Dripping at the Bar–Chapter 1 [FM]

Sophomore year of college, spring semester. I’m a hot mess. Some guy I was seeing for like two weeks just ghosted me and I wanna get drunk and forget. I’m feeling ugly and flawed. I’m convinced the dude pulled the disappearing act because I wasn’t shaped to his liking.

I call Francesca and tell her I wanna go to this club where I fuck the bartender on and off. He’s thirty and a scum bag–the kind of guy who talks sweet to me like I don’t know what he’s after. But I’m willing to play along because he’s jacked and gives me free drinks. Plus he’s Puerto Rican, and honestly I like fucking guys my Italian father wouldn’t approve of (that’s another story). Anyway, Francesca, she’s game because she’s always game. She says she’ll be at my dorm at 10:00 with a bottle of Stoli.

I put on a backless yellow dress, black heels, and a black choker. I tie my hair up because I like how my neck looks. I’m ready by 9:00. I’m always ready early. No matter the occasion. I’m antsy. I can’t sit still. I’ve got nothing to drink and nobody to talk to. My roommate is out of town trying to fix a long-distance relationship that’s doomed. I don’t feel like texting anyone. I hear muffled conversation through the wall. Two girls. I could go knock and hang with them. One is Christina, I can tell by the bubbliness of the voice. She’s really fucking nice to me. But she holds eye contact like a dog that’s been trained to hold eye contact. It makes me uncomfortable. When I hear her having sex, I can tell she’s faking for the guy’s sake. She seems like she’ll live on a cul-de-sac someday—marry money, get what she wants, be as dull and as empty as she looks.

I decide to wait in my room. I try watching an ASMR video, but I can’t focus or tingle, so I close my laptop and get into bed. I think about the last time I saw Greg, the guy who ghosted me. We’d gone to Sweet Frog, smoked weed, watched a documentary about sea creatures, and then fucked on his living room couch. The sex was rough. He liked to choke me and call me his ho. He liked to clamp my head between his hands and fuck my mouth. He liked jerking off onto my face and saying that I “deserved” to be drenched like a good whore.

It’s a shame how much I like being berated and knocked around. Usually the guys who enjoy treating me like an object in bed like to treat me like an object outside of bed. I don’t like that second part. And it’s probably why Greg has had such an easy time ignoring my texts. I was a thing he’d finished using.

I can’t even have say why I like Greg. It strikes me that truthfully I don’t care about him at all. I just hate the fidgety feeling I get when I don’t have anybody to give me attention.

Thinking about this makes me sad enough to want to stay in. Plus I’m getting comfortable in bed. I’m vaguely horny. I close my eyes and imagine a man with broad shoulders and a crew cut eating my box. I think about fingering myself, but it seems like a lot of work, so I don’t. I just lay there, thinking about this military man servicing my clit, and eventually I fall asleep. I have a dream about being inside an elevator that won’t stop ascending. It has no roof. When I look up, I see blue sky. This scares me a lot.

I wake up to a pounding at my door. I don’t want to open it. I want to pretend I’m not in. But then Francesca says, “Bitch, I know you’re in there,” and that makes me laugh.

I open the door. Francesa is short and fat. She’s got a big nose and big boobs. She’s wearing a tight purple dress and black tights. She’s got a fake tan and too much make up on and somehow I love her for both of those ugly facts. She holds a half-full vodka bottle next to her grinning face.

I snatch the bottle, unscrew the top, and take a long pull that scorches my throat.

“Come in,” I say to Francesca, wiping my mouth.

“Somebody’s feeling sloppy,” she says.

She’s right.

Two hours later I’m lit and watching my Puerto Rican bartender from a distance. He’s in a sleeveless black shirt. His arms are shaved, tan, and big. He’s got a barbed wire tattoo wrapping around one bicep and a fitbit on his wrist. He pours five shots while smiling for the five girls who are about to drink them.

I turn away from the bar. I don’t feel like getting his attention right now. It’s too much work. There’s too much competition. The place is loud and packed. I push my way to the dance floor. I spot Francesca grinding on a tall skinny white boy and I dance her way. My dress is already short, but I hike it up. I love how I can feel every set of eyes drawn to my bare legs.

I grind on Francesca, sandwiching her between me and the white boy. She’s laughing into my ear. I lean back on the cushion of her boobs. She’s sweaty and warm and as drunk as I am. The men begin to circle, realizing I’m not attached to a dude. A frat boy makes an unsmooth approach. He grabs both of my hips and shoves his crotch against mine. I push him away with the heel of my hand. “Back the fuck off, bro,” Francesca shouts. He gets the idea. I feel a little gross from his touch. But after a few flustered moments I regain my composure and allow myself to smile, allow myself to make eyes at the pretty black guy and the stocky bodybuilder and the scruffy-jawed hipster, all of whom are looking at me like I’m dinner.

I pick the hipster because he seems most sure of himself. I like how the look in his eyes suggests that I can take him or leave him and he’ll be fine. I dance to him until our hips and chests are touching. I like his heat. I like his stubbly neck. I like how he gently places one hand on the small of my back and asks me what my middle name is. I tell him, Adriana, even though that’s my first name. I don’t ask his.

Instead I ask what he’s drinking and he says a red bull and vodka. I ask him if I can have it and he says sure. I suck the whole thing down in one long pull. It’s like drinking pure adrenaline, and I can’t stop smiling. I might be 5’2’’, 105 lbs, but I feel bigger than everybody in the room. I feel like I run the joint. I feel like I can have whoever and whatever I want.

I turn around and grind on him. He grabs my hips hard. I can feel his erection pressing against my left ass cheek. I’m wet and dizzy. I want… I want… I want something. I’m not sure what. This isn’t it. Though I like the hipster. His dick feels good, and his hands feel better. But I want more.

I don’t even say anything to the guy. I just walk away. I weave quickly through the crowd and to the bar, where I spot my hookup taking an order. He sees me, winks, and goes back to his patron. I slap the bar. He holds up a finger to the patron and slides over to me.

“Can we go in the back room again?” I say.

“Not tonight,” he says. “Alice has some guests.”

“Bathroom then,” I say. “I need it.”

He grins and unties his apron.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/7j59yu/dripping_at_the_barchapter_1_fm