James picked absently at the paper label on his beer bottle. Momentarily snapped from his thoughts he looked around the darkened, sparsely occupied bar. A typical barfly to his left, slumped over his tequila shot and beer, murmuring to himself about who-knows-what pain the alcohol was expected to blur.
A young couple--a first date, probably--leaning enthusiastically over their small table. Smiling, chuckling, nervous but positive, the young man trying not to drop his eyes down at the cleavage that was so close, so soft but firm. 'Just two more dates after this one,' James knew the nervous young man was thinking, and he might get to see it, caress it, kiss and worship it.
An older couple sat quietly. Her eyes latched on to James as he scanned around the room. She was attractive for a mature woman. Tan, probably artificially, slim, wearing a short, flower-patterned dress most twenty-somethings would struggle to make look good. Late 40s, possibly well-preserved early-50s, James thought to himself. And nice. Very nice.
Well-practiced in admiring women from afar James instantly saw the large, well, huge diamond rock on the wedding finger. Her husband, however, seemed detached, eyes transfixed on his smartphone, paying little heed to the shapely calves and plunging neckline of the dress that clearly indicated a woman of self-awareness and confidence. Of course, the well-dressed businessman had no doubt seen it all before, but his emotional distance was obvious.
James' attention returned to the ether, picking again at the bottle.
A tap on the shoulder snapped him from his daydreaming. Turning quickly, wide-eyed, he saw the flower-dressed woman smiling at him. She brushed a few strands of her long, straight brunette hair from her face and said, simply, sexily "Hi, I couldn't help but notice you looking around. My husband over there is busy with work...again...and I'm bored. So, I'm Pattie, what's your name, what do you do, and what are you doing here drinking alone on a Tuesday night?"
James took a moment, stunned at both the approach and the candid nature of the questions. But he had nothing to lose in possibly making a friend. He shook his head to clear it, cleared his throat, and answered: "James. In business development for a start-up. Because I'm bored and needed to get the hell out of the house."
"Well," said Pattie with wryly, "you know that scratching at the label is a symbol of sexual frustration?" Her pink-lipsticked lips slowly curled into a smile as she looked James up and down, and up and down again. James was momentarily stunned again, but repaid the motion, considering it only polite, pausing momentarily to drink in the deep cleavage, imagining for a moment the bra beneath keeping 36C breasts (he guessed) perfectly positioned.Ê
She pulled out the stool next to James and slid onto it, letting her dress ride up. James tried hard to keep fixed on her light blue eyes. But, his mind racing, he suspected this Pattie knew exactly what she was doing. When Pattie looked to the bartender to order, she slowly lifted her knee to cross her legs that afforded James the opportunity to catch a momentary glimpse of her landing strip. No underwear. Sassy, he thought. Sexy, too. This quiet night might have a story in it after all.
--
James and Pattie continued to make small-talk. Her husband--they both kept glancing over--was lost in emails, texts, the work shenanigans of an entrepreneur who had done well, Pattie explained, though he maintained an obsessive compulsion to micro-manage every facet of his business. His life? Well, there Pattie drifted off, suggesting that the mantra of money not buying happiness may well be true.
Pattie quickly snapped herself out of this temporary malaise. "Come on," she said, "let's all of us go back to our place. We have free booze and can chat the night away. It's not far, and before you argue, I insist."
His inhibitions dulled by a few beers, and always game for a story to tell on his deathbed, James shrugged. What the hell, he thought. Pattie signaled the bartender and paid the check, which James vehemently resisted until Pattie lay her hand on his upper thigh, ostensibly blocking his route to his wallet, and insisted with a confident smile.
Grabbing her husband--Brian was his name as they were quickly introduced--and pulling him from his phone, they headed for the door, the car, the freeway, the house.
--
Outside the front door of the sprawling, larger-than-he'd ever-seen mansion, James was stunned. Pattie waltzed inside with a skip. Brian tried to swing a loving smack on her ass as she went by, but missed and followed through to the fake hair fix, casting a gaze sheepishly at James to see if his embarrassment was noticed. It was.
Inside, Pattie was already stood at the wet bar with a cocktail shaker in hand. "Brian," she commanded, "fix the drinks while I change. And make James welcome, comfortable, and boozed up." She trotted off up the winding staircase and Brian dutifully got to work mixing the drinks. "Scotch?" he offered. "And relax," he added, softening his voice and manner. "You're more than welcome here, glad to meet new friends, and Pattie clearly has taken a shine. Which is important..." He trailed off, but finished up the drinks. "Let's take a seat."
