this time we agreed to meet at a place where we were both customers.
he got there first, beer in hand, legs braced against the barstool and counter in a position that was somewhere between awkward and relaxed.
‘best i can do is give you the information of what’s on special. no free drinks this time,’ he winked with these words of introduction.
arranged only hours previous, when we both ended up on the same elevator to the familiar fifth floor for a lunch before the labs we each taught. on the way back down i asked about a pool rematch – the only available day before the going away party was tonight. I had to cut tutoring short by an hour or two, but it was nothing that couldn’t be made up another day. this was important for my validation beyond academics. Just thinking about him choosing to reschedule his post-work evening for me had my heart racing. A temporary block of time for us to connect without the pressure of coworkers or table pals overseeing
We waited for the pool table to be available and chatted about the parts of each of our lives we were familiar with from behind-the-bar chats. I was anxious, feeling we both knew this was a rematch filled with forbidden flirtation about to be put on hold.
We both knew I was fighting for the win at this rematch; and in the long-game. Flickers of honest joyful connection danced in his eyes when I laughed heartily or teased bending the rules to my advantage. Celebrating sequential shots for each of us is my trademark move. No matter who wins, the human ability to line up the physics of a pool table is arousing.
Rhythmic movements of the game, like lining up the cued shot and the hand holding the stick is referencing phallic habits… Teasing him by standing above the target hole. crouching down to line up my angles and turning it into a lesson of double entendre. leaning across to show off cleavage, him standing pornographically close offside with crotch at mouth level as I prepare to shoot the balls
At some point we agree to share a plate of waffle fries. ‘i could really fuck up a plate of crosstrax,’ he says as a plate goes by. i agree to that idea with a nod. He orders the fries. a little while later I order beer refills for us both.
By the second beer we’re deep in a political environmental debate, between social scientist and curious biological scientist. talking about complicated stories of home to reckon with, politically, socially, ethically. a recap/summary of my unique land acknowledgement.
All of this during some very successful and terrible shots with the confidence that was building between the alcohol and the curiosity
the fries have arrived, i check to make sure we agree on the ketchup situation, side or all over – a specific moment of appreciation for asking.
during my visit to the bathroom mid-second game, a decision to remove a layer. show off the arms. let cleavage be a possibility.
i return to the game, we play a few mediocre shots, with the natural circling around the table having us meet to exchange the cue each change of turns, keeping up with each others’ flirtatious banter with direct, honest encouragement.
while lining up a shot from the opposite end of the table i look up to notice pressure in his crotch, the head of his partially hardened cock defined by the tan pants’ upper right thigh area. I catch it for just a second and probably smirked a little bit but I also remember not wanting to make a mention of it or I would be in an even more complicated situation.
I probably blushed a bit, or he noticed my gaze shift, and felt the sudden shift of blood flow. He was distracted by something about my capacity to hold my own in a pool game rematch, or my boobs were doing it for him. or…. all the things we’ve never said out loud.
But, the second half of the second game went my way.
A group asked about using the table at one point and he clarified it was a best 2 of 3 situation. I know i ultimately won overall, and I know he came close to winning one for sure. Either way, we could have stopped at 2 games except we’d already planned to play 3 and there was beer left. I got another, to really feel the evening, though he had work to get back to, so i was shooting a bit more wildly for the third game
handing the shared pool cue back and forth provided so many opportunities for ‘accidental’ touching of hands, bodies. allowing more honest flirtation.
i extended my arm over to the left but not much since he wasn’t far to receive it, my hand lingered to make sure he was grasping it firmly, and my pinky finger trailed over his hand as I brought my gaze back to look him in the eye and hint how non-accidental my intentions are.
(in a photo from a few nights later that i can’t help but to gaze at longingly as a reminder of the Before Times, his pinky is elevated while pouring a disposable cup of beer. it’s how he holds a glass, as I’ve witnessed hundreds of pours at the draft taps, but remembering the gentle power of the pinky, this small detail makes me smile. a signal that was so natural for me to respond with.
after the game is called and we return to seats at the bar and I notice his leg is up on the wooden base of the bar but he’s a bit more fidgety. I realized in the moment that he probably still has a semi-hard cock and sitting down without me seeing it was a bit more awkward than at the start. Maybe he stayed for the conversation, maybe he needed to redirect blood flow to his brain, either way i was so appreciative he didn’t just run off. More than once during the pool matches he specifically said ‘that’s why i like talking to you’ or ‘i’m glad to have the time to get into these issues, i like your perspective’ – even though i live in constant denial that if i like someone they will never have any amount of mutual interest. That part shocks me every time. But, that’s how i felt confident enough to ask him to this ‘date’ in the elevator hours before. his friendship was still more of a client-bartender dynamic, but it was also built on layers of human compassion and genuine interest in the people we are. probably safer that he has a girlfriend. but that wasn’t stopping me from seeing how far he’d go/how serious that situation is…
He asks questions and keeps the conversation fairly personal – i avoid any outbursts that would complicate my outward presenting feelings for him. We hug as he goes to leave, and I still have some beer to finish. He leans in at the shoulders but keeps crotch back – not all hugs have been like this, many have been close and intimate in some inebriated way… but it seems this time there is a reason.
— (fictional ending to the evening in second post)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/lojb3z/pool_game_with_the_bartender_offhours_12