute. Well, have a good night, and enjoy the band."

"Thanks," I reply, smiling. "I hope you find her, whoever she ends up being." He might have smiled back, and then sauntered off in search of another female.

Well, that was fun. And he wasn't a creep. Maybe there's something to it when Greg says I look nice.

I'm still grinning when Greg comes back with our drinks. At first I wasn't sure it was him, but the guy was the right height, had black frame glasses, and was wearing a maroon polo and light gray slacks. He greets me as he gets closer, and I immediately recognize his voice and relax. He hands me my drink, tall, pinkish, sweet, and it doesn't taste like there's a lot of alcohol in it. I could smell his scotch, and verified it by giving him a slow kiss and tasting it on his lips. I don't like the taste of scotch much, except when it's diluted in one of Greg's kisses. Then it's very him, and I find that really attractive.

"So, what are you smiling about."

"Nothing really. While you were getting the drinks, a guy tried to pick me up."

"Was he good looking?"

"I have no idea. All that I could see was that he was tall, and he had a deep voice."

"Did he give you any trouble?"

"None at all. He asked if he could buy me a drink, I told him my husband was getting me one, he asked to keep me company until you returned, I declined, and he said 'Too bad, you're really cute, have a good night and enjoy the band,' and then went off to find his next potential woman."

Greg leans over and kisses my cheek. "You are really cute. And you look great tonight. I'm surprised only one guy hit on you. I better protect my turf."

"I don't need protecting. But stick around, I like your company." He took a long sip from his scotch. "So, any women hit on you while you were getting the drinks."

"Nope. Women rarely hit on men, especially in bars like this."

"Let's try this. Look around. If we weren't married, you're single and didn't even know me, any women here you'd hit on?"

"The one right in front of me."

"No, I'm not here either. Somebody else."

"Are you sure you want to have this discussion?"

"Yes, it's fine. I'm just curious, who in here besides me would you try to pick up?"

"You really want me to do this?"

"Sure. It's fun. And it's not like I can see anybody. You'll have to describe her to me."

"OK. Fine." I can kind of see Greg turning his head this way and that. "Over there, to your right. See that group of five?" I look for a minute, and spot what could be a group of about five people.

"Ah, there." I point discretely. "The three girls and two guys?"

"Erm, that's four girls and one guy. The guy is standing talking to the four of them."

"The redhead?"

"Is a not very feminine girl. Blocky shoulders, short hair, but distinct breasts."

"And she's the one you fancy?"

"No. Look at the dynamic of the group. The four women are together, and the man is chatting them up. Well, chatting up the one brunette, really, the one with the white blouse and the big hoop earrings. She's eating it up. The redhead is just staring at him, practically drooling. The blonde is a tiny bit miffed that she's not getting any attention, and the other brunette is quietly gazing around."

"I can't really see any of that. So I guess you'd hit on the other brunette."

"Yes, unless I was just interested in a quick dance, or maybe a one night fling. Then I'd be chatting the blonde up, or the redhead if I'm really desperate. The blonde is craving male attention, but is probably needy and difficult. The other brunette is just biding her time. The guy chatting up her friend is not really an option; her three friends all have reactions to him, so she's already moved on and is looking around. Smart, practical, no evidence that she's a stuck up bitch or needy, or something else toxic."

"But what does she look like?"

"That's not that important. Well, for a one night stand it might be, but I've never been into those."

"Seriously, what does she look like?"

"OK, fine. She has a blue blouse, black jeans, and cute little shoes. She has fine light brown hair, wire frame glasses, a cute little button nose, a splash of freckles on her left cheek, and a nice, curvy, tight little body."

"Stop it. You're just describing me in her clothes."

"No, seriously, she could be your long lost twin sister."

"No way. Cut it out."

"Fine. Prove me wrong."

"I, ... You, ... Fine. You're a sweetheart." I turn towards him, lean over and kiss him on the cheek. When I turn back, I feel something touch my arm, hear a thump, and then feel something cold on my leg. "Aaack. What happened?"

