Taking a seat at the bar I gaze across the crowded, smoky hotel lounge, my eyes searching. In the dim light I see a couple seated on high stools at a high table over in a corner.
I make eye contact with the bartender.
"Manhattan, please," I say, throwing a $20 bill on the bar.
Returning to the couple, I focus on the woman. She is striking. I always notice beautiful women. I wish they'd notice me a bit more.
She is in her mid-40s, but he is older. She is a brunette, elegant in her tight-fitting green dress, younger than the graying man in the business suit at her side.
They sit close, like lovers, her hand in his, her hand on his shoulder, then his hand on her knee. She is playful. He is reserved. I look at their hands for a glint of gold or silver, but I see none. Neither wears a wedding ring. Reflexively glancing down, my eyes catch the sparkle of gold on my left hand.
The bartender plops a cylindrical glass down in front of me and grabs the $20. I take a long swig and admire my reflection in the mirror behind the whiskey shelves. The alcohol hits my gut, almost immediately flushing my face and sending out orders for my body to relax. The sweet embrace of alcohol.
Turning back to the lovers, I wonder how recently they met.
The brunette turns to him and I examine her face. High cheek bones and a slender nose. Her chin ends in a dimple.
A pianist behind me plays a soft love melody from a 70s movie. For a moment she stops talking and just looks into his eyes. The look speaks volumes and my cock stirs in my suit pants, despite the alcohol that has begun to dim my senses and reactions.
I turn away, feeling like a voyeur, like I've invaded a private moment between the lovers.
Yes, that's me. A voyeur. It's my favorite pastime.
Sitting at a bar oogling women as they appear and disappear, stopping occasionally to chat a few up while I get liquored up. It makes no difference where they're from or whether they are married.
The bottom of my glass is visible through the amber liquid. I'll be needing another drink soon.
I turn back to the man and woman at the high table.
I have to look. I want to look.
The gray-haired man leans over and whispers something in her ear. She laughs and her round breasts sway gently under the dress.
She's wearing no bra and her nipples press the material.
In a smooth motion, she reaches for a small gold case and pulls a long cigarette from it, tapping the filter end three times on the table surface then sticking the filter end into her mouth. He fishes a lighter from a coat pocket, flicks it and puts the flame to the end of the cig.
As the brunette inhales deeply, she turns her head and simultaneously blows smoke out of her mouth and nose. My cock raises further, straining against the material. A woman exhaling smoke that way is very sensual.
The brunette turns and our eyes meet, but she seems to look right through me. She doesn't notice me at all. Her mind is on him.
I sip my drink and watch them, the high table offering a great view. Soon his hand is again on her knee, and she spreads her legs a bit, invitingly. Her dress has ridden up her slender legs to mid-thigh.
Giving myself over to voyeurism, I watch expectantly, hoping for a glimpse of what's up there. When his right hand gets halfway to her crotch, she playfully slaps that arm and says something that elicits a raunchy laugh from him. I can hear it over the music. Both swig from their glasses. They are getting inebriated.
A short time later, she is whispering into his ear, and her right hand is under the table and on his crotch. She's breathing heavily -- her breasts rise and fall -- and her face is suddenly serious.
The brunette is still whispering while her hand wraps around a bulge that runs down the inside of a pant leg. I wonder what salacious words she is saying. She strokes the bulge a few times. She slips her tongue into his ear and it lingers for a moment. A grin spreads across his face.
I swallow hard, my own breathing suddenly heavy.
"Whoa," I mutter, with an audible exhale, my member engorging in my pants.
The bartender, a short, stocky fellow with a New England accent, walks by.
"I couldn't hear you. Do you want another drink?" he asks.
I stop and study his features for a moment, then shrug.
"Sure, why not," I tell him.
I force myself to not look back at the couple, hoping to deflate the hard-on beginning to pitch a tent in my pants.
I again catch a look at myself in the mirror on the back wall of the booze rack. My complexion is becoming more ruddy and my eyes are beginning to get a glazed, drunken look. I decide that the drink I just ordered should be my last.
But I can't help myself. I must watch the couple. I want to see what happens next. I haven't had this much fun since my neighbors left their blinds open and I watched them fuck, holding binoculars to my face with one hand while pumping my dick with another.
Looking back at the high table, the guy has managed to get his hand up the inside of her thigh. There's a quick tantalizing flash of her black thong, vivid against her pale flesh, then the brunette laughingly pushes his hand away. My aching hard-on presses painfully against my underwear as it swells further.
I shouldn't have worn underwear.
In a few moments, the man and woman lift their drinks, each draining their glass in one motion. She pulls out another cigarette, which he lights. After the brunette exhales, he leans over and says something in her ear and she nods.
The lovers slide out from behind the table. He pulls her chair away and she looks over her shoulder and mouthes "thank you." Soon the graying man's arm is around the brunette's waist. He pulls her to him as they stand next to the table.
The man kisses her roughly on the mouth, but seeming to resent the intimacy, she pulls her face away, then looks around briefly in embarrassment, taking a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling smoke through her nostrils.
The lovers walk out of the lounge. His arm is around her waist. A hand slides down to her ass and lightly rubs it. I think he's going to get some tonight. They reach the elevator in the hotel foyer. The man, ever the gentleman even in a pick-up, hits a button.
During the wait for the elevator, the brunette continues to smoke. He makes a bit of nervous small talk and they exchange a laugh or two.
It's easy to see that their minds are off small talk and onto sex, apparently, for they say little. As the doors open, she stubs out her cig in the ashtray mounted on the wall between the elevator shafts.
He walks into the elevator, but the brunette doesn't.
I see his arm waiting to pull her inside with him. She turns and looks back toward the bar. Her eyes search. They meet mine again, but they are just as expressionless as before. She steps into the elevator.