"You knocked over your drink. Fortunately, it was nearly empty. Did you get it on you?"

"Yes, my skirt." Greg takes the two cocktail napkins and reaches across me to dab at the wet spot, but the napkins are way too small. "Let me go to the washroom and clean this up. Perchance, that pink blob over there, does it say 'Bathrooms'?"

"Actually, 'Restrooms'. Should I walk you over there?"

"I'm not completely blind. Stay here. I'll be back in a bit." I got up and headed over to the restrooms. Walking across the space in front of the bar, a waitress bumped her hip into me as she passed by, not very hard. I wasn't upset, she was clearly overworked, and hustling to make all the customers happy. But it almost knocked me over. Between the heels, not being able to see well, and a strong drink on a fairly empty stomach, I wasn't in the best of shape. But surely I could make it to the can and back.

I get to the pink blob sign, which is over a narrow darkened corridor. I start down it several doors on each side, spaced pretty closely together. Each has a blue and white sign, mostly blue, that I can't make out. It seemed likely they have a number of individual washrooms instead of two larger ones. I can see small blobs of green or red just above the doorknobs, so I knock on the door of a green one, get no response, and turn the knob to find a small bathroom with what looks like a commode, urinal, sink, mirror, paper towel dispenser and trash can.

I enter the bathroom, lock the door by feel, head over to the dispenser, feel a small crank on the right side, and start unrolling a long piece of toweling to try to dry my skirt. I blot it for a few minutes, and it feels less wet, but I can still see, blurrily, a stain from the drink. Well, I say to myself, let's do this right. I peel off the skirt, and run the stained patch under cold water. The stain seems to dissipate some, but it's hard for me to tell - the bathroom is dimly lit, and the wet material has a different color than the dry material. So I rinse down all of the stain I think I can see, and then spend some time blotting it dry.

Meanwhile, the sound of the running water calls my attention to my bladder, so I put the partially damp skirt on the hook on the back of the door, wipe down the toilet seat with a piece of toilet paper (can't see if it's clean or dirty, so might as well give it a wipe), then drop my panties and empty my bladder. A quick wipe, flush, drawers up, wash my hands, and then I attack the damp skirt with another wad of dry paper towels.

Finally, I've got it about as dry as it can get, so that will have to do. It's poly, so it should wash clean eventually. I put it back on, feel a bit of a chill, but figure that my body heat will have it dry in a few minutes. I turn to the mirror to make sure I'm composed and looking good, and realize that I can't see, there's just this vaguely out of focus me-like blob on the other side. I pat my hands gently over my hair, everything seems to be in place, so I take a breath, unlock the door, and head back to the bar and my waiting husband.

Well, I try to, at any rate. Having no good visual clues, I turn the wrong way out of the bathroom, and only realize it when I come to a dead end a few doors down. So I turn about, and head back out to the bar. I navigate through the crowd back to our table, to find three older women (well, maybe older, one has grayish hair I think) sitting there, and no sign of Greg or his drink. Great, I'm half blind, and now the eyes I was relying on are elsewhere. Hopefully he'll find me soon. So I start wondering around slowly, looking this way and that, but there's so many people, and all I can make out are the colors of hair, face, shirt and pants.

I get three quarters of the way back to the bathroom, and then start to turn back. A large group of what look like football players, or possibly ambulatory vending machines, are heading right at me, so I step aside, into this nook where the bar bends around a corner backed by a wall. Every seat is taken, and there are a few people standing here, but none of them look anything like Greg. I head out of the little nook, and back into the flow of traffic. Finally I see Greg, or rather, someone about the right height, wearing a maroon polo and light gray slacks, with short wavy dark brown hair, heading away from me. I dash and juke a bit, and catch up with him. I put a hand on his shoulder, he turns, and I see his black frame glasses, and no facial hair.

"There you are, Greg." I lean into him and kiss him on the cheek. I smell the faint odor of scotch on his breath, so I'm sure it's him. He stops, leans back a bit, looks at me, and then gives me a scotchy kiss on the lips. Then he takes my hand, and starts walking away from the bar area towards the stage where the band is just starting to set up. He guides me over to a spot near the back wall, and then stands behind me, with his arms clasped around my waist. I can feel his hips against my butt, and his chest rubbing against my shoulder blades. His touch is warm and comforting, and I'm glad I'm not lost anymore.

The stage is far enough away that I can almost resolve the faces of the people setting up, and of course, it's better lit than most of the bar area. Greg is swaying a bit behind me, subtly dancing, as we watch the equipment getting put together. Then his hands separate, and start rubbing gently on my hips, and then up to my waist, right in the sensitive area just above the hip bones. Just as I notice that, I feel a slight warm dampness on the side of my neck. He's kissing my neck, and it feels really nice. I'm starting to get aroused. Then he shifts the kissing to the other side of my neck, and I feel the hand on that side of my body starting to slide up, towards my side boob. I squirm a bit, and say "Greg, honey, c'mon. We're in public."

He backs off a little bit, and then wraps his hand around my wrist, and starts to walk towards the bathrooms. I go with him down the darkened corridor, almost to the end, where he finds the last green indicator, and walks in with me right behind him. He closes the door, I hear the click of the lock being engaged, and before I can blink his lips are all over mine. His hands are both around my head, and his tongue is all over my mouth, bringing a hint of scotch with it. I don't know what has made him so passionate, but it's infectious, and the sordidness of it all has me more excited than I have been in some time.

Without removing his lips from mine, his hands reach down and pull my blouse out of my skirt, and then he lifts it up over my breasts. He similarly pulls my bra up from the bottom of my breasts and over them, exposing them to his groping hands. My arousal is going through the roof as he breaks off the kiss, and moves down to suck on one of my nipples, and then the other. There's nothing gentle or loving about what he and I are doing, it's raw, feral, and fueled by pure desire. He then moves his mouth back to mine, trying to put his tongue into my mouth, but my tongue is pressing into his more forcefully, and he surrenders on that front.

Meanwhile, one hand is still mauling my breast, just on the right side of the border between pleasure and pain, and as my tongue drives into his mouth, I feel his other hand between my legs, pulling my panties aside, and fingering my sex. I'm dripping wet, wetter than I can remember being in a long time; he slides one, and then two fingers inside me as his thumb starts working my clit. I give a low guttural moan, and find myself unable to kiss him back. He moves his lips over, sucking on my earlobe (which makes me moan again), and then down my neck. I feel him fussing with something around my waist, and realize the hand on my breast is gone. Then he takes his fingers out of my pussy, and I crave their return for a moment, until something else rubs against my lower lips, something hot and wider than his fingers.

"Oh, god, put it in me, right now. I've never wanted you more in my life."

He obliges; I feel his warm length slide easily into me, and I feel filled and very aroused. He presses his lips against me, and grabs my buttocks with both hands. I lift first one leg, and then the other, wrapping them around his hips. He's thrusting into me, pushing my back against the wall, and carrying all of my weight on his hands and his prick. My arousal is peaking, and just as I feel my orgasm coming on, he speeds up some more and grunts, low and guttural, as I moan deeply. His thrusts begin to slow, and I finally notice that both of us are sweating, panting, and a total mess. He kisses me again, more gently this time, as I unwind my legs from his torso and carry my own weight. His prick slides out of me, and he finally breaks off the kiss.

He grabs a paper towel, wipes off his manhood, tosses it, grabs another, wipes his face down, tosses it, and straightens out his hair. Then he turns back to me, and gives me a long, slow, gentle passionate kiss and a hug. I hold him for a moment, and whisper in his ear, "Thanks for the best sex I've ever had." He breaks the hug, points to me, puts his hand up in a stop gesture, and then unlocks the door, steps out, and closes it. Clever, I think, so we won't be seen leaving the bathroom together. I lock the door, and then start putting myself back together.